My Husband Kept Sending Packages to Ex, So I Filed for Divorce Chapter 02
I opened the bags.
Every piece had already been unwrapped. Tags ripped off. And on the beige pants, there was a faint smear of pie filling someone had tried, and failed, to wipe away.
It had dried, but it was impossible to miss.
No way to return any of it.
I stared at that stain. It looked about right, a perfect match for the last three years of my marriage.
“Why are these open?”
Julian hesitated. His voice softened, almost coaxing. “Chlo-Chlo got the package. She assumed it was for her, so she just opened it…”
“So she opened them. Got food on them. And you brought them back for my parents.”
He snapped. “They’re already open! What do you want me to do? The tags are gone. I can’t return them.”
“They’re in your parents’ sizes. Nobody else can wear them.”
“If you don’t want to give them to your parents, then throw them out. Happy?”
Nobody else can wear them.
I didn’t need to ask who he meant by “nobody else.”
They didn’t fit anyone at Chloe’s. That was the only reason they came back.
If they had fit, they would have disappeared, just like every other package that ended up at her place and never came home.
I shoved the clothes into the bags and held them out.
“You deal with it.”
I turned toward the study.
Julian’s voice caught me at the hallway. “Can you stop? I went out of my way and booked a nice French restaurant tonight. For you. To apologize.”
“It’s a holiday, Claire. Can we not fight about every little thing?”
He pulled me out the door before I could answer.
But when we got to the table, someone was already sitting there.
Chloe. In a fitted dress, strappy heels, full makeup, every detail deliberate, down to the last curl.
And me, dragged out of my own house by Julian, in an oversized tee and joggers, hair twisted up in a claw clip.
I might as well have wandered in off the street.
Julian in his blazer, Chloe in her dress. They looked like the real couple. I looked like I’d crashed their date.
I didn’t ask why Chloe was already seated at the restaurant he’d booked to apologize to me.
He sat me down and launched into his explanation. “Chlo-Chlo can’t go home for the holiday. She’s been dying to try this place, so I told her to come.”
“She’s alone for the holidays, Claire. Cut her some slack.”
I looked at him.
Before we got married, he told me himself that his ex-girlfriend was six months older than me.
And now he was calling her “just a kid” and asking me to be the bigger person.
Whether he’d genuinely forgotten or just didn’t care, I was done trying to figure out the difference.
He forgot that I loathed French food.
But he remembered exactly where Chloe had been dying to eat.
I didn’t bother asking who this reservation was actually for.
The answer wouldn’t have changed anything.
I sat across from the two of them and watched. They shared a menu, shoulders almost touching, heads bent together like I wasn’t there.
“Jules, you love macarons. We have to get some.”
“Good memory. Let’s get two orders.”
“Ooh, the escargot looks amazing.”
“I knew you’d pick that! This place has the best escargot in the city. You’re going to love it.”
They handed the menu back to the waiter, and only then seemed to remember I existed.
Julian cleared his throat. “We ordered enough for three.”
Chloe gave me a bright, practiced smile. “Sorry, Claire. Once Jules and I start talking about food, we kind of forget everything else.”
Jules.
The name landed somewhere behind my ribs.
Two years of dating, three years of marriage. He and Chloe had been broken up for almost six years.
She still called him Jules. He never corrected her.
And the one time I tried it, just being playful, he made a face. Told me it was cringy, told me it didn’t sound right coming from me.
Said it gave him the ick.
The food arrived.
Escargot. Foie gras. Oysters. Mussels.
And a beautifully plated poached salmon.
I didn’t touch my fork.
Across from me, Chloe lit up with every plate. A little gasp, a little bounce, fork already in hand before the dish hit the table.
Julian cut the foie gras and slid a piece onto her plate without being asked.
She beamed at him. “You’re too sweet.”
Then he glanced at me. Frowned. “The salmon’s here. The one you love. Why aren’t you eating?”
My voice came out flat. “I’m allergic to seafood. I’ve never eaten salmon.”
He went still.