Seven Years and a Sunflower

He'd come back in a few days as if nothing had happened, asking whether I'd calmed down yet.

Every problem between us, he traced back to my moods.

It never once occurred to him that he might be the one at fault.

Bonnie was always innocent.

The only one being difficult was me.

I curled up on the floor, buried my face against my knees, and swallowed down the burning in my throat again and again.

I didn't sleep all night, and by morning I was running a fever.

When I woke, I'd already been carried to the bed.

Reuben stood in front of me, breakfast set out on the nightstand.

Seeing my eyes open, he reached out and felt my forehead.

"Still feeling bad?"

I shook my head. I wanted to tell him to get out.

But my throat hurt too much to speak.

He picked up the bowl of porridge, stirred it, blew on a spoonful, and held it out to me.

I turned my head away and refused to open my mouth.

Reuben sighed and set the spoon back in the bowl.

"Marie, can't you act like an adult and stop making trouble for me?"

Trouble.

Anything to do with me was trouble.

My throat was tight and burning. I didn't want to say anything at all.

Reuben stood there a moment, then set a small box down in front of me.

"I did go back on my word about Iceland. This is for you. Stop making a scene."

Then he turned to get his coat.

"I'm heading to the school. Bonnie has a paper due today, I need to go help her with it."

At the door, he paused.

"Get some rest. Don't dwell on things that aren't real. Once your fever breaks and you're feeling stable again, we'll talk about Iceland."

The door closed.

His quick footsteps faded down the end of the hall.

I opened the box. No surprise. A silver four-leaf-clover necklace.

The exact same necklace. He'd given me seven of them.

The first time, I was so happy I couldn't bear to take it off, even to sleep.

Later I saw the same one on a coworker's desk. She said it was a gift from some restaurant.

That same day, a post showed up on Bonnie's feed: her and Reuben eating at that very restaurant.

Reuben explained that a thesis from a student they co-advised had won an award, and they'd gone to celebrate.

I pushed down that vague ache I couldn't name and told myself that at least he'd thought of me.

Then came the second, the third, the fourth.

Counting today's, that made eight.

Yesterday, after Reuben slammed the door and left, Bonnie posted to her feed.

And Reuben was in every post.

I lay curled in the empty house, crying until my whole body shook.

The two of them, singing, shopping, enjoying every minute of it.

I swiped through them one by one and stopped on the candlelit dinner.

Candlelight on Reuben's profile, a different man entirely from the one who'd slammed the door.

After I'd asked for a divorce, after the screaming fight.

He acted as if none of it had happened.

Cutting Bonnie's steak as if nothing was wrong, holding up his phone to take her picture.

Smiling in every shot. Nothing like the man at home.

Talking about Neruda's poems with her in the bookstore on the second floor.

Picking out lipstick shades for her on the third.

Belting out songs together in the karaoke room on the fourth.

Worn out from it all, a candlelit dinner on the fifth.

And on the way home, grabbing a freebie for me.

It was absurd.

For the first time, I felt cheap.

I threw off the blanket, ran barefoot to the drawer, and yanked it open.

I dumped all eight necklaces into the trash.

In the bottom drawer of the nightstand lay a set of divorce papers.

For years I'd picked them up and set them down again and again.

This time I turned without hesitation to the last page and signed my name.