Chapter 3
David was silent for a long time. Then he reached into his suit pocket and pulled out a business card, handing it to me.
"Kevin Johnson, he specializes in marital property disputes," David said. "He's way more trustworthy than my legal team. If you ever need to go to court, he's your guy."
I looked at the card and took it. "Why are you helping me?"
"Everything you said is true." David let out a bitter laugh. "James thinks he's got everyone fooled, but the rest of us have seen through him for ages. No one bothered to say anything, because it wouldn't have changed a thing."
He stuffed his hands back into his pockets and walked a few steps away, then suddenly stopped. "Olivia..."
"Please call me Ms. Bennett."
He paused, then corrected himself, "Ms. Bennett, James's mom is getting discharged from the hospital tomorrow afternoon. She thinks you'll be the one to pick her up."
That sentence hit me like a knife, stabbing right into the softest spot in my chest.
James's mom, the woman who, even while going through chemo, still worried about making soup for me.
The woman who placed her family's heirloom emerald bracelet onto my wrist.
The woman who, lying in her hospital bed, held my hand and said, "James is stubborn. Please be patient with him."
She had no idea what her son had done.
"I'll go pick her up," I said. "For the last time."
*****
The wedding ended at nine o'clock that night.
James had drunk quite a bit, and David had to help him into the car.
I changed back into my own clothes, a plain white dress, then carefully packed my wedding dress in a garment bag, along with the ring, and put them both in the trunk of his car.
Then I drove out to the west side of the city.
I parked outside Emily's apartment building and waited in my car for half an hour.
At one in the morning, the light in her room finally came on.
The curtains weren't fully closed, and through the gap, I could see her in her pajamas, walking to the window with her phone in hand, talking on the phone.
Her lips moved as she talked, a sweet smile on her face.
I took a picture of her smile and sent it to James, feeling a strange satisfaction as I hit send.
Then I typed out a message: [Looks like she's doing great. You left, huh? Funny timing.]
Once the message was sent, I shut off my phone.
I drove back, not home, but to the place he bought for us. It never really felt like mine.
The two-thousand-square-foot duplex was all my doing. From the tile patterns to the curtain fabrics, every little thing had my touch.
I opened the door, turned on the lights, and stood there in the entryway, not moving an inch.
Our wedding photo hung in the living room, 9.84 feet long and 6.56 feet wide. I was in my white wedding dress, leaning into his arms, grinning like a fool.
I walked into the bedroom and dragged out a suitcase from the bottom of the closet. There were no clothes inside, just a stack of paperwork.
Bank transfer records. Utility bills. A copy of Emily's apartment lease. And a folded abortion consent form, with James's signature in the family member section, neat, but rushed.
And a divorce agreement, with my signature on the last page. The date was three months ago.
*****
The next afternoon, I went to the hospital to pick up James's mom, Monica Carter.
She looked a lot better than the last time I saw her. When she saw me, she smiled. "Olivia, you're here! Where's James?"
"He had something come up at work," I said, helping her change out of her hospital gown into regular clothes. My hands were steady as I buttoned up her shirt. "Monica, the discharge paperwork's all done. Let's go."
I'd gotten so used to being close to her over the past four years. Letting go of our relationship would hurt more than having a tooth pulled.
Back at home, I got her settled in and stayed with her for dinner.
She had a good appetite, finishing two plates of soup while she chattered on about James's childhood.
I listened, smiling, and chimed in now and then.
*****
At nine o'clock that night, James came home.
When he walked in and saw me sitting on the couch with Monica, watching TV, he was visibly caught off guard.
"James, you're back!" Monica called out warmly. "Come, sit with Olivia."
He walked over and took a seat at the far end of the couch, putting a couple of seats between us.
Some variety show was playing on TV, with bursts of laughter filling the room.
Monica was totally into it, occasionally chatting with us.
Everything looked so normal, just like any other family night.
But I noticed James kept rubbing the fabric on his knees, over and over, like he was trying to wear a hole through it.
I knew what he was waiting for. He was waiting for me to bring up the divorce, once Monica went to bed.
But what he didn't know was that I wasn't going to bring it up anymore.
That night, after Monica went to bed, James finally spoke up. "Olivia, we need to talk."
"Sure," I said, standing up. "Let's go to the study."
The study was on the third floor, and once the door was shut, you couldn't hear a thing from outside. He walked ahead, opened the door, and after I stepped in, he locked the door behind us.
"About the divorce..." James started.
"I already signed the papers," I cut him off. "They're in the suitcase at the bottom of the bedroom closet.
"All the details are clear. The house is yours, the savings are yours, and I don't want a single share of your company."
He froze. "You don't want anything?"
"Just three things," I said, holding up three fingers. "My dad's photo. The bracelet your mom gave me. And the seven years I spent with you."
His lips parted, but all he managed was, "You..."
"Think I'm being too easy on you?" I smiled. "Don't be in such a hurry. There's one more clause in the agreement."
I pulled another document out of my bag, set it on the desk, and slid it over to him.
He glanced down, and his face went pale.