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My phone rang. Unknown number. I almost didn’t answer, but…I was now expecting calls. About the lawyer, the cottage. So I took it and prayed for the best.

“Hello?”

“Samantha Collins?”

“Yes? Who’s this?”

“This is Rachel Ashworth from Ashworth and Associates. I received your message about needing divorce representation.”

I blinked. It was Sunday. The consultation wasn’t until Monday.

“That was fast.”

“I’m not going to lie, I heard about your situation online, through a viral video. I was so furious on your behalf that I rearranged my Monday. Can you come in first thing? This is my kind of case. Or we can do a call or video call. Your choice.”

“Absolutely. A call works.”

“Good. Scan any documentation you have. Financial records, evidence of infidelity, anything that might be relevant. Now listen to me carefully, because I’m going to tell you two things.” Her voice was brisk, clipped, the voice of a woman who took no shit and charged accordingly. “One: the divorce will be straightforward. He cheated. You have evidence. North Carolina is an equitable distribution state and adultery matters. Two: do not go back to your house alone. Your name could be on the deed but right now he’s in a volatile state. Men who get publicly humiliated at their own weddings don’t react well.”

“I’m not going back to stay,” I said, and the plan crystallized as I said it, clear and necessary. “I’m going back to pack.”

“Take someone with you. Or better yet, let me arrange for movers…”

“No. I need to do this myself. I need to get my things and leave him a wedding gift.”

A pause. “What kind of gift?”

“The kind that makes it clear I’m never coming back.”

A beat of silence. Then Rachel Ashworth laughed. “I like you, Ms. Collins. Call me when you’re done. And for the love of God, don’t assault him. I can only do so much.”

“No promises.”

“That’s what they all say.”

After we hung up, I sat on the motel bed, surrounded by Walmart bags and the ruins of my life. In twelve hours, I’d gone from bride to bitter divorcee-to-be. From being part of a family to being completely alone.

This was not the time to think about that, though. So I grabbed my new duffel bag and my car keys.

Time to go home one last time.

6

— • —

Sam

The Find My app showed Garrett’s car at his office, which meant I had at least one hour to destroy his life in small, petty ways that would haunt him for months.

I parked two blocks away because I was paranoid, not stupid. The last thing I needed was some helpful neighbor calling Garrett to let him know his wife was home. Ex-wife. The semantics were still fuzzy, but the intent was crystal clear.

Our neighborhood had always felt pretentious. Now it just felt like a mausoleum of fancy houses for my dead marriage. Harold from the bakery gave me his usual wave, probably not knowing about last night’s disaster. Or maybe he did and was just too professional to mention that I’d become the town’s most viral wedding fail.

The house smelled exactly the same. Coffee and Garrett’s cologne and that vanilla candle I always kept burning. Normal smells for a normal life that didn’t exist anymore. I stood in the doorway for a moment, waiting to feel something profound about being back in what used to be home.

Instead, I just felt tired.

I started with the obvious stuff. My clothes went into suitcases with the efficiency of someone who’d mentally packed to leave a thousand times. Turns out all those fantasies about dramatic exits came in handy when you actually needed to execute one. Jeans, shirts, dresses, normal underwear. The lingerie stayed. Let him explain that to whoever he brought home next. Well. That was probably going to be my sister, so.