Chapter 12
Chapter Twelve
The divorce attorney tells me an annulment is unlikely.
"You lived together before the marriage," she explains. "There was no fraud concerning his identity, his ability to consent, or the legality of the union. What you have is a very short marriage and a relatively simple divorce."
Simple.
I almost laugh.
She asks about property. The house belongs to Caleb, purchased before we met. Our joint account contains wedding money and the savings we began combining six months ago. Most of my possessions are already at the apartment.
"Has he threatened to withhold anything?"
"No."
"Restricted your access to money?"
"No."
"Entered the apartment without permission?"
"No."
"Harassed you?"
I think of the first night, Caleb breathing outside my door. Since then, he has stopped calling unless I contact him.
"No."
The attorney slides a retainer agreement toward me. "Then this can be handled quickly."
"How quickly?"
"If both parties cooperate, a few months."
"We will have been divorcing longer than we were married."
She folds her hands. "Do you want legal advice or permission to slow down?"
"Is slowing down legal advice?"
"It can be. You are not facing immediate financial or physical danger based on what you have told me. Waiting a week will not surrender your rights. Neither will signing today resolve the emotional question."
"He kissed another woman."
"I know."
"Everyone knows."
"That may be why you need to decide when fewer people are speaking."
I dislike her for sounding sensible. I take the papers anyway, telling myself I am being prepared rather than uncertain.
I carry the unsigned papers home.
Caleb has been handling our shared life with the same terrible efficiency.
He transfers half the wedding funds into an account in my name and sends a spreadsheet showing every amount.
He pays the enormous last-minute airfare charge without mentioning it.
He asks Ivy to collect the rest of my business files from the house.
When the cleaner calls about my wedding dress, Caleb pays the bill and has it delivered to my apartment in an opaque garment bag.
There is no note.
He cancels the remaining honeymoon reservations, negotiates refunds, and deposits my portion into my account. He returns gifts when guests ask. He tells his family not to contact me.
Marguerite contacts me anyway.
This time she sends an email.
I am sorry I blamed you for leaving. I was frightened for my son and chose the easiest person to hold responsible. You did not destroy the honeymoon. You protected yourself after Caleb destroyed your sense of safety. I will respect your request for space.
I read it twice.
Then I file it in a folder and do not respond.
Caleb moves out of the house.
I learn this when Ivy returns with my files.
"Where is he staying?"
"A hotel near his office."
"Why?"
"He said you might need the house for work or to get anything you forgot. He doesn't want you wondering whether he will be there."
"It is his house."
"He knows."
"That is ridiculous."
"Probably."
I open the first file box. Everything is labeled in Caleb's handwriting. Contracts. Vendor lists. Tax records. Inside the final box is my spare inhaler, a heating pad, the ugly ceramic mug I use when I am sick, and the childhood photograph of Ivy and me that used to hang beside our bed.
No love letter. No dramatic reminder of our wedding. No demand for credit.
"He looked awful," Ivy says.
"I told you not to report on him."
"That wasn't a report. It was an observation."
"Observe less."
She watches me unpack. "You are angry because he is doing this correctly."
"I am angry because he learned how to treat me after I left."
"That seems fair."
My phone rings. It is a client whose wedding I am coordinating next month. She has seen the video and wants to know whether I am emotionally capable of managing her event.
I assure her I am.
She cancels anyway.
An hour later, the full amount of my lost fee appears in our joint account.
The client is not the only casualty.
A venue manager who regularly refers couples to me asks whether I intend to take time away. A bride sends a photograph of Caleb and Sable with the question, Is this why you haven't answered my email? I answered it nine minutes after she sent it.
My business page receives one-star reviews from accounts that have never hired me. Some call me pathetic for staying. Others call me vindictive for leaving.
I spend an afternoon reporting them while Ivy drafts replies that cannot be published without involving the police.
Caleb sends one email to every vendor who attended our wedding.
Dahlia's professional work has no connection to my conduct. Anyone using my failure to damage her business is punishing the wrong person. Direct questions about the video to me.
He copies me but does not ask whether I approve.
I call him furious.
"You used my client list."
"Only the vendors from our wedding."
"You still made a business decision in my name."
"I made a statement in mine."
"About me."
"I watched three fake reviews appear while you were in a meeting."
"How do you know when I am in meetings?"
"Your public calendar. I was checking because I wanted to call."
"That is not better."
He exhales. "You're right. I should have asked."
"Would you have listened if I said no?"
The silence tells me he would not have.
"This is what I mean," I say. "You think good intentions give you ownership of the decision."
"Then tell me how to repair it."
"Don't send anything else."
"Okay."
The reviews stop within two days. I do not thank him.
I call Caleb.
"Did you put money in the account?"
"Yes."
"Take it back."
"You lost the client because of me."
"I lost her because Jeremy posted a video."
"A video I helped create."
"You cannot purchase your way out of every consequence."
"I know."
"Then stop trying."
"I am not trying to buy forgiveness. I am paying a bill I caused."
"I don't want your money."
"It was our money two weeks ago."
"Two weeks ago I thought we were going to be married forever."
His breath catches.
"I still do," he says.
"That is your problem."
I send the money back.
The following day, a formal invitation arrives for the welcome-home reception Marguerite planned before our wedding. Heavy cream paper. Gold edges. Our names intertwined across the top.
The event has not been canceled.