Fuck.
I read the first page again like it might change. It doesn’t.
His name is there. His signature line, waiting.
Dates. Requirements. Filing details.
It’s clean. Efficient. Adult. Like we’re just… paperwork. Like we weren’t vows and heat and laughter and that stupid ring on his right hand and the one still sitting snug against my chest.
My legs feel weak. I sink onto a barstool and stare at the papers until the words blur.
Of course he filed. Of course he did.
He told me he couldn’t do this, and I respected it, I walked away, I let him go?—
And now he’s cutting the last thread from a distance.
I press a palm to my forehead.
Will I come out before I retire?The thought flickers through my mind like a cruel joke.I wish I could say yes. God, I wish I could.But I can’t even breathe through a stack of paper right now, let alone rebuild my entire life in public.
What would have been the point of any of the hurt and secrets and heartache if I came out now, in the middle of my last season, under the microscope, while my shoulder is failing and my soul is cracked open?
There isn’t even a right or wrong here.
It just is.
My truth is mine.
My fear is mine.
My consequences are mine.
And this—this is his. Rafe’s decision. Rafe choosing himself.
I should be proud of him. I should be relieved that he’s finally doing what I was too cowardly to initiate. Instead, all I feel is grief so sharp it makes my ribs ache.
I stare at the papers and think, absurdly, of tomorrow morning’s flight to San Francisco. Of a house meant to be my future. Of the fog. Of the hope that maybe, somehow, I could make amends.
And now I’m holding proof that he doesn’t want my amends. He wants an ending.
My phone buzzes on the counter—probably Lindy, probably a flight detail, probably excitement about Amelia’s outfits.
I don’t answer. I just stare at the divorce papers and let the sickness roll through me. Because I can’t let it end like this. I can’t. Not without trying.
I don’t sit with it. That’s the thing. I don’t spiral. I don’t overthink. I don’t call anyone for advice or lie down on the floor and stare at the ceiling like I usually do when life punches me in the chest.
I react.
The divorce papers are still spread across my kitchen counter when I move again, my body buzzing like it’s been plugged into something dangerous.
“No,” I mutter aloud, to the empty loft. “No. Fuck that.”
My hands are already shaking, but they’re moving with purpose now. I grab my duffel from the closet and throw it onto the bed, yanking drawers open, tossing clothes inside without folding. T-shirts. Jeans. Hoodie. Chargers. Toiletries. Passport.
I don’t know where I’m going yet. I just know I’m not staying here. Because this—this ending by envelope, this quiet severing after eight years of silence—is not how it finishes. Not if I have any say in it.
I grab my phone and call a car, my thumb stabbing at the screen hard enough that I nearly drop it. As soon as the ride is confirmed, I’m on Google, fingers flying.