I set the hat on the bed like I need both hands free for whatever this is about to do to me. Then I pick it up.
The paper is heavier than it should be.
I slide the contents out and try to read, but the words blur together, the letters swimming like they’re actively trying to avoid me. I blink hard, forcing my focus, catching only fragments at first.
Mental capacity.
Duress.
My stomach drops.
Sure, we’d been drinking. But neither of us was drunk. Not even close. We knew exactly what we were doing. Hell—sheknew exactly what she was doing. The marriage was her idea. She suggested it. Pushed it forward. Asked me if I was serious before we ever stood there and said the words out loud.
And I was. God, I was so on board it scared me.
What hurts—the thing that actually sinks its teeth into my chest—isn’t the paperwork. It’s not the legal language or the implications or the threat that this could all disappear with a judge’s signature.
It’s that she didn’t tell me she was drawing up the papers.
I had no idea she was seriously considering this. No warning. No conversation. No chance to stand in front of her and tell her I’m not something she needs to protect herselffrom.
I lower myself onto the edge of the bed, the papers crinkling in my grip.
I thought she was giving me a chance.
We talked. We agreed to take it slow. To see where this went. I thought—I really thought—that her feelings were growing. That the way she relaxed around me meant something. That the smiles, the late nights, the quiet mornings weren’t just politeness or fear or obligation.
I thought we were choosing each other.
And now I’m holding proof that maybe she’s been preparing an exit the entire time.
My hands tighten around the pages, knuckles white.
If she’s scared, I can handle that.
If she needs reassurance, I’ll give it to her.
If she wants space, time, patience…I’ll bleed it if I have to.
And if she leaves me because she doesn't want me then I’ll have to let her go because then she’s not mine to keep.
But this?
This feels like she never trusted me enough to let me in.
And that might be the part that breaks me.
I need to read through this more carefully, so I pull out my glasses from my backpack.
Just as I slip them on and pick up the papers again, Brooke walks through the door.
“Hey,” she says, sounding tired.
She hasn’t looked at me yet, so I don’t respond.
Her back is to me as she pulls off her sweatshirt and tosses it into the hamper by the closet. Then she kicks off her shoes and sets them inside the closet.
“Is that your new truck out front? I’m sorry I couldn’t go with you to get it. Lunch with my dad took longer than I’d thought. Then I pretty much had to run back here to get my backpack. I barely made it to my afternoon class on time.”
