Total pages in book: 68
Estimated words: 68716 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 344(@200wpm)___ 275(@250wpm)___ 229(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 68716 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 344(@200wpm)___ 275(@250wpm)___ 229(@300wpm)
He flinches. “Lawyers?”
“What did you think was going to happen here?” I ask, my voice dropping. “You break my trust and we… what? Hug it out?”
His shoulders slump. For a second, some real emotion flickers through the anger—fear, maybe. Regret, probably not. But it’s too late. I’m too tired. I think of the earring under the couch, of all the late nights, the times I believed him when he lied.
“Fine,” he mutters finally, and looks away. “Fine. I’ll… I’ll go.”
He stomps down the hallway, and I hear drawers yanked open, the bang of the closet door, the drag of his suitcase wheels. My legs feel like they’re made of wet sand. I sink onto the edge of the couch, staring straight ahead.
The TV is still paused on some home renovation show. A couple beams at each other while they talk about knocking down walls and building their dream kitchen. I let out a shaky, hysterical little laugh. Yeah. Good luck, guys.
He reappears with his suitcase and a duffel bag. He avoids my eyes. “I’ll… I’ll come get the rest of my stuff this weekend.”
“I’ll give you a window tomorrow, you get it tomorrow” I command. “I’ll leave a key under the mat because I will be changing the locks.”
He hesitates. “So that’s it? You’re just… done?”
I look at him. Really look. At all the little lies stitched into his face. At the man who let me carry everything and then blamed me for being tired.
“I’m done letting you treat me like I’m disposable,” I say softly. “That’s what I’m done with.”
He swallows. For a second, I think he might cry. He doesn’t. He just nods, jaw clenched, and opens the door.
Cold air hits the bare skin of my arms. It hits like an extra cold winter storm even if the sun shines out front.
He pauses in the doorway. “You’re going to regret this.”
Maybe I will. Maybe I won’t. Right now, I can only feel the throbbing ache in my chest and the hollow buzzing in my ears and the faint, strange relief under all of it, like a splinter finally being pulled free.
“Maybe,” I say, and close my hand around the earring until it hurts. “But I won’t regret not sharing a bed with a liar.”
He shakes his head, mutters something under his breath I can’t hear, and then he’s gone. The door shuts behind him with a soft click that sounds louder than any slammed door.
For a long time, I don’t move.
I stand in the middle of my not-quite-decorated living room, holding another woman’s earring and listening to the silence of a house that suddenly feels too big.
The tears come then, hot and blurring everything, and I let them. My knees buckle and I sink to the floor, pressing my forehead against the couch where I found the stupid little thing. My shoulders shake, my chest heaves, and I cry for the marriage I thought I had, the future I imagined, the kids we were hoping to have someday but kept pushing off.
It hurts. God, it hurts.
But beneath the pain something else flickers.
Quiet. Fragile.
A single, small thought: I’m still here.
And I’m not the one who should be ashamed.
One
Holley
Six months later, I sit in a freezing conference room with my hands folded tightly in my lap and try not to throw up. How did this become my life? How did my dreams shatter so effortlessly and quickly?
The pain of heartbreak doesn’t seem to want to leave me. I have felt every emotion under the sun from the betrayal shock to anger, to even feeling the freedom of being without him. It’s all a mixed up bunch of chaos that stays in a constant swirl in my head and my heart.
The fluorescent lights buzz overhead. The air smells like burnt coffee. A cheap fake plant droops in the corner, its plastic leaves dusty. The long table in front of me is scratched where previous pens have dug into it, the faint ghosts of other people’s fights etched into the veneer. In this room people lay it all out on this very table, literally. And here I am another statistic.
I’m in a blazer I got at a thrift store, a size too big, the sleeves rolled up at the wrists. My black pants are pressed because I ironed them last night on the kitchen counter. There’s a stain on my shoe I couldn’t get out. My hair is pulled back in a too tight bun, my lipstick is the neutral shade a beauty blogger swears makes everyone look composed.
Inside, I feel anything but composed. No I’m falling apart even if this is supposed to be the first step to putting my life back together.
On the other side of the table, my soon-to-be-ex-husband lounges back in his chair like this is an inconvenience he’s indulging me in. He’s wearing a crisp new shirt and a watch I’ve never seen before. He got a haircut.