Our Trip Was Booked Under His Name. I Wasn’t on the Itinerary. | Financial Control

The Griot (0:00)

The suitcase sat by the front door.

Navy blue with silver trim, one wheel slightly wobbly from the last time we'd gone to Chicago. I'd packed it carefully the night before.

Two sundresses, the coral one he said made my eyes look brighter. The black linen one I wore to his sister's wedding. I'd folded them just so, tissue paper between each layer, like my mother used to do when she traveled with my father before the divorce. I'd packed my toothbrush, my favorite lavender hand cream, the little bottle of rose oil I dabbed behind my ears. I'd even tucked in the book I'd been reading halfway through, a paperback with a cracked spine about a woman who leaves everything behind to walk across Spain. I'd packed it all like I was really going. He came out of the bedroom holding his phone, the screen glowing blue in the dim morning light. It was 7.15.

The flight left at 10.30.

We had plenty of time, he stood there barefoot, in the jeans he'd worn yesterday, and a faded band t-shirt that smelled faintly of smoke and fabric softener. He didn't look at me, he looked at the phone.

Everything good? I asked, zipping the suitcase shut. The zipper caught for a second, then gave, I tugged it smooth.

Yeah, he said, not looking up.

Just checking in with Marcus, he's picking up the rental car.

I frowned. Marcus, I thought we were just taking the shuttle to the villa.

We are, he said, finally looking at me, but he's handling the car. I asked him too.

I didn't say anything. Marcus was his best friend from college, the one who always showed up with weed and bad advice. I'd never liked him much, but I didn't argue, we were supposed to be on vacation. I didn't want to start with tension. I stepped into the kitchen, poured myself a glass of water. The fridge hummed. Outside the city was waking up, the distant whoop of a siren, the clatter of a dumpster behind the bodega downstairs. I took a sip. The water tasted faintly metallic, like it always did in this building. You want coffee? I asked. No, I'm good, he said, still staring at his phone. I already ordered an Uber. Oh, I said, okay.

I set the glass down.

My hands were a little shaky.

I looked at the suitcase again, then at my purse on the counter. I'd laid out my passport, credit card, the printed itinerary. I'd printed it because he said it was easier that way.

Less to keep track of on your phone, he'd said. I'd believed him. I picked up the papers. The flight was under his name. Our flight. But only his name was on the ticket. I'd noticed it before, but I'd let it go.

Efficiency, he'd said. I handle the bookings, you don't have to worry. I'd liked that, at first. It felt like he was taking care of things. Like he was in charge. And I could just relax. But now, standing there with the printout in my hand, I ran my finger down the page. Passenger. Ethan Cole. No second name. No and party. Nothing. Ethan? I said. My voice quieter than I meant it to be. Why is only your name on the ticket? He looked up. Blinked. Huh. The ticket. I said, holding it out. It's only in your name. He waved a hand. Oh, yeah. I booked it through my frequent flyer account. It's just easier that way. Points and all that. But I paid for half the flight, I said. I know, he said, finally putting the phone down. But it's under my account. It's not a big deal.

It feels like a big deal, I said. He sighed, the kind of sigh that wasn't really about me.

It was the sigh of someone who'd had this conversation before, who was tired of explaining. Look, it's just how I do things. You know that. I book, I pay, I handle it. You don't have to stress about any of it. I don't mind stressing, I said. I just want to be on the record, like I'm actually going. He looked at me like I was being difficult. You are going. You're right here. You've got your suitcase. You've got your passport. We're leaving in 10 minutes. I didn't argue. I tucked the papers back into my purse. I picked up the suitcase. The wobbly wheel made a soft clunking sound as I rolled it toward the door.

The Uber arrived. A white sedan, slightly dented on the passenger side. The driver didn't say much. Ethan got in first, slid into the back seat like he owned it. I followed, placing the suitcase between us.