The Last Flight to Sicily
I cut my hand chopping vegetables, and my first instinct was to call for Glen to get me a Band-Aid.
On the sofa, he was huddled shoulder-to-shoulder with Genevieve, poring over a strategic map of Europe.
"Damn it! How did we lose this sector again?!"
"Looks like I have to clean up your mess. Again."
She leaned against his shoulder. He didn't pull away, just patted her back lightly.
I swallowed the words on the tip of my tongue.
When he first took over the Sicilian operations, he struggled to adapt to the life. I flew to Italy to be with him every two weeks, accumulating a thick stack of plane tickets.
Then Genevieve arrived to partner with him, and she slowly took over his conference room, his weekends, and the space in his life that was once mine.
I had booked a private dinner for us, but he dragged me to her strategy meeting, insisting her plan was flawless.
I calculated the time difference to send him a message late at night. He never replied but then posted a dozen messages in Genevieve's encrypted channel.
I took a risk and flew over, hoping to spend more time with him, but he claimed he had a mission with Genevieve and left me stranded at a private airport in a foreign country, shivering in ten-degree-below-zero weather.
Glen always said that distance could never threaten the engagement we’d had since childhood.
But looking at their backs, I knew the truth: Genevieve, standing between us, was a chasm wider than the eight thousand kilometers that already separated us.
I turned back, wrapped my finger in a paper towel, and continued chopping.
The onions stung my eyes, and in that moment, I made up my mind.
This was the last time I would ever come to Sicily for Glen.