CHANCE
He had many regrets about life, but only a few that were worth remembering.
They knew the statistics; less than twenty percent of pilots stayed married for more than two years. Still, they took the plunge—they were young and in love, invincible war heroes who could beat any odds. They were used to spending long periods of time apart, chatting only through video screens across galaxies. Absence only made the heart grow fonder; their crews would call them Romeo and Juliet, and make kissy faces whenever they called each other. When they were both honorably discharged in 2081, they'd spent an entire glorious year together before Weyland Industries snatched him up as a long-distance pilot.
He'd made so many promises. That he wouldn't always be gone, that he would quit after two years, then three, then four. That he'd be there for their daughter's first birthday, her second; that he'd make it to his mother-in-law's funeral. He meant to keep all of his promises, but good intentions alone never count for much, really.
In the years since they'd split, he could still smell her hair and the funny kiwi-raspberry lotion she used in the evenings. He could hear her laughter echoed in their daughter's mischievous giggles, feel their toddler's arms sweep around his neck after she launched herself from yet another heart-stopping height, shouting for him to watch how she could fly, just like her parents. Those rare weekends when he had custody and could see them both again were never long enough, but what else could you expect when Weyland kept him so busy? They never fought about him being gone for months, not anymore at least.
He bought their daughter a stuffed giraffe before he left this time, remembering how she'd proclaimed her love for the long-necked creatures a while ago. The girl was seven, and thanked him with a hint of pre-adolescent insincerity—it was only later when his ex-wife gently reminded him that their daughter had stopped obsessing over giraffes when she was six that it occurred to him he just hadn't been around since then. He'd awkwardly tried to apologize for being a lame dad, but his daughter just smiled patiently—of course you're lame, you're my dad.
His ex-wife had invited him inside after they got back from dinner, and after putting their daughter to sleep they sat on the couch and finished the bottle of wine from the restaurant in silence. He didn't mean to spill his heart out, much less to make her cry, but after she wiped her face on his favorite shirt she stayed against his shoulder and he held her like he used to, so many years ago. They fell asleep like that, waking only when their daughter climbed into his lap; she didn't really have nightmares, but he wrapped his arms around them both anyway to protect them from whatever it was that haunted their dreams.
He'd promised the next morning that he would be back, and that they would maybe give their relationship another try. He desperately wanted it to be true, but deep down inside he knew that when his ex-wife kissed him on the cheek on her doorstep, she didn't really believe him, either. He couldn't blame her for that. It wasn't exactly like he had a proven track record of reliability, after all, and he'd essentially already helped her prove they didn't really need him around.
When he threw his hands up in the air on his last wild ride, he thought back to all those broken promises and felt the familiar guilt of having let his family down one more time. He didn't believe in divine messages or the supernatural, but he hoped that somewhere, back on Earth, they would know he was thinking of them. With his eyes closed, he could feel the familiar weight of the two loves of his life, their sleeping bodies draped across his on a well-worn couch.
Silently, as the bridge lights flashed their dire warnings, he made one last promise, one that he hoped he could actually keep—he would see them both again on the other side.