I hit send quickly, wanting him to argue. Needing him to do the right thing on his own. Hoping he books that flight anyway, just because he misses me and knows I’m hurting. Clearly, he regrets taking his mom’s advice—maybe it took a plane ride for him to come to his senses.

I’ll see how I feel tomorrow. I’m exhausted. Glad you’re home. Is Mom taking good care of you?

I close my eyes, letting more disappointment settle atop the high stack like a wobbly game of Jenga. When will it become too much, making me fall over?

Another text pings, this time from Grady. My eyes roll that he uses my full name.

Marina

This is entirely fucked up.

My fault.

I only want to make this easier for you.

Tell me to back the hell off if I’m ever too much.

Grady.

I groan and whimper from the pain it causes. All these needy men!

Even worse, I can’t help but compare this stranger who wrecked everything to my almost-husband, who’s not even here.

Grady, I understand.

It’s like that time I dropped a jar of pickles, and green pickle juice splashed all over Mrs. Johanson’s summer white capris. She was on her way to karaoke with her girlfriends. I felt horrible. I tried to clean them for her. On my hands and knees, I tried to Tide-pen the green out. Finally, I offered her my pants so she wouldn’t be late. We’re roughly the same size. She treated me graciously, said a little pickle juice never killed anyone, and went on her merry way. But that didn’t stop me from feeling bad about it. I offered to pay for her dry cleaning the next time I saw her. She didn’t accept, and, to this day, I feel I didn’t do enough.

That’s how Grady feels on a much deeper and meaningful scale. He pickle-juiced my day, and feels horrible about it. I believe he’d do anything I need to make it better—he’ll even be nice about it. That’s how I’d be if the situation were reversed.

But what can make it better?

Ashe could. He’s the one I don’t get. My almost-husband now feels more like a stranger than ever, as if not meeting him at the church meant we expired like sour milk. Never to be the same again.

We aren’t the same. We’ve never been the same.

The drugs work their numbing magic. They do nothing to numb my sadness, though. Don’t think about it now. Good thoughts, Marnie. No frowns, no fears, no tears.

I text Grady back, smirking as I use his format.

Grady.

Okay.

Marina.

Good.

He answers a moment later.

Ice packs are in the freezer. There’s a heating pad on the kitchen table if you need it. I forgot to tell you.