Page 7 of Her Wicker Guardian

Nothing happened.

For nine months, I’d wanted those words. I’d paid for them, waited for them, and checked my email for them.

Then I reached for my mascara. My shaking hand sent the mascara brush into the skin beneath my eye, leaving a black dot. I stared at it in the mirror for a second, wiped it away with my thumb, and finished the other eye.

Then I put on my second shoe and drove to the Blue Plate Diner. By four o’clock, table seven wanted more ranch dressing, table three needed separate checks, and I was still legally divorced whether I’d figured out how to feel about it or not.

Shannon raises her cup. “Then we’re drinking to it.”

“Please don’t make a speech.”

“I’m not making a speech.”

“You have a speech face.”

“You absolutely have a speech face,” Blair agrees.

Shannon ignores her. “To Rachel. Officially free.”

The red cups tap together, soft plastic instead of crystal.

“To officially free,” the others chorus.

I take a drink. The cheap wine is cold and a little too sweet, and I still don’t feel free. My fingers trace the ridges in the plastic cup while I wonder whether I’m doing freedom wrong because I don’t feel anything dramatic enough to match the word.

Then I turn toward Laura.

She catches me. “What?”

I shake my head. Dave died three years ago, and Laura still talks about him like he ought to be here. Guilt catches at me. I wanted out so desperately, and she’d give anything to have her husband back.

“You needed out,” she says quietly.

“I know.”

“I wanted more time.” Laura gives me a small smile. “Both things can be true.”

Holding her gaze takes effort, but looking away feels worse.

“Okay,” I manage.

“Okay.”

She doesn’t try to make the moment smaller. That helps.

Shannon nudges my knee with hers. “Did you do anything to celebrate?”

“I bought a lamp.”

Blair blinks. “A lamp.”

“A ruby red lamp.”

“Right. Paper for the first anniversary, silver for the twenty-fifth, and a lamp for the divorce.”

Shannon perks up. “Why red?”

“He hated red.”