He Made Every Choice for Twenty Years Then I Chose Divorce Chapter 02

He Made Every Choice for Twenty Years Then I Chose Divorce Chapter 02

That night, I went home and started packing. The second I zipped my suitcase, the door burst open. Ethan and Maya tumbled in, laughing and shoving each other.

Maya was draped over his shoulder, howling. “Stop pushing me—you’re the one who’s wrong!” Ethan shoved her back, grinning. “You’re so full of it—your whole family’s full of it.”

They finally noticed me standing there. Ethan peeled Maya off and pulled a stack of wedding-planning binders from his bag like a magician. “Celia, I got these from a friend—flip through them when you have time.” He held them out.

I stared at the cover photo of a bride in white. Before I could even react, Maya snatched one open. “Wow, this venue is gorgeous! Ethan, look!”

He leaned in, and their heads touched as they flipped pages, pointing at photos. “Love this one!”

“This hall’s a little small.”

“You’re so picky—let’s do this one!”

They started roughhousing again. Maya smacked his arm; he grabbed her wrist, and the binder crumpled between them.

He pinned her hand and laughed, “Keep it up and I’m not booking this place.”

She ducked her neck, whining, “Sorry, sorry—let go—”

He released her and ruffled her hair.

I stood there, feeling more redundant than a third wheel. Maya looked more like his bride than I ever did.

The house had her taste in decor. The wedding had her vision. Maya flipped to a page and declared, “White lisianthus—everywhere. I’ve always wanted that.”

Ethan nodded. “Done, white lisianthus it is.” I watched them trade opinions, then I spoke up. “I like red roses.” Ethan glanced up, blinked.

Maya stared, then burst out laughing. “Celia, be serious—who does red roses anymore? So tacky.”

Ethan chuckled and patted my head. “Maya’s right—lisianthus is classy. Red roses are what we liked as kids. Come on, upgrade your taste with Maya.” His hand on my hair, warm and familiar, suddenly made me sick.

My eyes burned. I crouched down, pretending to fiddle with the suitcase zipper, running the metal tab over my fingers—cold, prickly. I didn’t dare look up.

I’d said it before. Lots of times. Last winter, picking curtains, Maya chose a gray tweed. I murmured, “What about the cream one—feels warmer?”

She didn’t look up. “Gray hides dirt.”

Ethan scrolled his phone and grunted, “Listen to Maya, she’s got better taste.”

The cream panel hung right in front of me, swaying, and neither of them gave it a second glance.

The summer before, we traveled together. Maya wanted the desert out West. I said I wanted the beach. Ethan was booking flights and didn’t raise his head, “Desert’s way cooler, Maya’s been planning this for weeks.”

I sat on the couch, listening to them chatter, unable to wedge in a single word. Once or twice, I thought it was coincidence. Five or six times, I thought I wasn’t being firm enough. Ten, twenty times—I started wondering if everything I liked was just wrong.

Was red roses really cheap? Was cream really impractical? Was the coast really not worth it? I tried to change. But no matter how much I adjusted, they still never asked me.

I was the one who always showed up after dinner was served. Ethan’s voice came from above. “Celia, you packing for a work trip?”

Maya echoed, “Yeah, where you going?”

I took a deep breath, ready to say I was leaving. But when I looked up, they’d already gone back to flipping the binder.

I opened my mouth, closed it. Forget it. Some things you say a hundred times and nobody hears—the hundred-and-first won’t be different.

I bent down, grabbed my suitcase handle, and said quietly, “I’m going.”

Ethan didn’t look up. “Come back early—we’ve got that jewelry appointment in a few days.”

Maya waved. “Safe travels, Celia—oh, shut the door behind you!”