Page 24 of The Unfluencer

There is a timeline. I am in a rush, a rush to change the narrative before it’s cemented in history. And settling on a gallery home for Sherry’s paintings will help me do just that. Let the world see that she was more than a Luxe Lady and a fighter—she was my goddamn wife. An artist. A woman who was flawed and loved. Whose legacy will live on through a charity in her name, funded from her art’s profits. So, when her art sells, when the world sees her talent, the profit will fund a charity in her name.

Then we’ll see who gets the last word.

Maybe then they’ll get off my back. Maybe my family will see that I’m okay, that I’m moving on, my way.

“You want to know what really pisses me off?” I ask, nodding, fuming. “I moved to Ellswood for my wife. Relocated the hub of my business, brought jobs to this community, patronized this economy, so that she could fulfill some pseudo-celebrity dream of being a Luxe Lady.”

“Yes.” Dr. Bellamy nods, encouraging me to not be good. She knows where I’m going with this because we end up here every time.

“Then they make her the villain,” I say, still telling myself the story because I can’t believe how it ended. “Bait her until she’s at her wits’ end, women all in her face, and she snaps. Of all things, throws a goddamn blow dryer.” A sinister laugh claws its way out of me, loud and as angry as I still am just thinking about how that single choice changed the trajectory of her life. Our life. “So, they dox her. Share all her business—address, phone number, email, everything. Attack her online.”

Dr. Bellamy’s gaze lowers as she jots something down. “I’m listening.”

“And her fandom? That she loved, more than me, I think? Would’ve done anything for them? Bam! Gone. Turned on her. Just like that, you know?”

It’s rhetorical. My regurgitated rant, the stale anger, all of it.

I never expect Dr. Bellamy to say yes or no, or that she’s got any opinion on my brand of grief, one way or the other. She’s getting paid to sit in her ficus-infested office, surrounded by bookshelves heaped with self-help manuals and tiny dachshund figurines. To be my virtual sounding board while I feel… everything. To repeatedly advise me to build my circle and create “rituals of remembrance.”

Laughter lodges in my throat.

Rituals like venturing—unarmed—into the country club to celebrate a would-be anniversary. Or lighting that stupid Peach Paradise candle every damn day to “celebrate Sherry’s life in a small, meaningful way.” Which is hilarious, because Sherry hated that fucking candle. She only ever burned it when we had guests she wanted to fool into thinking we were some passionate couple who had sex more than twice a fiscal quarter.

Yeah, okay.

So, when Dr. Bellamy tips up her red-rimmed glasses, holds up a single finger, and smiles at my rant, I’m thrown completely.

She’s amused?

“What?” I ask, caught off guard. Genuine curiosity whirs around me, and I scratch my temple. For something to knock this paradoxically stoic plant lady out of character, it’s got to be good.

“Well, it’s just that”—she sits back and presses two fingers to her lips—“something feels different.”

Okay, vague. “Which part?” I ask, mentally replaying the speech in my head.

I’ve ranted about Sherry a million times. How I watched her cry many rivers. Whisked her away to our island, her favorite place in the world. To Clover Cay, where under the Bahamian sun, she painted, healed, slowly becoming herself again before the limelight pulled her back into the fray back in ’24. And for a goddamn comeback tour…

“She loved them,” Dr. Bellamy says softly. But then her eyebrows draw together. “More than you. That’s what you said.”

Them.

I open my mouth to speak then quickly close it again, unsure how to take that—how she wants me to.

Sherry loving her fans more than me? That’s what she’s smiling about? What’s funny about that?

“Nothing is different.” My tone is hard, steely. “We’ve talked about this. It’s the whole reason that we were⁠—”

“Preparing to file for divorce,” she finishes, callously, as if I could somehow forget that my marriage of almost fourteen years had been over, and Sherry and I were in the middle of dividing our lives, about to sign on the dotted line.

We weren’t in love anymore.

“Before Sherry passed, together you’d come to the mutual decision to consciously uncouple.” She nods, treading lightly. “Without the lawyers or screaming matches. No social media meltdowns or courtroom blowups. Just quiet counseling and the fair division of your belongings, right?”

I swallow, letting the tension harden the set of my jaw.

People fall in and out of love all the time. They separate and divorce, decide to walk different paths. They want different things. That’s what we agreed upon. Loving each other enough to let go.

But it didn’t mean I wanted her to…