The Lies Behind Her Marriage novel · Chapter 2 of 24

Chapter 2: Filed

She files for divorce at the courthouse before Nolan can, refuses his settlement, and her bank card is declined.

I slept on Bridget Shea's couch under a quilt that smelled like diesel and dryer sheets.

At six, she put a mug in my hand and sat on the coffee table in her dispatcher's fleece.

"Tell me again," she said.

"I said yes back," I said.

"Before he finished asking."

Bridget's nose ring twitched.

"I'm going to key his Tesla," she said.

"No, you're going to drive me to the courthouse," I said.

"It opens at eight."

She looked at me for a long moment.

"Okay," she said.

"But I'm bringing donuts, because somebody has to be normal."

The Lucas County courthouse had stone lions out front and a line already at the filing window.

I stood in it with my tote bag and my grandmother's pen.

I had torn page nine out of the binder, and it was folded in my pocket.

It felt like a hot coal.

"Serena."

Nolan stood at the foot of the steps in last night's shirt.

He looked like a man who had spent the night in a car.

His eyes were red, and I felt nothing, which was how I knew I was furious.

"I'm not here to stop you," he said.

"Good," I said.

"I brought something."

He held out a thin folder.

I did not take it.

"The house, free and clear," he said.

"Two million in cash from the sale of my stock.

You walk away with all of it and your seat, and we never speak again."

"You think this is about the house," I said.

"I think you should have a way out that doesn't take years."

"I have a way out," I said.

"It's called a divorce."

"Serena, listen."

"You listened to me for three years, Nolan.

You took notes."

His mouth closed.

A woman behind me in line said, "Honey, I'll hold your spot," and gave Nolan a look that could have curdled milk.

I walked up to the window.

The clerk was a tired woman with reading glasses on a beaded chain.

I filled out the form with my grandmother's pen.

Under REASON, I wrote the truth, in block letters, with no adjectives.

When I handed it over, she stamped it.

The stamp made a small, flat thud.

It was the most satisfying sound I have ever heard.

"Respondent will be served," the clerk said.

"The first trial date is a year from today."

"A year?" I said.

"Court's backed up.

There's mediation every month in the meantime, the judge's standing order for contested marriages." She peered at me.

"Is it contested?"

I turned.

Nolan had followed me inside.

He stood three feet away, and he had heard.

"No," he said.

"I won't contest it."

"Then it goes faster," the clerk said, "but not by much."

"There's still a calendar."

I should have felt victory.

What I felt was the floor of my life being taken away from under me and handed back one plank at a time.

We walked out into the cold October light together, because the steps are only so wide.

"Fine," I said.

"A year."

"I'll do whatever the court says," Nolan said.

"You'll do whatever I say," I said.

"You owe me every answer.

You start on Monday at the board table."

He took a breath.

"You want the seat."

"I'm keeping the seat," I said.

"And you can't close the sale without it.

I saw Colm's face."

Nolan did not answer, which was an answer.

Bridget waited on the sidewalk with a box of donuts.

She held it up.

"Chocolate or glazed?" she said, as if it were a normal morning.

I laughed.

It cracked halfway through, and I covered my mouth.

Bridget put an arm around me and glared at Nolan over my head.

"Coffee," I said.

"I need coffee."

We crossed the street to the cart outside the bank.

I ordered a large and held out my debit card.

The man behind the cart ran it, and the machine made a flat little beep.

DECLINED.

"Try it again," I said.

He did.

DECLINED.

I tried my credit card.

DECLINED.

Behind me, Bridget said a word that made the coffee man blink.

Across the street, Nolan had pulled out his phone.

A second later, mine buzzed in my hand.

The text was from him.

"That wasn't me."

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