He Watched the Stars With Her, So I Signed the Divorce Chapter 09

He Watched the Stars With Her, So I Signed the Divorce Chapter 09

My international exchange program was based in a small coastal town.

The conservation lab was not large, and its windows overlooked a gray-blue stretch of ocean.

My work involved restoring historical nautical charts and records from past research expeditions. My days became orderly and, at times, almost monotonous.

I changed my phone number and gave the new one only to my family and work contacts.

Ryan could no longer reach me.

The messages he sent to my old number were never delivered.

He began emailing my old address instead. One email a day became ten.

The subject lines changed from [I’m Sorry] to [I Dreamed About You] and then to [Fog at the Harbor

Today.]

I turned off notifications for his emails.

Daniel occasionally forwarded something when he believed it was necessary.

Daniel: [Ryan contacted me to ask whether you were safe. I told him you were under no obligation

to hear his apologies.]

I replied: [Thank you.]

Daniel did not ask anything else.

He had always been that way. He handled what needed to be handled, but he never tried to make my

choices for me.

Ryan later began visiting the pier where I used to wait for his ship.

My father heard about it from one of Ryan’s coworkers, who said Ryan would sit there alone for hours at a time.

Whenever anyone asked who he was waiting for, he said he did not know.

He used to act as though my waiting for him was a burden.

Now he no longer had the right to wait for me.

I occasionally heard news about Claire as well.

The industry association publicly censured her, and the production companies behind her projects

sought damages.

She tried to post a lengthy damage-control statement online, claiming Ryan had misled her into believing she was authorized to use the material.

Ryan released a public statement of his own.

He admitted that he had maintained an inappropriately close relationship with Claire during out marriage. He admitted giving her internal system access, and he acknowledged that he had neglected and hurt his spouse for years.

The statement ended with one sentence.

[I take full responsibility.]

He assumed that his belated confession would eventually reach me.

In reality, when the notification appeared, I was restoring a water-damaged nautical chart.

The paper was so brittle that even slight pressure could damage it. I had to use tweezers to separate the sections that had stuck together, little by little.

My supervisor reviewed my conservation notes and nodded repeatedly.

“You’re remarkably focused.”

“Thank you.”

That evening, I video-called my parents.

My mother asked whether I was getting used to the food, and my father chimed in from beside her, reminding me not to stay up too late.

They did not mention Ryan, and neither did I.

Sometimes I dreamed about the home we had shared.

In those dreams, my phone screen would light up while I waited for a reply.

But when I woke, an unfamiliar harbor lay outside my window, and the records I would restore the

next day were waiting on my desk.

I had once believed I would remain trapped forever, but eventually, people find their way out.

One week before the program ended, I received Ryan’s final email.

The body contained only one sentence.

[Now I know how much it hurts when you can’t reach someone.]

I stared at it for a moment, then deleted it.

Before I left, my supervisor asked whether I would consider applying for a longer-term project.

I said I wanted to return home first and put on an exhibition.

The institute back home was preparing a public exhibition of its marine archives, and I had been appointed as one of the project leads.

The day I sent the email, I also shared my new number in the project group chat.

I changed my display name to Emma Carter, Project Lead.

Welcome messages appeared almost immediately.

I watched them arrive one after another.

Every message received a response.