After My Husband Chose His Mistress Over Me

They came for me at the hospital.

Two officers. Plain clothes. They showed their badges to the attending nurse and asked for me by name — Mrs. Rivera — and the way they said it made it sound like an accusation.

I was still sitting in the waiting area with a cotton pad pressed to my left ear. The ringing hadn't stopped. It was a high, thin sound, like a wire pulled too tight. The doctor had used words like acoustic trauma and permanent threshold shift and I had nodded at each one and not really heard them, which felt appropriate.

I didn't argue when they told me to come with them. I picked up my bag. I walked out.

The intake process took two hours.

They took my bag. They took my phone. They took my earrings — small gold hoops, nothing — and dropped them into a plastic bag with my name on a label. A woman in a gray uniform told me to change. The clothes they gave me smelled like industrial soap and something underneath it that I didn't want to identify.

I changed. I folded my own clothes and set them on the bench with the same automatic neatness I always used. Old habit. The woman watched me do it and didn't say anything.

The cell was small. Fluorescent light, no windows, a metal cot bolted to the wall. The light didn't change. There was no way to tell what time it was except by counting.

I counted.

The other women watched me the first few hours. I think they expected something — tears, maybe, or anger, or the particular kind of falling apart that happens when someone realizes where they are. I didn't give them any of it. I sat on the edge of the cot with my hands in my lap and I breathed in and I breathed out and I listened to the ringing in my left ear that was never going to stop.

Somewhere around hour eighteen, the woman in the cot across from me asked if I was okay.

I looked at her. She had kind eyes. Tired.

"I'm fine," I said.

She didn't look convinced. But she didn't ask again.

I thought about my mother. Not the room — the empty room, the machines running for five weeks with no one in the bed — but her. The way she used to hum while she cooked. The specific weight of her hand on my shoulder when I was small and something had frightened me. The way she said my name.

I thought about Castiel's number, which was in my phone, which was in a plastic bag with my name on a label somewhere in this building.

I thought about forty-three pages in a blue folder on the thirty-fourth floor of a building on Lexington.

I thought about Dane's hand, settled low on Nylah's back, like it had always been there.

I stopped thinking after that. There was nothing left to think. There was only the ringing, and the light, and the hours.

I counted all seventy-two of them.

---

The car was a black sedan. Rivera plates. The driver held the door without making eye contact and I got in and he closed it behind me and we pulled into traffic and he didn't say a single word the entire ride.

Dane hadn't come.

Of course he hadn't.

I watched the city move past the window. Midtown gave way to the Upper East Side. The light was gray and flat, the kind of November light that makes everything look like it's already over. I looked at my reflection in the glass — the smudged outline of a woman in wrong-sized clothes, her left ear slightly swollen, her eyes very still.

I looked at her for a long time.

I didn't know her.

That should have frightened me. It didn't. It felt more like recognition — like finally seeing clearly something that had been blurred for a very long time.

She wasn't the woman who had stood at a City Hall window and believed a whispered vow. She wasn't the woman who had rationalized and endured and told herself that staying was the same as loving. She wasn't any of the versions of herself that Dane had required her to be.

She was what was left when all of that burned away.

I pressed two fingers lightly against my left ear. The ringing answered back, steady and permanent.

A scar. One more scar. Fine.

I had a blue folder on the thirty-fourth floor of a building on Lexington. I had forty-three pages and a signature already on them. I had a number in my phone and a man in London who had once asked nothing of me and given everything.

I had a moment coming. I just needed to find it.

The car stopped in front of the penthouse. The driver came around to open my door. I stepped out onto the sidewalk and looked up at the building — all that glass, all those floors, Dane's name threaded through every square foot of it.

I walked inside.

I was patient. I had been patient for a very long time.

Just a little longer.