He only stares back at me, slack-jawed, because he doesn’t care where my friend lives or whether I’ll text him more. His mind is already made up. He’s already gone.
“I’m sick of being lonely in my own marriage, Charley. I need adventure and passion and the spontaneity of the tides.”
Again with the boats!
“I deserve to have someone fall for me, and I don’t know ifyou could ever let yourself do that. Or if you’re even capable of it. You’re too…” I watch him weigh his words before settling on: “guarded.”
“Guarded,” I say back, processing.
In my mind, I eviscerate him. I call him every name. I tell him that I’ve been lying about his second toe and itdoeslook like a witch’s knuckle. I insult his appearance with jabs so specific, they’d stealthily attack his psyche like self-esteem termites until he collapsed into nothing but an insecure husk of his confident former self. I scream that I never loved him, not because I’m incapable of it, but because lovinghimwas an impossible task.
But I don’t say any of this, partly because it’s not true. Except for his toe. That toe is unnerving. But mostly because doing so would cede control of this moment to him.
He won’t get that satisfaction. He’ll get nothing but the “guarded” demeanor he used to love but has grown to resent.
Rich blinks first. He was never good in an emotional standoff. A checkered oxford shirt I bought him lies between us on the bed next to his splayed-open duffel. He folds it completely wrong, and I resist the urge to grab it from his hands and save him from himself one last time.
“I have to check in to a hotel. I figured you wouldn’t want me to stay here while I search for a new place.” When he looks up from his phone, his eyes are soft. Patient. Sad. He looks familiar to me again. That’s the face of his I know best. “We had something good. It’s hard to leave it behind for the possibility of something great. But I can’t make you happy, and trying to is making me miserable.”
I pinch the straw to remind myself it’s there, the tangible proof of the life I had before Richard Warren.
“I care about you, Charley. I don’t want this to get ugly.” I nod, numb. “And Marlene never lets us forget that her son wants the place, so that part’ll be easy.”
He laughs—laughs—while bile fills my mouth. Because Rich isn’t justleaving. He’s toppling everything—my home, my finances—like he’s the bottom row of the Jenga tower that’s propping up my life. He’s handing it over toMarlene, our next-door neighbor who kisses her adult son on the mouth and raises a suspicious number of dachshunds.
Anger pumps through my veins, and I lose control. For a split second, I’m the Incredible Hulk, and without thought or warning, I grab the shirt between us and rip it in two, a walloping grunt leaping through my throat like a battle cry as the fabric surrenders in my hands.
Rich’s eyes are saucers as he takes in my strength, my passion. I watch a flicker behind his eyes, an electric current in something long burned out. I’m giving him exactly what he says he wants, letting my guard down and sharing a glimpse of the raw, unpolished Charley I hardly let him see.
But then he swallows and his face goes blank, and I know it’s not enough. Our relationship might as well live in the drawer of mystery electronics between my iPod Touch and a five-year-old Fitbit that couldn’t turn on if you boosted it with a car battery. Our marriage is dead and buried.
So when my husband of less than a year walks out the door with my extra-long iPhone cable, the four worst words in the English language glow behind my eyes like a neon sign:Ethan Powell Was Right.
Chapter 1
Divorced Zaddies at Ruth’s Chris
Friday, Now
Why does myphone assume all photos contain memories I wish to revisit?
Building a Home Together, the device proudly announces in white sans serif across a montage of our once lovingly appointed living room. I managed to snap the pictures when the moving crew began boxing away the books, the lamp, and the antique sideboard buffet Rich carved out as his own.
Because even though we bought more house than we needed and furnished it too quickly with nondescript typographical artwork and cold concrete nightstands in an approximation of modern-cozy that fell somewhere between a WeWork and a homier-than-average Airbnb, I needed to capture the image of it. Preserve the moment before my life dissolved into a puddle of sludge as something tangible I could hold in my hands, so in these months of divorce negotiations, I could use it to determine exactly what I, Charlotte Beekman, was owed. How many of Rich’s collectible mugs and personal productivity books would it take to make me whole again? How many would make up for the promises we broke?
Because that’s the truth of it, isn’t it? A marriage is about promises.
But divorce is aboutthings.
And argue overthings, we did. Few people, aside from Kim Kardashian and Bethenny Frankel, can lay claim to a marriage in which the dissolution was more prolonged than the partnership. Now I’m just a divorcée, stealing glances of my past life in an iPhone montage at an intersection.
A car honks behind me, and I squint into the morning sun to spot the green traffic light. I shut off my screen and throw the phone back in my bag on the passenger seat before pressing the gas pedal, watching for rogue pedestrians as I turn into the underground parking lot of the Minneapolis high-rise I work in. It’s the place where I spend most of my waking hours—and, occasionally, some sleeping ones.
The garage door shuts behind me, cutting off the familiar cacophony of downtown road construction. I glide my Prius past the conveniently located “executive parking” spots reserved for partners at my law firm and vice presidents of the various corporations with which we share this gray, boxy building. I settle for a spot in the nosebleeds that’s partially obstructed by a load-bearing pole and requires just the right amount of courage and hubris to back into.
Parked, I remove my beverages from their respective cup holders—a travel mug of coffee from the Nespresso machine, a drive-thru Caribou iced oat milk latte, a Tetra Pak of iced tea, and two different stainless steel water bottles—and start the daily, nerve-racking process of arranging them in my arms like a German barmaid. Navigating the route to my office on the thirty-second floor without spilling a drop of my emotional support liquids involves a bit of juggling.
“Thanks,” I murmur without looking up at the owner of the floral sleeve that holds open the door. The arm surprises me by snatching my travel coffee mug and a Stanley cup from my hands. “Whoopsie-daisy. Let me just sneak that right out of your hands there,” its owner tells me.
