Chapter 3Divorce By Diagnosis Arctic Aurora

After my tests and picking up my medication, I stopped at a law firm. I consulted with a lawyer and had him draft a settlement agreement.

As I left the office, a friend request popped up on my phone from someone named Delilah—a member of my Arctic travel group. She’d seen my IP address was local and asked if we could meet up beforehand.

I agreed and sent her my location.

Delilah was a burst of sunshine, a young, intensely lively girl. She talked my ear off, sharing funny stories and showing me photos of the magnificent places she’d visited.

I felt a sudden, sharp envy. Envy of her youth, of her solitude, and of the vast, open future she had, filled with yet-to-be-seen landscapes.

My own future was a narrow sliver of time. My past, save for the consuming love I had for Owen, was utterly empty.

I let out a long, quiet breath.

We talked until late into the night, sitting in a park, enjoying the warm summer breeze.

She looked at me earnestly. “Willow, why did you suddenly decide on the Arctic?”

I smiled. “Because I’m sick. I’m going to die soon.”

Delilah’s smile dissolved instantly. She looked stricken. “I’m so sorry…”

I waved it off.

She was silent for a long moment, then cautiously gestured to my ring finger. “Will your family be okay with you going somewhere so remote alone?”

“I don’t have a family.”

“My parents died a long time ago.”

She stared at the diamond on my left hand, then back at me, clearly unsure what to say.

I smiled, pulled the wedding band from my finger, and tossed it into the nearest public trash can.

“I’m filing for divorce tomorrow.”

Delilah didn’t know what to do, so after a moment of silence, she just wrapped me in a tight hug.

“You have to be happy, Willow.”

I nodded.

I would be happy. I was walking away from a toxic relationship and a corrupted home. For the few days left to me, I had nothing to worry about. My only task was to figure out how to please myself.

I was already happy.

We talked until three in the morning before she insisted, citing my fragile health, that she take me home.

I was surprised when I pushed the door open. The living room lights were on. Owen, who always went to bed at twelve on the dot, was sitting on the sofa.

He saw me and shot to his feet, his face thunderous. He immediately cornered me.

“Why weren’t you answering my texts?!”

I was momentarily stunned. I took out my phone. He hadn’t just texted; he had called multiple times. I had been so engrossed in my conversation with Delilah that I hadn’t even noticed.

He stood up and strode toward me. “Where have you been? Why are you just getting home now?”

The intense, high-energy conversation had exhausted me, and I was suddenly hit by overwhelming fatigue. I ignored him and started walking toward the guest room.

He yanked my wrist. Owen’s voice went up an octave. “Willow, I’m talking to you!”

I turned to face him, looking up at the man whose face was etched with raw, sudden anxiety. I calmly peeled his fingers off my wrist.

“Since you made it clear you don’t want me asking about your life, you don’t get to ask about mine.”

Without giving him a chance to respond to his rapidly changing expression, I went into the guest room and collapsed into sleep.