I looked up. “You made your choice.”
The scene unfolded almost exactly as it had in the nightmares I'd been having, except her anger was louder and I was calmer. She slammed her hand on the papers, insisted I couldn't do this, and demanded to know whether I understood what twelve years meant. I told her I understood better than she did if she believed eleven days with other men were worth gambling them away. When she pointed out that I had not even heard what she'd learned during her time away, I said I wasn't interested in being evaluated against candidates I hadn't agreed to compete with.
“You didn't even ask whether I did anything,” she said.
“You told me your intention before you left. The choice itself mattered.”
“That's not fair.”
“Neither was asking me to remain married while you tested whether you'd prefer somebody else.”
She began pacing between the sofa and the fireplace. The anger on her face gave way to a puzzled, almost injured expression. “I thought you were stronger than this.”
“What does strength look like to you?”
“Not giving up on someone you love over a mistake.”
“A mistake is something that happens before you fully understand the consequences. You packed, explained your plan, listened to me tell you the consequences, and left anyway.”
“You keep repeating that because you don't want to hear anything else.”
“I keep repeating it because you keep pretending it didn't happen.”
Natalie crossed her arms. “I had dates. I talked to people. I tried to remember who I was before everything became work, bills, and responsibility. You can't understand that?”
“I can understand being unhappy. I can understand wanting a different life. What I can't understand is why you expected to leave me standing on the sidelines until you decided whether I was still useful.”
Her eyes filled. I felt my own chest tighten in response, the old instinct to move toward her almost overwhelming. I had comforted that face through every kind of pain. Seeing tears still made me want to reach out, even when I knew exactly what had caused them. I clasped my hands together and stayed where I was.
“I didn't think you'd actually divorce me,” she whispered.
“I know.”
“Do you hear yourself?”
“Yes. For the first time in a while, I think I do.”
She looked down at the folder again. “Did you tell anyone?”
“My sister. My father. An attorney.”
“Your father knows?” Her expression changed. “Daniel, how could you humiliate me like that?”
I stared at her. “You left our marriage, and you're angry that I asked my family for help?”
“You could have kept it private until we talked.”
“We did talk. You just didn't like my answer.”
Her phone vibrated. She glanced at her purse. It rang again, the bright, familiar tone she used for favorite contacts. She pulled it halfway out, caught my expression, and stopped. I saw Ryan Whitaker's name glowing across the screen.
“Why is Ryan calling you?” I asked.
“He's checking in.”
“Why?”
“Because he's our friend.”