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“Then get on that plane.”

“If I do it this way, he’ll never accept us.”

“I don’t give a fuck anymore.”

“But I do. Easton, please don’t do this,” I beg. “You’re the love of my life, and I don’t want to lose you, but I don’t know how to make it work other than to see this through. Just give me—”

“You’re fucking backpedaling. Taking the easy way out. Catering to him isn’t working. Can’t you see that by now?” His tone goes acidic as my stomach roils.

“You’re being unreasonable.”

“Didn’t I love you the way you needed me to?” His voice cracks on the words, his pained breaths cutting through me. “It was so effortless for me . . .”

“I’m coming to you, I swear. Please just give me a little more—”

“Please don’t choose him,” he rasps out just as a pounding on a door sounds from his side of the line.

“I won’t choose, ever, so please don’t make me,” I beg. “He hasn’t even given his toast yet.”

“We never even lived in the same fucking place,” he whispers as his name is muffled in a shout from the other side of the door, “not even one day.” It’s then I know he’s not listening to me anymore because he’s stopped believing me. That knowledge sets the first nail against our coffin as I scramble to figure out a way to keep him from hammering it in. It’s his next words that have my heart thrashing wildly.

“You came to Seattle forme. You foundme, married me, you meant it,” he utters brokenly as I crack wide open.

“I’m not denying that. Easton, our fathers nearly came to blows. Your mother could have had a stroke . . . Jesus, my father’s face, I can never forget the devastation. I’m so close—”

“No, Beauty, no, you aren’t,” his tortured voice rips me to shreds. “You’re ending us. We’re everything that matters. Please,” he begs hoarsely, “come to me.”

My tears fall rapidly as I search for the right words to stop the bleeding. I can’t blame him for his anger or his thin patience, but I can blame him for the timing.

“Easton. When I got home, things were much worse than I led you to believe. I lost my des—”

“The fuck?!” His outburst breaks through my confession, his hoarse voice incredulous when he speaks again. “You fucking drew up divorce papers?”

“What?”

A ping sounds on my phone, and I eye it to see an email notification from my father’s law firm. “Eas—”

A guttural roar sounds along with a crash before the line goes dead.

FIFTY-NINE

“November Rain”

Guns N’ Roses

Natalie

Sweat instantly breaks out on my forehead as I brace myself on the cement staircase while battling a wave of nausea. Gaping at my phone in shock, dread courses through me as I open the email to see a petition for divorce, listing me as the one who filed. Opening the document to read the verbiage, I hit the first page, and an instant notification pops up relaying the document is now live. Thanks to modern technology, we can end our marriage with two signatures, one from each of us and another from someone who witnessed it.

“No, no, no,” I choke out as my vision blurs and panic zings through me while realization sets in.

Easton can divorce meright nowwith the swipe of his finger.

Frantically, I try to dial him back, and it continually goes to his full voicemail box. My heart hammers in my chest and vision blurs while my calls continue to go unanswered. Hysterical, I dial Joel, who doesn’t answer me either, deducing he’s probably attempting to get to Easton himself. I leave a message for Joel, begging him to call me back before frantically searching my contacts and dialing again.

“Natalie, what the fuck?” Benji answers without greeting, his voice filled with clear animosity.

“Benji,” I croak, “please tell me you’re with Easton.”

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