The forms were still sitting where Kevin had left them, a plain manilla thing with a paperclip that had already bitten through the top corner. Maybe that was why the folder scared me. Because it was a chance to build something that had nothing to do with her.
If I did this—if I created something meaningful, something that mattered because I believed in it, not because I needed to prove anything—maybe I could finally reclaim myself from the wreckage. Maybe I could stop wondering whose dream I was living.
I stared at the folder until the air felt too thick to breathe, then reached for it before I could talk myself out of it. The paper was smooth beneath my fingers, almost warm. For a moment,I just held it there, feeling the weight of it—the weight of everything I’d been carrying for years.
Maybe this could be mine. My first real beginning.
And if I failed—if I poured myself into it and came up short—that would be an answer, too. Because failure would tell me what success never could: whether I’d built this life out of purpose or defiance, whether the fight was the only thing keeping me going. It would strip everything down to what was real.
Because if I tried—trulytried—and it still wasn’t enough, at least I’d know. At least I’d have chosen something for myself, not because it hurt her, not because it proved anything, but because I wanted it.
The thought was terrifying and oddly freeing, like standing on the rim of something vast and realizing you could jump or stay, and either way the sky would keep existing.
I smoothed the corner of the folder and whispered to no one, “All right.”
Then I opened it.
Chapter Eight
WHEN MY PHONE BUZZED, I didn’t think much of it—probably an email from the scheduling system or a pharmaceutical rep trying to sell me miracle vitamins for female burnout. Then I saw the sender.
From:Khalifa Nasser
Subject:Dinner tonight
For a second, I just stared at the screen, like maybe if I waited long enough, it would autocorrect itself intoKevinorSarah. But no. It was him. And it was the first time he’d ever emailed me since before our wedding.
Khalifa:My colleagues found out I got married. They invited us to dinner to celebrate.
I read it three times. NotDo you want to go? NotAre you free? Just a royal decree, stamped and sealed by His Majesty,ProfessorNasser.
After an embarrassingly long internal meltdown, I typed:
Me:Tonight?
A text would’ve come back in seconds. His email made me wait two full minutes—just long enough to question every life choice that led me to marry a man who treated communication like a research paper.
When his reply finally arrived, it was predictably concise:
Khalifa:Yes. 7:30. They chose the place.
The lack of emojis, the lack of greeting, the absolute nerve of the man writing “They chose the place” like a Victorian telegram.
I sighed, hovered over my keyboard, and typed again before I could talk myself out of it:
Me:Serious question—are you allergic to texting? Or just such a fob that you haven’t figured out how yet?
I hit send without giving my dignity time to intervene.
Ten minutes passed. Then my inbox pinged.
Khalifa:Outlook has the option of filtering unwanted messages to spam.
I stared at the screen, offended on multiple levels.
Me:So I’m spam now?
Khalifa:If the shoe fits.
