“Good riddance! What are you so grumpy about?” She pointed to our college alumni
group chat. Sarah had somehow joined and was publicly threatening suicide if Mark didn’t come back. He’d caved. I was relieved. Ashley was furious. “I know you’re dumping him, but I hate that she’s parading around like she won.”
“Let everyone see him for what he is,” I said. Mark had a reputation – rich, devoted. Because he’d chased me for so long, everyone assumed I
was the problem. My inbox was full of
messages from mutual friends. “Marriage is
about compromise. Claire. Don’t be so
<
about compromise, Claire. Don’t be so stubborn.” “She’s just a friend! Get over it!” “Mark’s a great guy! Rich, responsible. Plenty of girls would kill to be in your shoes. Don’t mess this up!” “Marriage is about picking your battles. Don’t sweat the small stuff.”
I stared at the messages, more determined than
ever to leave. Mark couldn’t even tell the truth. He was a coward. Marriage wasn’t about “sweating the small stuff.” Not for me.
Two months later, signed divorce papers arrived in my inbox. Time to go back. Ashley wanted to come, but I refused. I needed to do this alone.
Mark was waiting at the airport, with Sarah. She had a slight bump and a triumphant smirk. “| win.”
I was baffled. “He’s garbage. You could have had him anytime. Why bother being a mistress? So pathetic.”
<
“You-!” Sarah clutched her stomach,
pretending to be in pain. Mark ignored her,
staring at me. He’d lost weight, looked haggard,
a shadow of his former self. I avoided his gaze
and walked out.
We went to the courthouse. There was a
waiting period. A month. I mentally calculated the lost revenue. Mark mistook my frown for regret. He stepped closer. “Claire, I swear, it was just a drunken mistake.”
“If you can’t control yourself, get chemically castrated. Don’t blame alcohol,” I said, staring at him. “Fun fact: truly drunk men can’t perform.” “So stop making excuses for your disgusting behavior.”
