I looked out the plane window at the billowing clouds. I was done waiting. From now on, I would be the bird soaring past the glass, living only for myself.
The moment I landed and turned off airplane mode, my phone vibrated violently. Thirty messages from Alex Delgado flooded the screen.
Alex Henson, are you seriously making a scene about divorce just because Yolanda is pregnant?
How can you be so selfish? You know I'm up for a promotion to Chief. You just can't stand to see me succeed, can you?
What I have with Yolanda is a responsibility. She has no one. Do you want me to be the kind of man who abandons a vulnerable woman? Why can't you understand me?
Where are you? Why is your location off?
Alex Henson, what the hell did you say to Yolanda before you left? She's spotting now. If she loses this baby, it's on you.
You vindictive woman—if you leave now, don't you dare come crawling back!
The barrage of narcissism filled the chat window. In ten years of marriage, he had never texted me this much. And every single message was an accusation, every word revolving around Yolanda.
I didn't bother to reply. I blocked his number, powered down my phone, and vanished into the vibrant streets of Seaside City.
For half a month, I lived. I felt the sun on my skin and the salt in my hair. When I finally felt like myself again, I moved to a quiet coastal town nearby and rented a small space. I opened an art studio, returning to the painting career I had abandoned for his sake.
I thought Alex Delgado was history.
I was wrong.
One morning, as I unlocked the glass doors of my studio, a shadow fell over me. A man stood by the entrance, looking out of place in his tailored suit.
He moved fast, catching my arm before I could step inside. His grip was tight.
"Why did you block me?" he demanded, staring down at me. "Do you have any idea how long I've been looking for you?"
I wrenched my arm free. "Mr. Delgado, we are divorced. Have some dignity."
He blinked, taking a step back as if I had slapped him.
He hadn't expected this. He was used to the old Alex Henson—the docile wife who anticipated his every whim. He wasn't ready for the stranger standing before him now.
He hesitated, adjusting his stance. When he spoke again, he pitched his voice lower, adopting that gentle, persuasive tone he used on difficult patients.