Chapter 2 You Can Have Her

• Marisol
• I’m halfway down the hall when I hear him say my name again, sharper this time. Less controlled.
• “Marisol.”
• I stop, and take a deep breath before I turn. I already know this isn’t about the paperwork. It’s about the fact that I didn’t react the way he expected. That I didn’t cry. That I didn’t bargain. That I didn’t try to make him feel better about the choice he already made.
• When I turn, he’s standing a few feet away, hands braced on his hips like he’s trying to hold himself together.
• “You really just signed it,” he says.
• “Yes.”
• “Three years,” he snaps. “You just signed away three years of our life like it didn’t matter.”
• I tilt my head slightly. “It mattered.”
• “Then why didn’t you fight it?”
• I consider him for a moment. His hair is still perfect. Shirt crisp. Everything about him looks the same as it did this morning, and that’s part of the problem. He moved on before he ever said a word.
• “Do you want the list?” I ask.
• His brow furrows. “What list?”
• “The reasons,” I say. “Because I have them.”
• He doesn’t answer, but he doesn’t walk away either.
• So I go on.
• “You stopped coming to bed,” I say. “Not all at once. But just enough that it was easy to notice.”
• “That’s not—”
• “You said you needed space,” I continue. “That you were under pressure. That you couldn’t sleep. That you didn’t want to wake me.”
• His jaw tightens, but I don’t stop.
• “You started asking me to sleep in the guest room,” I say. “Just some nights at first. Then more. Because you needed to be alone. Because it helped you think.”
• “And I did it,” I say. “Because that’s what I do. I make things easier.”
• He drags a hand down his face. “That wasn’t about her.”
• I look at him. “You don’t have to lie anymore.”
• “I’m not lying.”
• “You don’t have to explain either,” I say. “I already understand.”
• “No, you don’t,” he snaps. “You think you do, but you don’t.”
• I take a breath. Slow. Controlled. “Then explain it to me.”
• He opens his mouth. Closes it.
• Silence stretches between us again.
• “I didn’t plan this,” he says finally.
• I nod. “You never do.”
• “That’s not fair.”
• “I didn’t say it was.”
• His eyes flick over my face like he’s searching for something — anger, maybe. Hurt. Something he can push back against.
• “You didn’t even argue,” he says. “Most people would’ve tried to negotiate.”
• “I know.”
• “You didn’t threaten me.”
• “I don’t need to.”
• He exhales sharply. “You’re acting like this doesn’t affect you.”
• I hesitate.
• Just for a second.
• Because this part does.
• “I didn’t say it didn’t hurt,” I say. “I said I didn’t fight it.”
• That’s when something shifts in his expression.
• It’s subtle. If you didn’t know him, you’d miss it. But I do know him. I’ve lived with him. I know the look he gets when he realizes something didn’t go the way he planned.
• “You didn’t fight because you didn’t care?” he asks.
• I shake my head. “I didn’t fight because you already made your choice.”
• “That’s not the same thing.”
• “It is to me.”
• He takes a step closer. “You really don’t want to try to fix this?”
• I laugh quietly. Not because it’s funny. Because it’s absurd.
• “Fix what?” I ask. “The part where you stopped touching me? Or the part where you fell for someone else and thought I wouldn’t notice?”
• His face hardens. “I didn’t fall for her.”
• I shrug. “That’s worse.”
• “How?”
• “Because it means you chose her anyway.”
• Silence again.
• “You deserve someone who excites you,” I say finally. “Someone you don’t need space from. Someone you actually want to come home to.”
• His eyes narrow. “And you’re just… stepping aside.”
• “Yes.”
• “Just like that.”
• “Just like always,” I say. “I give you what you want.”
• He flinches. Just barely.
• “That’s not what I what,” he says.
• “It’s what you asked for.”
• He looks at me like he wants to say something else. Like there’s a version of this conversation where he gets to be the good guy.
• But there isn’t.
• “You’re making this too easy,” he says.
• I meet his gaze. “For you.”
• That seems to unsettle him more than anything else I’ve said.
• “You’re not supposed to be this calm,” he mutters.
• I smile faintly. “You never did like when I surprised you.”
• He watches me for a long moment, like he’s waiting for the mask to slip.
• “I’m going to start packing,” I say.
• He nods, distracted. “Take your time.”
• “I won’t.”