Chapter 4

A few days later, I was scrolling numbly through Instagram when a post stopped my finger. It was from Ethan. A close-up shot of his forearm, fresh ink black against his skin. Molly, a tattoo gun in her hand, was smiling proudly beside him. He had let her tattoo a snarling wolf's head directly over the spot where my initials, 'G.J.', used to be. The old tattoo was faint, a ghost he had tried to have lasered off, but it was still there. Now it was gone completely, devoured by his new muse's art.

I finally went back to our apartment to get my things. The place was a disaster. Empty beer bottles, overflowing ashtrays, and Molly's clothes were strewn everywhere. It smelled like a frat house.

Ethan was on the couch, strumming his guitar. He didn't even look up when I walked in.

"Hey. Move your crap to the spare room. Molly's moving in."

His tone was casual, as if he were asking me to pass the salt.

I said nothing. I walked into our bedroom-my bedroom-and started packing. In the back of the closet, shoved behind the leather and studs and ripped denim he' d encouraged me to buy, I found them. My old dresses. Simple, soft, floral-print dresses from my life before him. I pulled one out, a pale yellow sundress, and held it against myself. I didn't recognize the person in the mirror anymore.

The next day, I made an appointment at a tattoo removal clinic. I lay on the table, biting down on a piece of gauze as the laser burned his name off my hip. The pain was sharp and clean, a physical manifestation of the agony he'd put me through. Each searing pulse felt like I was reclaiming a piece of myself.

That night, my phone buzzed with a notification. A video message. From Molly.

It was our anniversary.

I opened it. The video showed her and Ethan, naked, in our marital bed. The camera panned over the rumpled sheets, the headboard I picked out, before focusing on their laughing faces.

I didn't scream. I didn't break anything. I watched the entire thirty-second clip with a strange, cold calm. Then I walked into the living room where Ethan was watching TV.

I stood in front of the screen, blocking his view.

He looked up, annoyed. "What?"

"I want a divorce, Ethan." My voice was steady, devoid of any emotion. "I'm done."

He stared at me for a long moment, a flicker of something-surprise? confusion?-in his eyes. Then he laughed, a short, ugly sound.

"Whatever, Gabrielle. Go pack your shit."