The Eighth Time

Today is my fifth wedding anniversary. It's also the day my husband, Ethan, asked me for a divorce for the 38th time.

He does this for Ilene, his childhood friend. The woman who crashed her car on our wedding day, leaving her unable to have children. Ever since, he's been repaying a debt of guilt, and I've been the price.

For five years, I endured the cycle of divorce and remarriage. But this time was different. Ilene pushed me down a flight of stairs.

Ethan found me bleeding and promised me justice. He swore he would make her pay.

But days later, the police called. The security footage of the incident had been mysteriously erased. There was no evidence, no case.

That night, Ilene had me kidnapped. As her men tore at my clothes in the back of a van, I managed to call Ethan.

He rejected my call.

I jumped from the moving van. And as I ran for my life, bleeding on the cold asphalt, I made a vow.

This time, there would be no 39th remarriage.

This time, I would disappear.

Chapter 1

Today is our fifth wedding anniversary.

Ethan Bruce, my husband, stands before me. He possesses the same handsome severity as the day I met him, all sharp angles in his eyes and the straight line of his nose. But the words that issue from his mouth are a dissonance on such a day.

“Let’s get a divorce.”

I register no shock. I feel no particular sorrow. I merely watch him, a stillness settled in my chest, not of peace, but of vacancy.

“Do you know this is our ninth divorce?” I ask.

A flicker of something hunted crosses his eyes. His gaze slides away from mine, finding a point of interest on the wall behind me.

“Ilene Wolf is threatening to jump off the roof,” he says, his voice a low current of sound. “She says she won’t come down unless I divorce you. You know her anxiety…”

I cut him off. “Hmm, I know.”

I’ve known for five years. I’ve known through eight previous dissolutions.

“So, how long will this one last?” I ask, my voice even.

He looks surprised, as if he had braced himself for the storm of tears or the shriek of recrimination. He no longer receives what he expects from me.

“Once her mood stabilizes, we’ll get remarried,” he promises. He reaches out as if to touch my shoulder, but his hand arrests itself in mid-air and falls back to his side. “Okay?”

I study his face, the war playing out in the tight set of his jaw, and I am struck by the absurdity of it. A terrible, hollow comedy.

“Okay,” I say. “After all, we owe it to her.”

The courthouse staff knows us by name.

“Back again?” The clerk, a woman named Martha, pushes a pair of spectacles up the bridge of her nose. She retrieves the familiar forms from a drawer, the motion practiced and weary. She has become an expert in the architecture of our ruin.

“Still an amicable divorce this time?”

I nod and take the pen she offers.

Ethan signs his name beside mine. The nib scratches against the parchment, a sharp, decisive sound. He has made this sound eight times before. He is proficient at it.

When it’s my turn, the pen hovers over the paper. I feel a brief, internal hesitation, a tremor of some old, forgotten sentiment.

This is the ninth time.

The first time, I cried until my throat was raw and I could not draw breath.

The second time, I asked him, “Why, Ethan? Why?”

The third, the fourth… a confused smear of pain and pleading.

By the fifth time, I could walk in here and exchange a dry pleasantry with Martha. “Please hurry,” I’d say, “We have plans.”

I take a deep breath. I meticulously sign my name, Aurora Kemp. This time, I inscribe it with unusual care. Each letter is rendered perfectly, a small, final monument.

When we step outside, Ilene is waiting. Not on a roof, but right there on the courthouse steps, a study in frail victory.

She rushes past me and throws herself into Ethan’s arms.

“Ethan! I knew you’d choose me! I knew you loved me more!”

Ethan’s body goes rigid. He looks over her shoulder at me, his eyes filled with an emotion I cannot name. Guilt? Apology? It is of no consequence.

He tries to gently push her away. “Ilene, that’s enough.”

She just clings tighter, ignoring him completely. She snatches the divorce papers from his hand and waves them in my face like a captured standard.

“See this, Aurora? He’s mine now. He was always mine.”

I don’t say a word. I just watch them. A profound weariness has settled deep in my bones.

“Ilene!” Ethan’s voice is sharp with annoyance. “Stop it.”

She immediately changes tactics. Her face crumples, and she starts to sob against his chest. “I’m sorry, Ethan. I’m just so happy. Let’s go celebrate! Please?”

Then, she looks at me, a malicious glint in her tear-filled eyes.

“Why don’t we invite Aurora? To celebrate our new beginning. And her end.”