Page 42 of Shattered Echoes

Amy is saying something to me, and I miss it, scanning the crowd for Antonio again. I turn to Amy and give her a placating smile. “I’m so sorry, but there’s something I need to take care of,” I lie.

While Amy possesses a sweet soul, she can be… well, garrulous, and I find it tedious. She’s graceful enough to withdraw without questions, bless her.

The dining and sitting rooms serve as the main party venue, with traffic flowing between them. There are some guests out in the backyard and some on the front porch. Too many people came to celebrate what I consider a tragedy.

I grab a glass of deep red wine from a passing servant, nodding in thanks as I scan the living room again. It’s clear to me now that Antonio has left the party. But why? I swirl the drink in my glass and take a sip. The anniversary party, Henry's grand gesture of celebrating my ‘freedom’, feels like a cruel joke. Freedom. It's a word that tastes like ashes in my mouth. I’m grateful that Henry cared enough to celebrate, but I’d rather not have remembered.

The divorce papers, signed with a flourish on a table across from a man whose face seemed to blur into a sneer, might have declared me free, but the shackles of the past remain. Forced smiles stretch across my face as I mingle with the guests, their well-meaning platitudes grating on my raw nerves.

"So happy for you, Colette!" chirps Mrs. Peabody, her rouged cheeks bouncing with cheer. "A fresh start, a new chapter!"

The words are daggers, each one ripping open a wound I am trying to close.

"Fresh start," I mumble into my glass, the wonderful vintage doing little to numb the ache in my chest. Unfortunately, I can’t take anything stronger than this, or I face their judgment.

Our divorce became a brutal war, a legal battlefield where they dissected and weaponized every detail of our failing marriage. In the end, I walked away with a settlement that feels like a pittance compared to everything else I lost.

As the evening wears on, the weight of the past becomes unbearable. I excuse myself, escaping the stifling confinement of the party for the cool night air. Stepping onto the porch, I take a deep, shuddering breath, smelling freshly cut grass and blooming honeysuckle rich in the air. The full moon is a perfect silver disc hanging in the inky sky. It looks so similar to the moon that witnessed my tears a year ago, when I walked away from everything. The memory is sharp and vivid, and my hands tremble as I recall the day I left.

The silence of the lawyer's office feels pregnant with disaster, making it hard to breathe. Across the table, my husband sits, his manicured nails tapping a rhythm against the polished mahogany. His face, tanned and charming, twists into an ugly sneer that makes me flinch. The tension in the room is thick enough to slice.

"There you have it, Colette," he drawls, pushing the final documents across the table with a flourish.

I stare at the papers; the words blurring before my eyes. Memories flicker through my mind, the few happy ones that aren’t cloaked in pain. And then the slow erosion of whatever love he felt and the contempt creep in. Each memory feels like a blow, chipping away at the woman I used to be.

I pick up the pen, my hand shaking. Is this it? Is this culminating over five years of my life? At this moment, I wonder if I’m making a mistake. It’s an irrational thought, but I think it anyway. A single tear rolls down my cheek, tracing a silent path down my flushed face.

He doesn't offer a handkerchief, a word of comfort, not even a flicker of remorse. He watches me with an icy indifference that makes me feel like a stranger in my skin. with a choked sob; I sign the papers, sealing my fate.

The drive home from the lawyer's office is a blur. I feel numb and hollowed out. When I get home, the silence is suffocating. I wander from room to room, my fingers trailing along surfaces that used to feel so familiar. Now, they're just empty reminders of a life that's slipped away.

In the bedroom, his side of the closet stands empty and void. I sink down onto the bed, and I hate my traitorous heart for the pain it is making me feel for the decision I made to leave. If I did the right thing, why does it hurt so much?

I don't know how long I sit there, frozen in time, before the grief overwhelms me. Sobs wrack my body as I bury my face in the pillow, the dam of emotions I've been holding back bursting free. I cry until there are no more tears left, until my body feels raw and empty.

When the tears subside, I force myself to get up. I can't stay here, surrounded by these memories. I pack a single suitcase, tossing in a few essentials without looking at what I'm taking. It doesn't matter. This place is no longer my home.

I blink back tears; the memory leaving me raw and exposed. I feel a wave of nausea rising within me, the wine churning in my stomach. It doesn't help. The pain, the anger, the humiliation–it all comes flooding back. I need to get out of here, away from all the celebrating and noise. I glance across at Antonio’s house, wondering if he’s home. It doesn’t hurt to check.

Without hesitation, I hurry down the steps of the porch, rounding the edge and walking up to his front door. Earlier today, I explained we can't continue our relationship in the presence of Henry. I realize now that I don’t care. Tonight, I need him.

Heavy footfalls sound inside a few moments after I ring the bell. I hide my overwhelmed state, keeping a neutral face. Antonio startles when he sees me. And then his eyes narrow as he looks into mine, and then down at the wineglass still in my hand. He glances towards my house, and then, without saying a word, steps aside to let me in.

He leads me to the sitting room, to the couch that holds a lovely memory for me. He sits beside me and says nothing. I sip my wine and let out a deep breath. For the first time in hours, I don’t have to pretend to smile when someone asks me if I’m doing better. For the first time the entire day, I don’t have to talk or explain my side of the story. I don’t have to do anything. And yet, it’s all I need.

I drain the last of my wine, and he says, “Would you like me to get you some more? I have some amazing vintages from our vineyards back home in Italy.”

I squeeze my eyes shut, resisting the temptation. “Yes, I think I need one more.” He nods and gets up as I add, “Butonly if you join me and have a glass.”

His eyes widen in shock. I hold up a hand. “Antonio. It’s one glass. Please? Drinking alone is making me feel even more pathetic. Just one.”

Thoughtful eyes look down at me, and I see a hint of betrayal. Yes. He hates that I’ve requested this from him. Unfortunately, I’m too sad to care. He nods and walks out of the room, returning a few moments later with a bottle, a wine opener, and a single glass. He settles on the floor in front of the couch and goes to work uncorking a bottle.

The soft pop echoes in the room, and he pours into both glasses. He hands me mine, then sniffs along the rim of his. He takes a tiny sip, closing his eyes as he savors the taste.

I slip off the couch and join him on the floor. “Thank you,” I whisper, holding his hand.

He looks at me and smiles. “I didn’t have to be so self-righteous about a glass of wine. It’s just… when I went over the edge before, it started with just one, and then I lost control. I don’t think I’m strong enough yet not to maintain control. That’s why I stay away.”

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