6. Dylan #3
I know because his breathing changes, deepening into the rhythmic pattern I’ve memorized over seven years of sharing a bed.
He’s always been able to sleep, even when things were falling apart around us.
It’s one of the things I used to envy about him, that ability to let go, to trust that tomorrow would bring solutions.
I haven’t slept properly in weeks.
When the first gray light of dawn starts to creep through the curtains, I slip out of bed without disturbing him. I gather my phone and my robe and pad downstairs to the kitchen, where I make a cup of coffee I won’t drink and sit at the island where we used to have breakfast together.
You know I’m doing this for my career. My dream.
His words keep circling in my mind, sharpening with each repetition. Not our dream. His dream. The distinction he made without even realizing it, the unconscious admission of how far we’ve drifted from the partnership we once had.
I think about the Academy Awards. About standing beside him on the red carpet, smiling for cameras, playing the role of adoring wife while Claudette hovers somewhere nearby, ready to pull him back into her orbit the moment the photos are done.
Okay, I told him.
I don’t know why I said it. Submission, maybe. Exhaustion. The bone-deep weariness of fighting for a marriage that my husband doesn’t seem to realize is dying.
Or maybe I said it because I needed time. Time to figure out what I actually want. To decide whether this marriage is worth saving, or whether I’ve been trying to resuscitate a bond that’s been dead for years.
My phone sits on the counter, dark and silent. I pick it up and navigate to my contacts, scrolling until I find a name I saved months ago and never expected to use.
Irish Tiu. Family Law Attorney.
She came highly recommended by a friend who went through a divorce last year, quiet, devastating in the courtroom. I saved her number “just in case,” telling myself it was prudent to be prepared, never actually believing I would need it.
I stare at her contact information for a long time.
You can’t even be with me for our anniversary, I told him. What makes you think I’ll believe you’ll be there for the Academy Awards?
He didn’t have an answer. He just made more promises, more assurances, more pretty words that he absolutely believes in the moment and will absolutely forget the next time his career demands his attention.
I’m so tired of pretty words. Of being understanding. Of shrinking myself to fit into the ever-smaller space he’s left for me in his life.
My thumb hovers over the call button.
Upstairs, Dylan sleeps peacefully, probably dreaming of Academy Awards and redemption and all the ways he’ll prove he’s still the man I married. He has no idea that his wife is sitting in their kitchen, contemplating the end of everything they built together.
My dream, he said. My career.
Not ours. His.
Well, maybe it’s time I remembered what my dreams used to look like. Before I buried them. Before I forgot I had any at all.
I press the call button.
The line rings once, twice, three times. I’m about to hang up. It’s barely seven in the morning, what attorney answers calls this early? But a professional voice comes through.
“Irish Tiu’s office, this is her answering service. How may I direct your call?”
I take a deep breath.
“I’d like to schedule a consultation.” My voice comes out steadier than I expected. “For a divorce.”
A brief pause, the sound of typing. “Of course. Can I have your name, please?”
I look up at the ceiling, toward the bedroom where my husband is sleeping off his guilt and his alcohol and his empty promises.
“Selene Riego.”
The typing stops.
“Mrs. Riego.” The voice on the other end has shifted, becoming more careful, more aware. They know who I am. Of course they do. “Ms. Tiu can see you tomorrow at ten. Would that work?”
“That would be perfect.”
I give them my contact information, confirm the appointment, and end the call.
The kitchen is silent around me. The coffee has gone cold, untouched. Through the windows, the sun is starting to rise over the Hollywood Hills, painting everything in shades of gold and rose.
It’s going to be a beautiful day.
I set my phone down and wrap my hands around my cold coffee cup, and I think about what I’ve just set in motion. The papers. The lawyers. The slow, painful unraveling of seven years of marriage.
Dylan promised me the Academy Awards. He promised to be by my side, to show me I’m still his priority, to prove that our love is stronger than his ambition.
I said okay.
But I also made a phone call.
Because I’m done waiting for promises to be kept. I’m done believing that next time will be different. I’m done shrinking myself into nothing while my husband builds his empire on the foundation I laid.
If Dylan wants to save this marriage, he’s going to have to do more than make promises.
He’s going to have to show up.
And if he doesn’t?
Well, at least I’ll have a backup plan.
I take a sip of my cold coffee and watch the sun rise over the city I used to conquer, and I let myself imagine, just for a moment, what my life might look like on the other side of this.
It doesn’t look as terrifying as I expected.
In fact, it almost looks like freedom.