You and Adrian, standing beside a Ferris wheel, laughing at something outside the frame. Your hair is windblown. His arm is around your shoulders. You are wearing a yellow dress you bought for four dollars at a church sale.
“I kept this,” he says.
Your eyes fill.
“I looked terrible.”
“You looked free.”
That breaks you.
Not dramatically.
Quietly.
A tear slips down before you can stop it.
Adrian looks like he wants to reach for you, but he stays still.
You appreciate that more than he knows.
The next morning, Caleb does not come home.
He texts at 3:12 a.m.
You ruined my life. Don’t touch my things.
You read it in your kitchen while wearing the same navy dress, now wrinkled from a sleepless night.
You type back:
Your belongings will be boxed. My attorney will contact you.
Then you block him.
By 8:00 a.m., you call a divorce attorney.
By 10:00, you copy financial records from every joint account.
By noon, you find the hotel charge.
Not last night’s event.
Another hotel.
Three weekends in Boston.
