For months, before I found out my father stole my identity, I’d been inundated with calls from debt collectors. I brushed it off because it was obviously a mistake, and I was too busy competing and training. At first I assumed it was a stranger who’d ruined me. I never once considered it was someone I knew. My father and I were so close. Ever since I was a little girl, he’d told me no man would ever love me more than he did. But if ruining my life was how he, the man who loved me most in the world, treated me, then what did that say about everyone else?
And not only was I worried about my life slipping out of my control again, but I also didn’t want to risk losing what Ollie and I had. What if actually being together ruined the good thing we had going? The phone calls and unspoken understanding. Before he moved to Miami, I used to swing by his place unannounced, and he’d get in the car without asking where we were going. Sometimes I had a plan, a random event or item I’d found on Craigslist that I just had to see, but other times I didn’t. When we drove around Palm Beach in my convertible, it was as if no one else existed. What if we lived by the vows we hadn’t meant to keep and it took away the magic? What if it took all the fun and spontaneity out of things?
But that didn’t mean Iwanteda divorce. Because as long as we were still legally married, I knew we’d be in each other’s lives and do our little on-and-off dance. Round and round and round. But if he’s willing to get a divorce petition and fill it out, then maybe he’s willing to file it and move home to Ireland.
Maybe he really is ready to cut me out of his life forever.
“I can’t keep doing this, Neen,” Ollie says. “I love you. I have for years. You know that. You love me too.”
“Not like that,” I lie.
“If you don’t love me, why didn’t you ask for a divorce after I moved out?”
“Divorces are complicated,” I say. It’s the excuse I always give myself when the existence of our marriage forces its way to my attention, which is about once a year, when Ollie sends me his information so I can do our taxes.
“Ours would be simple enough.”
It probably would be. It had to be less complicated than this shit we put ourselves through, anyway. And still... actually going through with it is unthinkable. I don’t want Ollie to leave, but I can’t give him what he wants. I just want everything to stay the same.
“You never asked for one either,” I say.
“I didn’t want one.”
He takes the divorce petition from my hands and slips it back into the folder before setting it inside his suitcase. I take in the groove of a wrinkle between his eyebrows. The fine lines at the corners of his eyes from squinting in the sun or, hell, all the glaring at me he’s done over the years. We’re no longer the kids we used to be. And yet we’re still here, bickering on this godforsaken yacht.
“You won’t move back to Ireland,” I say. My eyes focus on that odious suitcase. I ought to fill it with rocks and dump it in the ocean. “You hate Ireland. You haven’t been there in years.”
Ollie shakes his head. “Never said I hate Ireland. But it’ll be better than staying here if you won’t have me.”
“I don’t believe you.”
He lifts his eyes to mine. “If you really don’t want me, I’ll file the papers as soon as charter season ends and take the next flight to Ireland. I already broke the lease on my apartment.”
“I don’t believe you.” My voice sounds false, even to me. I don’t know what I think. If he hadn’t handed me that divorce petition, I’dnever believe he’d go back to Ireland. Ollie has said a lot of ridiculous things over the years, but this is the most ridiculous of them all.
Ollie pulls out his phone and starts scrolling. “Here,” he says, pressing it into my hands.
On the screen is a text exchange between Ollie and his landlord about moving dates and the safety deposit.
I pass back the phone. “This proves nothing. How do I know that’s actually your landlord and not some rando you’ve roped into this scheme? How do I know you don’t already have another apartment waiting for you?”
Ollie shrugs. “You want to call him? Check my bank accounts? Or, I don’t know, take me at my fecking word?”
“Ireland!” I say. “You’d really just pick up and leave your entire life behind because I won’t be your...” I can’t even say the word.
“Wife,” Ollie says. “If you won’t be my wife—and youaremy wife, Nina—then we’ll get divorced, and I’ll get out of your hair for good. If we’re nothing, I don’t see what the big deal is.”
“I never said we werenothing. We’re friends.”
He shakes his head. “We’re not friends, Nina. I don’t know what you think we are, but we aren’t that.”
“You don’t have toleaveforIreland.”
“But I will,” Ollie says. He fidgets with the zipper on his suitcase. “If you won’t have me, I’ve got nothing here. I’m done waiting.”
“I never asked you to wait.” My hands are trembling now. I set them on my hips to try to still them. “Itoldyou to move on. I’ve told you a dozen times! I’m perfectly fine doing... this.”
His eyes flash to mine. “And what isthis, Nina?”
