Chapter 3

This didn't look like a home for a married couple at all. It looked more like a single guy's bachelor pad.

I dug our dust-covered wedding photo out of the basement and hung it back on the wall, then went online and bought a ton of couple-themed decor. I placed them in every corner of the house.

I couldn't wait to see the look on Angeline's face when she came home and saw how different everything was.

But when she finally did come back, she just stopped dead in the doorway and frowned. She said, "Caleb, I don't care if you're really amnesiac or faking it. You're 30 years old now. Can you stop acting like you're still 20? This is so childish!"

She didn't even step inside. She just stormed off, slamming the door shut behind her.

On the console by the entryway, the ceramic doll I'd carefully picked out in the style she liked fell to the floor and shattered into pieces.

I gathered them all and painstakingly glued them back together. The crisscrossing cracks looked like badly stitched-up scars.

I patted its head. "You know Angeline's heart is this cold, little guy. Don't cry, okay? Don't cry…"

Once again, I managed to comfort myself and talk myself down.

…

Over the next few days, I did everything I could to pop up in front of Angeline whenever I could find an opening.

When it rained, I went to her office to bring her an umbrella, but she just drove off in that five-million-dollar car with Shawn. As they passed me, she didn't even bother rolling down the window. She just splashed me with a wave of dirty water.

When I found out she was going to a golf course, I made a point of getting there early. I even hired a coach beforehand to cram in some golf basics. But the second she saw me, she turned away without a word and headed straight for another course, leaving me standing there like an idiot.

I shrugged it off and kept trying, but she still didn't give me the time of day.

On the sixth day, Angeline finally came home.

I was wired like I'd just downed a gallon of espresso, puttering around the kitchen all morning. By the time I was done, my hands were covered in blisters, but I'd managed to get a few decent-looking dishes on the table.

But all she did was rub at her temples and dump everything straight into the trash.

"Caleb, can you stop doing these things that only move yourself? You're just getting on my nerves."

I honestly didn't mean to cry, but her tone was so full of disgust. She pinned me in place with her dark gaze. It felt like she'd wiped out every bit of effort I'd made and turned it all into a joke in a split second.

I lowered my gaze so she wouldn't see my eyes suddenly going red.

Angeline went quiet for a moment, then suddenly let out a short, mocking laugh. "What's with the devastated act? Haven't you already gotten used to this after so many years?"

Some things were just self-deprecating when I said them about myself. But once they came from someone else's mouth, it was like they were grinding my pride into the floor with their heel.

After she left, I stared at the food in the trash can, then at the room that practically screamed loneliness and emptiness.

Out of nowhere, I wondered whether I really didn't understand why my 30-year-old self wanted a divorce. Or did I just not want to understand?

…

That night, I sat at my desk, looking at that journal and the unsigned divorce papers.

My friend, Rick Tate, had once asked me over the phone what was so great about Angeline that I'd liked her for a full 15 years.

Honestly, I couldn't explain it.

When we first met, I could list a hundred good things about her. But the more I liked her, the harder it became to name any.

Wasn't that just how young love worked?

There was no reason. It was just about handing over all the love I had to one person and going ahead until I hit a wall.

In the end, I put the journal away. I figured that maybe I'd gotten too hung up on my pride by 30. Maybe I just didn't know how to handle certain things anymore.