Christine wanted more time. But time wasn't going to change what had happened. The house was sold. We divided the proceeds according to what we had contributed and what our attorneys agreed was appropriate. We closed the joint accounts, separated the remaining bills, and signed the final documents.
When I walked out of the courthouse that afternoon, I expected to feel something dramatic. I didn't. I felt tired. That was all. 5 months of marriage had ended almost as quickly as they had begun.
The next few months were strangely peaceful. I went back to work. I spent more time with my brother, Patrick, and stopped answering questions from people who wanted details about the divorce. I didn't post anything online. I didn't expose Christine.
I didn't tell everyone what she had done. She had made her choices. I didn't need an audience for mine. About 6 months after the divorce, I received a message from an unfamiliar number. It was Christine.
I know you don't want to hear from me, but I need to say something. I stared at the screen. I almost deleted it. Instead, I replied. Say it.
Her response came a few minutes later. I lied because I was afraid you would leave. I read it twice. Then another message appeared. I know that doesn't excuse anything.
I waited. I loved the attention Ryan gave me. I liked knowing someone still wanted me. Even after I met you, I didn't completely let that go. I didn't answer.
She continued. I told myself it didn't matter because I was going to marry you. I thought once we were married everything would become different. That sentence stayed on the screen. She had finally said something honest.
Not enough to repair anything, but honest. Then she sent one final message. I'm sorry I made you build a marriage on a lie. I put my phone down. An hour later, I received another message.
Do you hate me? I thought about that question for a long time. Then I answered. No. Three dots appeared.
Then what do you feel? I looked around my apartment. There were no wedding photos, no reminders of Christine, no evidence of the life we had planned. Just my things arranged exactly the way I wanted them. I don't feel anything I need to act on anymore.
She didn't respond immediately. When she finally did, it was only three words. I understand now. I didn't know if she really did. Maybe she did.
Maybe she didn't. Either way, it wasn't my responsibility anymore. I put my phone away and went back to making dinner. That was the real consequence for both of us. Christine had lost a marriage she believed would protect her from the consequences of her choices.
I had lost the future I thought I was building, but I had also gained something I hadn't expected. I no longer had to question whether the person beside me was telling me the truth. And for the first time in a long time, that felt like enough. A year after my divorce, I stopped thinking about Christine every day. At first, everything reminded me of her.
A restaurant we had visited, a song from our wedding, a certain brand of coffee she liked. Even the date on the calendar sometimes caught me off guard. Eventually, those things stopped meaning anything. Life became ordinary again. I worked, saw my family, went out with friends, and spent weekends doing whatever I wanted without explaining myself to anyone.
I didn't rush into another relationship. I wasn't interested in proving that I had moved on. I just wanted to know who I was when I wasn't somebody's husband. Then, one Saturday morning, I decided to clean out the storage closet. I found the external drive where I had saved the evidence from the night I discovered everything.
I hadn't touched it in more than a year. I plugged it into my computer. The folders appeared on the screen. Photos, messages, receipts, the video from the bachelorette party. For a few seconds, I considered opening it.