Chapter 7 Departure
~Felicity~
My eyes felt crusty as I came out of a deep sleep and my body was buzzing with the hurt of an emotional hangover. I swear I could feel my heartbeat in my teeth—if I didn’t know better, I would’ve said I took down a couple bottles of wine last night. Meanwhile, I had only a glass.
I pulled up to a sitting position, and after a moment of steadying myself, I forced myself to stand. I swear I groaned as I almost waddled—heading toward the bathroom. When did my bones start to feel so old? Forty is supposed to be the new thirty, so this old-ass feeling in my body could suck it.
I straightened my spine, grabbed the edge of the dresser, and steadied myself. I reached up toward the ceiling to stretch my body out. Looking at myself in the mirror on top of the dresser, I spoke to the woman in front of me.
"Get your ass in gear, Felicity. You're not old, you're just getting started. Your marriage does not define who you are. You are a fucking beast and you will stand with fucking dignity."
I looked at that tired woman I saw reflected, and as I spoke, I swear she started to grow more determined. Almost fortified by the impromptu speech.
"That’s right, Felicity. You will close out your thirties with a bang—with or without your husband by your side."
I reached for my phone. My fingers hovered, aching to text him. I opened my messages and started to type.
Me: Thank you for dinner last night. It was thoughtful.
Delete.
Me: The food was good. We should talk when you get home.
Delete.
Me: I read your letter. I don't know what to say yet but thank you for trying.
Too honest? Not honest enough? I had no idea anymore.
Delete.
Me: Thank you for dinner.
My thumb hovered over send. ?Sent?
I set the phone aside and walked to the bathroom, frustration building in my chest. When had communicating with my own husband become so complicated? When had I started overthinking every word?
It had been gradual, so gradual I hadn't noticed it happening. Somewhere along the way, his responses to my attempts at connection had become shorter. More distracted. Until eventually, I'd stopped trying as hard.
I could see it now, looking back. The way I'd started editing myself. Keeping conversations surface-level because going deeper meant risking his distracted "mm-hmm" while he scrolled through emails.
The way I'd stopped sharing the little things—funny stories from work, random thoughts, dreams about our future—because he'd stopped really listening.
And then I'd gotten angry about his lack of attention, but instead of saying "I need you to put your phone down and actually hear me," I'd gotten passive-aggressive.
Made comments about how he was always working.
Rolled my eyes when he missed details I'd already told him.
Let silence fill the spaces where conversation used to be.
God, when was the last time we'd had a real conversation? Not about schedules or logistics or whose turn it was to pick up groceries, but an actual talk about thoughts and feelings and dreams?
I couldn't remember. And that was as much my fault as his.
I'd stopped fighting for us somewhere along the way. Stopped demanding better. I'd gotten comfortable with crumbs because asking for the whole meal felt like too much work, too much vulnerability, too much risk of being disappointed again.
But he'd stopped offering the whole meal too. We'd both just... settled. Into politeness. Into parallel lives that occasionally intersected at dinner or in bed.
Standing in the bathroom, looking at my reflection, I tried to pinpoint when it started. Maybe it was after the third failed IVF cycle, when we were both so raw and grieving that it was easier to retreat into our separate corners than to hold each other through the pain.
Maybe it was when his company started struggling and he disappeared into eighteen-hour days. Maybe it was when I got promoted and started staying late to prove myself.
Or maybe it was all of those things, layered on top of each other until we forgot how to reach across the distance we'd created.
I missed us. Not just the version of us from that July 4th—though God, I missed that intensity, that certainty that we were building something beautiful together.
I missed the way he used to look at me like I was the most interesting person in the room. The way he'd ask follow-up questions about things I'd mentioned in passing. The way he'd remember details about my day and check in about things that were worrying me.
I missed feeling like his favorite person.
But I also missed actually being his favorite person.
Missed the way I used to light up when he walked into a room.
Missed looking forward to telling him about fun little things instead of dreading another distracted conversation.
Missed feeling excited about our plans together instead of resigned to them being canceled or postponed.
When had I stopped bringing him coffee in the morning? When had I stopped wearing the perfume he loved? When had I stopped kissing his cheek as I walked by him?
I'd been so focused on feeling invisible to him that I hadn't noticed how invisible I'd become to myself. How I'd shrunk down to fit into the smaller and smaller spaces that existed in between the moments.
My eyes dropped to my hands, and I realized I was holding something—white and folded. It was Caden’s letter from last night. When had I picked it back up?
I opened it again and reread the line that kept echoing in my head: I’m going to show you that you are—and always have been—the love of my life.
I could almost taste the memory of a time when I really felt that.
Boston, July 4, 2018:
We’d arrived early—Caden insisted. Blankets, wine, snacks, Bluetooth speaker for the wait. He always overprepared, and I didn’t mind it. It let me relax and go with the flow because I knew he had the details covered.
It was hot. Not unbearable, but enough that I tied my hair up and peeled off my sandals the moment we laid our blanket down near the Esplanade.
It was early—as was necessary on the Fourth in Boston.
The crowd hadn’t fully settled yet, but he sat close, one of his legs stretched out behind me like a safety rail.
"You good?" he asked, offering me a chilled water bottle he’d packed in a tiny cooler like a dad at his kid’s softball game.
I nodded, smiling as I took it. "You’re very proud of this setup."
"Damn straight. Blanket real estate is no laughing matter."
I laughed, then leaned into his side, resting my chin on his shoulder for a moment. He smelled like sunblock and soap and just a little like the white wine sweating in plastic cups between us.
"You used to come here a lot as a kid?"
He shook his head. "Nah. My parents weren’t into the crowds. Then later, with Jessica—she preferred house parties. Watching the fireworks on TV instead of being here in person. This is one of my firsts."
I hesitated. He rarely mentioned his ex without prompting, but there wasn’t any bitterness in his voice. Just fact.
"What made you want to come this year?"
He looked at me then. No smirk. No joke. Just eyes that went quieter than usual.
"You," he said. "I wanted to be here with you. I wanted to experience this first with you."
The fireworks hadn’t even started yet—hours to go—but something went off in my chest at that.
"Felicity," he said after a minute. "I know I talk too much. I make everything a joke when I don’t know what else to say—but I need you to hear me on this."
He sat up straighter, pulling one knee toward him, his posture shifting into something more serious. He cleared his throat.
"I’ve never… wanted someone like I want you. Not just for now. Not for something casual or convenient. I want to build something with you. Whatever this is, it’s not temporary to me."
I blinked. I hadn’t expected that. We’d been dating a little under a year at that point. Things had been good—really good—but we’d never put it into words like that.
He rubbed the back of his neck, looking off toward the Charles. "I know that’s a lot. I just… needed to say it."
Music started playing through the speakers along the river. Odd timing, but it felt like a sign. It screamed romantic so I went with it.
I slid my fingers over his, threading them together. "It’s not too much," I said.
And it wasn’t.
Not when it was him.
Hours later—after countless card games, a couple of bottles of wine, some funnel cake, and a lot of laughs—we stood side by side to watch the fireworks. Hand in hand, standing barefoot on our blanket like the hundreds of people around us. It was the most magical moment of my life.
Thinking back on it now, I asked myself ‘Where did that couple go? ’