The Ninth Time I Took Off My Wedding Ring Chapter 04
“Really.” My voice was as flat as if I were commenting on the weather.
I remembered rushing to the bar at midnight three years ago, getting puked on, and staying up all night taking care of him. When he woke up, his first words were: “What are you doing here? Where’s Brianna?”
Two years ago, when he had a fever, I sat by his bed helping bring down his temperature. In his delirium, he grabbed my hand and mumbled, “Brianna, don’t leave.”
Six months ago, when I rushed over, Brianna was already there taking care of him. She looked up and smiled at me: “He said he missed me.”
I used to think that whoever’s name he called when drunk was whoever he had in his heart. So I kept rushing over, wanting to prove I was the special one.
Now I finally understood: He called my name not because he loved me, but because he knew–I was the only one who would
actually show up.
I set down my cup: “This time he can scream his head off and it won’t matter.”
From that day on, Clifford started contacting me frantically.
Three calls a day, five texts, from “let’s grab dinner” to “I have
this great wine, want to try it?”
I put my phone on silent, didn’t reply to texts. The jewelry,
flowers, and bags he had delivered, I sent back unopened.
Then he started calling at 2 AM–a time he’d never contacted me before because “Brianna needs her rest.”
As soon as I picked up, he’d fall silent, then ask: “Are you sleeping?”
I’d hang up immediately and block the number. The next day he‘ d call from a new one.
He was like someone who’d suddenly realized he’d lost control, frantically searching. Not because he needed me, but because I wasn’t at his beck and call anymore.
July 15th. Twenty–four hours until my flight.
At seven in the morning, Clifford’s call came again.
“Claire, I’ve arranged everything for tonight’s yacht party.” His
voice held a rare patience. “The captain, chef, band–all the best.
Don’t refuse me this time. Give me a chance to apologize.”
I remembered all those days when he’d ignored me.
Our anniversary–I’d planned for three months, he forgot, said he was helping Brianna with “estate documents.”
The anniversary of when we moved in together–I cooked a whole dinner and waited until midnight while he texted: ”
Brianna’s emotional. I’m staying with her.”
More ironic still, today, July 15th, wasn’t even my birthday–it was the anniversary of when we’d signed our agreement five years ago. He’d never remembered my real birthday, but
wanted to “celebrate” on the agreement’s anniversary.
After a long silence, I spoke: “Fine. Eight o’clock tonight. Meet
me at the dock.”
photo.
In the picture, Clifford wore a tuxedo, standing before a cake that read: “Wishing you a successful surgery.” Brianna leaned against him, raising champagne with a brilliant smile.
Caption: “He said I should relax before tomorrow’s surgery, so he threw this party He even picked out the cake~”
Looking at the photo, I suddenly laughed. Not a bitter laugh, but the lightness that comes with relief.
I stood up, turned on the lights, walked into my bedroom. The ” meaningful” dress was stripped off and thrown in the trash. All
the perfume went down the sink. I changed into simple jeans and a t–shirt, pulled out my suitcase.
Five years. Nine separation agreements. Countless waits.
Enough.
3 AM, New Orleans Airport private terminal.
I opened my contacts and blocked Clifford.
Sitting in the waiting area, runway lights glowed outside. Six hours until takeoff.
I used to think leaving required a big fight, throwing things, him on his knees begging me not to go. Now I knew that real leaving was quiet. Delete the number, close the door, board the plane,
never look back.
Nine AM, I was in the boarding line.
My phone vibrated–Flora.
But Clifford’s voice came through:
“Claire! Brianna’s surgery went perfectly! Where are you? I’m
coming to get you right now—”