Yeah. We lasted just under a year. But hey, that’s life; it’s cool.

No.

You can’t tell people that. You can’t just spill stuff like that. I know. I’ve tried. And people freak. First they say, “You’re so young!” and when I don’t elaborate (how can I?), they get that frosty look, all frozen and cold, and I feel more alone than before.

So now I don’t say anything about the divorce to anyone, and I just smile. Even though on the inside my eyes are stinging and my jaw aches because, honest to God, I don’t want my own apartment. I had a house—a home—with Jean-Marc. I had a squashy down-filled sofa and bookcases filled with books, yellow climbing roses on the trellis, flagstone pavers from the patio to the pool, and a perfect little gated side yard with lush green grass that would have been perfect for a child’s swing set.

I thought I had a future, a husband, a life. I wasn’t prepared to be starting over. Wasn’t prepared at all.

“Jean-Marc,” I croak because I’m thinking of the lawn where I’d pictured the swing set and the little guest room off the master bedroom, where there’d be a bassinet and a changing table. Baby clothes are so small and sweet, and babies after a bath smell so good, and I really wanted the whole thing—the family. The love. The happiness. “Please,”

“Give it time, Holly. You’ve only been in San Francisco a couple months.”

I don’t want to give it time. I want him to say he’s sorry, that he’s made the worst mistake. I want him to say he’s lonely and his bed feels empty and that no one makes him laugh like I do, and no one is as fun, and no one looks as cute eating an orange as me, because those were the things he used to say to me. Those were the things that made me feel beautiful and special.

But he’s never once said he wants me back, not even when he admitted—very quietly a couple of months ago—that he never meant to hurt me. Apparently things just got carried away. He should have put a stop to the wedding plans before they got out of hand. Sadly, he didn’t. He couldn’t.

“Cherie, forgive me,” he says now, “but I’ve got to get back. They’re calling me.”

He’s sorry. But for all the wrong reasons. He’s sorry because he’s going to hang up on me.

Why did he let this get out of hand in the first place? He didn’t need a green card. He didn’t need money (not that I have any). He didn’t need a social life.

What was I?

But he can’t tell me that, or won’t tell me that, and I’m left tangled up in knots, knuckles white from gripping the phone so hard.

“Don’t go, Jean-Marc—”

“It’s going to be okay, Holly.”

It hurts so bad; his words hurt endlessly.