I was married to Julian Astor for ten years. In that time, I met every single one of his girlfriends. Whenever he grew tired of one and wanted to move on, I was his perfect excuse. He’d say to each of them: “If you marry me, you’ll end up just like her. Eventually, we’ll become so familiar that every spark of novelty will die.” On our tenth wedding anniversary, I was drying the tears of the college girl he’d just dumped, while he was at the movies with his new flame. As I used up the last tissue, I saw a reflection of my younger self in her tear-streaked face. And so, I asked Julian for a divorce. For once, he seemed genuinely perplexed. “You’re not going to wait a little longer? What if I’m about to turn over a new leaf?” I offered a faint smile and no answer. I just booked a flight to the other side of the world. I couldn’t wait for you to change. So I took the first step myself. 1 Marrying a philanderer requires a certain kind of spiritual discipline. The thought floated into my mind as the tissue packet in my hand grew thinner. The girl across from me, a college senior named Zara, had been crying for two solid hours since she walked in. Her whirlwind romance with Julian had lasted all of a month. It hardly seemed worth the mascara-stained devastation. I opened my mouth to offer some comforting words, but she looked up, her eyes red-rimmed and sharp. “He said I was a bit like you. Looking at you now, I see it.” I froze. None of his other girlfriends had ever said that. Zara sniffed, dabbing at the corner of her eye. Her voice was laced with a bitter sarcasm. “I don’t need your pity. You’re far more pathetic than I am.” She wasn’t wrong. All of New York knew Julian Astor had a saint for a wife. A wife so virtuous she was cheated on time and again, yet still cleaned up his messes by placating his ex-girlfriends. I called every girl he saw after our wedding his “ex.” I had long since abandoned any pretense of pride. My phone buzzed. It was a text from Julian. [Julian: Is it done yet? The movie’s about to start.] I placed the phone face down on the table and met Zara’s freshly reddened eyes. “Whatever you want as compensation, just name it. I’ll make sure you get it.” I’d delivered this line countless times, as smoothly as a seasoned HR manager laying someone off. She scoffed and shot to her feet. “I don’t want anything.” I sighed. “You should take something. Money, a car, a condo. Something tangible you can hold onto.” Her gaze turned colder. She picked up her now-icy coffee and, with a slow, deliberate motion, poured it over my head. “I’m pregnant,” she said, her voice flat. “And I’m keeping it.” I just stared at her, stunned into silence, the words of persuasion dying on my lips. A bitter smile flickered across my face, so faint it was barely there. Julian, I thought. You haven’t kept a single one of your promises to me. 2 I slid into the passenger seat, dripping wet. Julian was on the phone, his voice low and intimate. I didn’t need to guess; he was talking to someone new. My hand tightened on the seatbelt, my nails digging into the fabric until my fingertips ached. I couldn’t hear what the person on the other end said, but it made him smile, the fine lines at the corners of his eyes crinkling. “Alright, alright. I’ll come see you tonight.” He hung up, started the car, and then turned to me. The casual glance hardened in an instant as he took in my state. His hands gripped the steering wheel, his knuckles white. “Did she do that?” he demanded. I was already dabbing at my hair with a tissue. Seeing my silence, he leaned over and took the tissue from my hand. “Don’t move.” I instinctively recoiled, but he pulled me into his arms with a sharp command. He was surprisingly gentle as he dried my hair, but his brow was furrowed, his expression dark. “You just sat there and let her pour coffee on you? Clara, what happened to the fire you used to have? The one you always aimed at me?” Used to have… The feeling of freefall that had gripped me since meeting Zara intensified, spreading through my chest. I pulled away from his embrace, my face a cold mask. “I could hardly lose my temper with a pregnant woman, could I? What do you think?” He looked sheepish but stubbornly continued to blot my hair. The rest of the drive was silent. He drove, and I stared out the window, though I could feel his questioning glances on me from the corner of my eye. The ripples of disappointment, which had long ago crested into a tidal wave of despair, had finally subsided, leaving only a vast, numb emptiness. The movie was a blur. Julian spent most of it hunched over his phone, texting. The so-called ritual of our anniversary celebration had crumbled into dust long before the credits rolled. The real joke was that I still had to sit beside him at the dinner party afterward and watch him perform. The invitations for the Astor family gathering had gone out weeks ago, summoning all our closest friends and family. Amid the clinking glasses and polite chatter, Julian played the doting husband, personally peeling shrimp for me. A small mountain of them piled up on my plate, but I couldn't eat. My eyes were fixed on the wrist he’d exposed by rolling up his sleeves. A tiny, colorful hair tie was wrapped around it. A wave of nausea washed over me, killing what little appetite I had. A man who peels shrimp for you doesn’t necessarily love you. A man who remembers your anniversary for ten years doesn’t necessarily love you. A man who never takes off his wedding ring, not even in the shower, doesn’t necessarily love you. I had Julian to thank for teaching me all of this. 3 Childhood sweethearts. A perfect match. Destined for each other. All of these descriptions were meant for Julian and my older sister, Amelia. Even as a young girl, with only a vague understanding of love, I knew the Astors and the Greys were meant to be united. I’d seen the blush on my sister’s cheeks when she came home from dates with him. I’d seen the notoriously wild Julian Astor become quiet and gentle in her presence. Why else would I have secretly tucked away the rare vinyl records I had spent months collecting for him? In their trio, I was always just Amelia’s shadow. When their love was at its zenith, there was no room for me. The world turned upside down the year my sister turned twenty. The ever-composed, graceful Amelia skipped her own engagement party and boarded a flight that would never land. Her diary was discovered, and with it, the truth. The carefully constructed façade of the Grey family shattered, exposing the ugly reality of our impending ruin. Her shyness had been an act, a role she was forced to play as our parents’ bargaining chip. The marriage was never about a perfect love story; it was about my parents’ desperate, greedy schemes. The one time she chose to live for herself, it cost her her life. I was pushed into an engagement, then a marriage, bearing the last hope of the entire Grey family. I was the patch for the Astors’ wounded pride and the savior of the Greys’ failing business. The whole process was a whirlwind, and I never had a moment to figure out whether I felt more sorrow or joy. Even as a substitute, I was marrying the boy I had secretly loved since I was a teenager. But when we exchanged rings, I was the only one whose heart was pounding. At the altar, when he was supposed to kiss the bride, his lips brushed mine like a whisper of wind, leaving me with a single, haunting sentence that would echo between us for years. “If you didn’t want this, why did you agree to it?” We made a deal then: a marriage of convenience. Each of us would get what we needed. But in ten years of marriage, I was the one who overstepped. He gave me everything, performed his role to perfection, but he never gave me his love. 4 The dinner ended after midnight. I couldn't tell if it was the wine or a simple headache, but my head was throbbing. I drifted in and out of a drowsy sleep in the car. Vaguely, I heard Julian on speakerphone, flirting with the new girl. The same sweet nothings, the same tired lines. I was sick of hearing them, even if he wasn’t. During a pause, I felt his hand on my forehead. The car screeched to a halt. He cursed under his breath. “Damn it, Clara, you’re burning up. Why didn’t you say anything?” He hung up abruptly and fumbled to cover me with his jacket. I thought I heard him whisper my nickname, "Clara-belle." It must have been the fever. A bitter smile touched my lips. He always used my full name, as if shortening it would give me the false hope that I was the Grey sister he had wanted to marry all along. Sickness makes you vulnerable, but it also makes you clear-eyed. A profound weariness washed over me—a weariness of him, of this unrequited love. The car started moving again, accelerating into a disorienting blur of speed and weightlessness. He seemed to be on the phone constantly, his words fragmented. Almost there… doctor… it’ll be okay… Or maybe it was all just a fever dream. The car stopped again. I forced my eyes open and watched him unbuckle his seatbelt and leap out of the car. He ran toward a slender figure standing at the hospital entrance. He wrapped Zara in a tight embrace. And then, the fragmented words from the car ride pieced themselves together into a coherent whole. “Wait for me… don’t do anything rash… we’re almost there… it’s going to be okay, I promise.” Every word had been for her. From across the short distance, I could hear her choked sobs. I could hear his gentle reassurances. “How could I ever let you do something that would hurt your body?” “It’s okay, it’s okay… we’re not breaking up. We’ll figure out the baby thing together, from now on.” The pain twisted inside me, pulling a memory from the deepest part of my heart. Six months into our marriage, we had a child.
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