Page 16 of Til Divorce Do Us Start

Colin clears his throat.

I look at my plate. “I just needed you to know that. I don’t hate you because you fucked me. I hate you because of how you left me. I felt like a whore – an unpaid whore. You don’t have to say anything, I just ... can’t stay quiet about it. I can’t have you being nice when it doesn’tfeelnice. So ... that’s it.”

He catches my hand gently before I can take my food to my room. His deep blue eyes meet mine and churn with something other than hatred.

“I was immature and uncomfortable with feeling more than sated after sex,” he says without looking away from me.

I take a long drink. I want him to say more and nothing at the same time.

“I was going through my own shit. I never meant to hurt you. I figured it was nicer to cut and run, leave you with the positive minus turmoil or issues,” he says softly. “And I didn’t actually see your number. I just thought it was a napkin. Imaginemy surprise when I see you again because my best friend is dating yours.”

“And I hated you the whole time,” I breathe.

He smiles, a sad half-smile. “You convinced me to hate you too.”

Chapter 10 - Colin

There’s no way to make her understand how dangerous emotions seem to me. Exposing them is like walking naked through a city and hoping no one calls the police, screams at me, or kicks me in the balls. It doesn’t make sense, especially when we’re sitting at the dinner table staring at each other minutes after her big confession.

“I wish I apologized that first time we met up, but after months, I was sure you’d forgotten me, until you unleashed your venom. It was ... a side of you I hadn’t seen, then you pushed the line and I bit back and now we’re here.”

“Now we’re here.”

“I’m not excusing what I did,” I say evenly. “But I don’t know what else to say, Noelle.”

She nods, then eats.

After dinner, I wash the dishes, realize I’m doing it because it’s become normal to do daily rather than weekly. Just like having Noelle’s noise has become a comfort.

I notice more and more over the next week and a half. When Noelle isn’t around, I feel restless and things feel too quiet. And she spends a lot of time outside of the apartment. Ithought it would be a few days. But we’re up to ten since our tense conversation and her absence leaves me thinking about her constantly when she is there and waiting for her when she’s not.

I actually enjoy her adding her own things to the apartment. I enjoyher. Which makes no sense since she still picks arguments and always uses all of the hot water. But I’ve also learned to enjoy cold showers, especially after being in the field. The truth is, I only hated her because she hatedme. Because she snapped, rolled her eyes, and turned every sentence into a sharp-witted jab.

But isn’t thatexactlywhat I’ve always liked about her? Her intelligence. Her quick tongue. Her fire.

My thoughts keep looping, arguing with each other while I move on autopilot in the kitchen. I start making dinner—something I haven’t cooked for her yet—and halfway through, I nearly groan.

This marriage is fake. I call her “wife” just to rile her up. She refuses to say we’re married—just that we’re “tangled,” as if that’s somehow better.

So why the hell do I keep thinking about what she likes?

Why do I want to be the one whoknowsher?

And worse... why do I want to claim her as mine?

The question won’t leave me alone—especially not when she throws on a documentary and orders me to stop working, tobreatheand pay attention to something other than my laptop.

Naturally, that leads to an argument about whether either of us could survive an hour with an alligator.

Because that’s what we do—we turneverythinginto an argument. I’m half-expecting her to storm off like she usually does... but instead, she laughs. Actuallylaughs. Forme.

And I just stare. Caught off guard. Ten days of low-level bickering and nothing else, and suddenly, she’s smiling like the world doesn’t weigh her down.

It’s disarming. Beautiful. Awe-inspiring in a way I can’t quite explain.

She shoves me. “So stupid. You could not bite an alligator back.”

“I could. I didn’t say it would help. Just confuse it,” I defend as I head back to the kitchen.

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