CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
RHETT
Week One
The penthouse becomes quieter after I stop treating quiet as punishment.
I cook badly. I read without game footage playing in the background. I attend therapy twice in one week because the playoffs amplify every old instinct and Sloane refuses to accept scheduling as an emotional defense.
"How often are you contacting Nora?" she asks.
"Only when she initiates, except for foundation decisions and one congratulatory message after published work."
"Why?"
"I don't want to crowd her."
"Is restraint becoming a new way to avoid expressing need?"
I stare at her.
"You people make growth impossible."
"Growth is not replacing one rigid rule with its opposite."
I think of Nora admitting she looked for me at the airport.
"I want to tell her I miss her," I say.
"Then tell her, without attaching an instruction."
That evening, I record a voice message.
"I miss you," I say. "You do not need to answer. I am not asking you to come home. I only don't want silence to become another lie."
I send it before I can revise the humanity out of it.
Nora replies an hour later.
"I miss you too. Today I photographed a seven-year-old who bit her coach because she did not want to leave the ice. You would have respected her commitment."
I listen three times.
At practice, Lucas takes a puck to the mask and spends the next minute swearing at everyone except the shooter.
Sloane watches from the tunnel during a routine team mental-health visit. When Lucas sees her, he becomes unusually quiet.
"You know," I say in the locker room, "most people greet psychologists without looking for emergency exits."
"Most people have not dated one."
I stop taping my stick.
Lucas closes his eyes. "Forget I said that."
"You dated Sloane?"
"Briefly. Years ago. Before she joined the team. It ended. Everyone survived."
"Did she break your heart?"
"I will hide your pain medication."
"You are very defensive."
"You were divorced by paperwork yesterday. Perhaps focus inward."
The sentence lands.
"What?"
Lucas freezes.
My phone is in my locker. During practice, Maren emailed final notice to counsel. The court entered the dissolution this morning.
I sit.
The room narrows.
Lucas removes his gloves. "I thought you knew."
"I didn't."
He sits beside me without speaking.
I open the email.
Marriage dissolved. Effective immediately.
Administrative language. A door closing without sound.
Nora is six hours ahead. She may already know.
I touch my wedding band.
For thirty days, I wore it because I was married and because hope made every symbol feel like a lifeline.
Now the law has changed.
Love has not.
I remove the ring.
The skin beneath it is pale.
Lucas says, "You don't have to do that now."
"I do. She ended the old marriage. Wearing it as if nothing changed would be another form of denial."
I thread the ring onto the chain my mother gave me when I was drafted and fasten it beneath my shirt.
Then I call Nora.
She answers on the second ring.
"You know," she says.
"Yes."
Her breath trembles.
"Are you alone?" I ask.
"Hotel room. Ingrid and Adrian are downstairs."
"Do you want company?"
"Not from them."
The answer enters me carefully.
"Then I can stay on the phone."
"Please."
We do not say ex-wife or ex-husband.
We do not pretend the decree is meaningless.
Across six hours and one ocean, we grieve the marriage together without trying to reverse it.