Chapter 7 - The Cleansing
A month after the wedding that never was, I finally went back to the apartment Ethan and I had shared in Lincoln Park.
It was a modern two-bedroom unit with polished concrete floors, floor-to-ceiling windows, and white quartz countertops—a space that Carol had largely decorated according to her own tastes. It had always felt more like a model home than a place where real people lived and dropped crumbs on the floor.
I had arranged with Ethan through our attorneys to pick up my personal belongings at 10:00 a.m. on a Saturday when he was scheduled to be out of town at a corporate retreat in Wisconsin.
When I unlocked the door with my key, the apartment was dark and quiet.
Blinds were drawn over the big windows. On the quartz kitchen island sat three empty wine bottles, four cardboard takeout boxes, and a stack of unopened mail addressed to Ethan. The pristine, clinical perfection that Carol had demanded had dissolved into the messy reality of a man living alone with his own failure.
Tyler and my cousin Mateo walked in behind me, carrying four large cardboard moving boxes and a roll of packing tape.
"Take everything in the bedroom that belongs to me," I told them, pulling a black marker from my purse. "Clothes, books, the art prints my grandmother gave me. Leave the furniture."
As Tyler and Mateo worked in the bedroom, I walked into the small den we had used as an office.
On the desk sat a framed photograph from two years ago—Ethan and me standing on a beach in Michigan during a weekend trip, both of us laughing, the wind blowing my hair across my face. We had looked so happy then. So certain of the future.
I picked up the frame, pulled the photo out, and looked at it for a long moment.
I realized then that I wasn't angry anymore. The sharp, burning rage that had sustained me through the microphone speech, the board meeting, and the lawyer’s office had settled into a quiet, profound sense of relief.
If Carol hadn't put my parents by the kitchen, I would have married him. I would have spent twenty years shrinking myself to fit into his family’s narrow, arrogant world. I would have raised children who were taught to look down on their own grandparents.
The front door opened with a soft click.
I turned around and walked out into the living room.
Ethan was standing in the entryway, holding a duffel bag over his shoulder. He looked like he had lost ten pounds. His expensive clothes hung loosely on his frame, and the boyish charm that had once drawn me to him was entirely gone, replaced by a dull, hopeless exhaustion.
"I thought you were in Wisconsin," I said quietly.
"I left early," Ethan said, dropping his duffel bag onto the hardwood floor. "I couldn't stand being around the guys from the firm. Every time someone looks at me, I know what they're thinking."
Tyler walked out of the bedroom carrying a box, saw Ethan, and stopped, his eyes darkening.
"It's okay, Ty," I said gently. "Take the boxes down to the truck. I'll be down in five minutes."
Tyler gave Ethan a long, warning look, picked up another box, and walked out down the hallway with Mateo, pulling the front door closed behind them.
Ethan stood near the kitchen island, his hands tucked into his pockets. "He hates me."
"He loves his family," I corrected him. "There's a difference."
Ethan looked around the dark, messy apartment, then back at me. "My parents are getting a legal separation, Emma. Did you know that?"
I paused. "No. I didn't."
"My father blames my mother for the audit and the publicity," Ethan said, his voice flat and empty. "My mother blames my father for not burying the story faster. They haven't spoken two words to each other in three weeks. They're liquidating the house in Lake Forest."
"I'm sorry to hear that," I said, and to my own surprise, I actually meant it. It was sad to see thirty years of marriage crumble when the illusions keeping it together were blown away.
"Is there... is there any chance, Emma?" Ethan asked, taking a step toward me, his eyes wide and wet with sudden tears. "We could move away. We could go to Denver or Seattle. Get away from my family. Get away from the press. Just start over. Just you and me."
I looked at him—really looked at him—for the very last time.
"Ethan," I said softly, stepping up to him and laying a hand gently on his arm. "You don't need to move to Denver. You need to grow up. You need to figure out who you are when your mother isn't telling you what to think and your father isn't paying your bills."
"I love you, Emma," he whispered, a single tear cutting a track through the dust on his cheek.
"You loved the idea of me," I said, pulling my hand back. "You loved having a sweet, grounded girl on your arm to make you look good. But you didn't love my life. And my life is where my heart is."
I picked up my purse from the island, picked up the last small box of my grandmother's books, and walked toward the front door.
May you like
"Goodbye, Ethan," I said.
He didn't answer. As I stepped out into the bright, sunlit hallway, I heard the soft sound of the heavy door clicking shut behind me, closing the chapter on five years of my life with a final, peaceful sound.
