Chapter 3

The moment I put the pen down, I suddenly thought of another day.

It was our first wedding anniversary. I made the reservation a month ahead. A table by the window with a view of the water. I took the whole day off, started doing my makeup at four, and put on his favorite red dress.

By eight, he still hadn't shown up.

I called him. But he said, "Something came up at work. I can't get away."

"It's our first anniversary," I said.

There was a pause on his end. "I know. But I really can't get away. I'll make it up to you some other time."

Some other time. That was when I first realized how much those words could hurt.

I ate the whole meal alone. I took a picture of the food and sent it to him. He replied, [Looks good.]

I didn't tell him it was a dinner for two. And that I ate it all by myself.

Then he started his own company, and he got busier. My calls to him went from three a day to maybe one. The hours I spent waiting stretched from ten p.m. to one in the morning.

He'd tell me, "Just go to sleep," and I'd say, "Okay." But I'd lie there in the dark, listening for the sound of his key in the door

Eventually, he made it. The company got funding and moved into a real office. There were more dinners. He came home later and later, carrying the scent of unfamiliar perfume. I asked him about it. "You're overthinking it," he said.

Was I overthinking it?

One night, he came home drunk. I was helping him out of his jacket when he pulled me close and whispered someone else's name.

That night, I sat in the living room until the sun came up.

The next morning, he found me on the couch. "You sleep out here?" He remembered nothing.

"It was hot," I said.

He had no idea. It wasn't the heat. It was the cold.

I was chilled to the bone.

*****

"All set," the clerk said, and pushed a set of papers toward us. The divorce decree.

I took the papers. For a moment, I was seeing our wedding photo in my mind. The two of us are sitting together. His smile a little stiff, I leaned into him.

Back then, I believed that was forever.

"Let's go," Jason said. He folded the papers, put them in his pocket, and walked out. I followed.

When we stepped outside, the midday sun hit me hard, harsh and blinding.

Jason stopped by his car and glanced back at me. "Need a ride?"

"No. I'll just call a Lyft," I said.

He nodded, opened the car door, then paused. "Elena."

"Yeah?"

"Take care of yourself."

I looked at him, trying to find something there. A flicker of sadness. A little guilt. Anything at all.

But there was nothing. His gaze was completely calm, as if I were just a stranger.

"You too," I managed to say.

He slid behind the wheel, started the engine, and drove off.

I stood there, watching his car get smaller and smaller until it disappeared into traffic.

Just then, my phone buzzed. My mom had texted. [Is it done?]

[Yeah,] I replied.

[Are you okay?]

I stared at those three words. I didn't know what I was feeling. Was I okay? Was I not?

Three years ago, he got down on one knee beneath all those Christmas lights and swore he'd be good to me.

Two years ago, I sat alone at our anniversary dinner.

A year ago, he came home drunk and called out someone else's name.

And today, we got divorced.

[Mom,] I finally typed back, [I'm fine. I'm just tired.]

There was a long pause. Then a voice message came through.

I pressed play and held the phone to my ear. "Elena. Come home. I'll make you a pot of that chicken soup you like."

I sank down onto the cold stone steps and finally let the tears come.

It wasn't because of Jason.

It was because someone was still waiting for me to come home.

Then my phone buzzed again.

I thought it was my mom. I looked down. It was a number I didn't know. [Elena? It's David Foster. We met a few months back for that interview. I heard about your divorce. Hope you're holding up.]

I stared at the message for a long moment. Wow. Thanks for the sympathy card.

[Is this you making fun of me?] I said.

His reply came immediately. [No. I was wondering if you still wanted to do that project. The night commuter thing.]

Right. David Foster. He ran a media company. I interviewed him about half a year ago. We talked all afternoon.

Before I left, I brought up a project I had in mind. A series on night commuters. He said he was interested and told me to put together a plan.

But then I got caught up with everything going on with Jason and completely forgot about it.

[You're telling me you still want that project?] I asked.

"Yes," he wrote. "I've been waiting."

I looked at the word. Waiting. It was kind of funny.

I spent three years waiting for Jason. But he never once waited for me.

But David, a man I barely knew, had been waiting for me. The world was ironic that way.

[Then see you tomorrow,] I replied.

[Okay.]

I slipped my phone into my pocket, stood up, and brushed the dust off my skirt.

As I started walking, a thought crossed my mind: Jason had called me "Elena" just now.

When we were dating, I was "Lena." The first year of marriage, I was "honey". Then, somewhere along the way, I became "you." And today, I was "Elena" again.

It had taken ten years to go from Elena to Lena. And ten minutes to go from Lena back to a stranger.

I let out a small laugh and walked on.