Page 2 of Rowan: His Exception

I scroll down to find a testimonial section.

I came here broken, one reads. I left knowing I could survive myself.

“Here goes nothing.” My finger comes down. Click.

The confirmation page loads. Along with an email that arrives almost instantly.

Welcome to the Cedar Ridge Wilderness Survival Course. Arrive prepared. Leave changed.

I stare at the screen.

The kitchen is still dark except for the glow of the laptop and the ghost of a man who never needed to raise his voice to break me.

I don't cry.

I don't feel anything.

I just sit there in the dark, spinning the two-carate diamond, while wondering what it’s going to feel like becoming someone he would never recognize.

The thought sits there. Heavy.

The ring spins.

Then, all of a sudden, I pull my hand back like I've touched something hot, and the motion carries me to the keyboard, to a new tab, to rental cars. It’s a small act but huge, and I almost laugh. The cheapest option is a compact with 150,000 miles and a weird ass stain on the seat. I book it anyway…I have no other choice. I can't afford a flight, hell, I’m going to barely be able to afford the gas. Each click feels like I’m chipping away at the woman who would have had to ask Daniel first, needing his approval for the expense, and the confirmation that she'd made the right decision.

At 2:17 a.m., the radiator hisses, but I don't flinch this time. I’ve moved to the kitchen floor, while Adele belts out Rolling in the Deep, my back against the cabinets.

I reach up over my head, grabbing the phone from the counter. I open my photos, scrolling past the wedding folder I can't delete yet, past the dinner parties, to the one of me and my sister the morning of mine and Daniel’s wedding day…

…and I’m there.

My sister shows up to the venue at 6 a.m. with bagels, coffee, and a look on her face I don't understand. Her mascara is already smeared, telling me she’s been crying. She doesn’t give me a chance to ask, just gets straight to the point.

"Claire, you don't have to do this," she says, point-blank. “I promise I’m not being dramatic or overprotective…”

“Mags, what’s going on?”

She sets the coffee down. Hard. "He called you hysterical last month. At brunch. In front of everyone. For getting emotional over dad’s death." Her jaw tightens. “I've watched him hand you back a smaller version of yourself, and you say thank you. That's not love, Claire. That's management.”

“Maggi, I think you might be overreacting a bit. Daniel's good for me. He keeps me...”

"Under his thumb?" she blurts out. Then, her voice turns softer, "Claire. Please."

I hug her tight, smelling her shampoo…the same one we've shared since teenagers, telling her she's being protective, big sister. That he’s a good man who really does love me. He’s stable, secure. Someone who doesn't lose his keys or forget to pay rent or make me feel like I'm constantly bracing for impact.

She pulls back. Looks at me like she's memorizing my face.

"Promise you’ll call me if you need anything," she says. "Any hour. I don't care. You call me."

“I promise.”

-and I'm back.

Let’s just say, I never kept my promise. I didn't call.

Not when Daniel annotated my anniversary card. Not when his mother rearranged my kitchen. Not when he humiliated me at dinner parties until I withdrew into myself altogether.

My thumb hovers over her name in my contacts. Maggie.