Past security, after we’ve retrieved our things, we’re escorted to a sitting area that looks more like a hotel lobby than an airport gate. Brown and white couches and chairs are organized into small groups, so you never have to share a side table or an outlet with someone you don’t know. This isn’t the kind of place you usually wait for long. Since the private plane can’t leave without you, there’s no need to be more than a half hour early. But I was nervous this morning, last-minute unpacking and packing at 4:00 a.m., double-checking we have our passports and marriage license at 5:00 a.m. By the time Graham woke up, I was dressed with two coffees and an Uber scheduled for that afternoon. Thus, our plane wasn’t ready for us, despite us being ready for it.

“I apologize for the wait, Mr. Walker,” the man said to Graham as I sat down. “It should only be a few more minutes as they finish up the inspection.” Outside of gushing about the wedding or asking if I need anything, I’m not the one people address here. It’s not my account, it’s not my money, no one needs to suck up to me.

“Thank you, Clarke,” Graham says, shaking his hand one last time. Clarke. I would never have guessed that.

“If there’s anything we can do to make this an even more special weekend, please don’t hesitate,” Clarke says with a smile so big you’d think he was talking about his own wedding. “Anything,” he emphasized. What does he expect us to say? He’s a concierge at a private airport. There’s one job he can do and he’s already doing it.

There are many differences between flying private and flying commercial, but the one I most appreciate is how peaceful the waiting area is without the constant overhead announcements and overtired children. In fact, there are only five other people here: an older couple reading the New York Times and drinking coffee from Best PopPop and Best Grandma to-go mugs from home, and three men sitting in separate couch circles, probably traveling for business judging by their suits.

As I position my dress on the empty couch, carefully laying it over the cushions like a dead body, Graham takes a phone call—his mother, no doubt, asking for our ETA.

“We’re a little early, so we’ll probably leave a little early,” I can hear Graham tell her as he paces across the floor-to-ceiling windows looking out on the tarmac. I count five planes behind him and there are seven people here. It always intrigues me how inexplicably different the plane-to-human ratio is in a place like this.