that morning, I can actually smell burned eggs and Tabasco. Had I known that this is what the end of my marriage would smell like, I would have made pancakes.
I looked once again into Joel’s face. His eyes were sad and unsure. I knew that if I rose to my feet and threw myself into his arms, he might embrace me with the love of an apologetic husband who wouldn’t leave, wouldn’t end our marriage. But, no, I told myself. The damage had been done. Our fate had been decided. “Good-bye, Joel,” I said. My heart may have wanted to linger, but my brain knew better. He needed to go.
Joel looked wounded. “Emily, I—”
Was he looking for forgiveness? A second chance? I didn’t know. I extended my hand as if to stop him from going on. “Good-bye,” I said, mustering all my strength.
He nodded solemnly, then turned to the door. I closed my eyes and listened as he shut it quietly behind him. He locked it from the outside, a gesture that made my heart seize. He still cares…. About my safety, at least. I shook my head and reminded myself to get the locks changed, then listened as his footsteps became quieter, until they were completely swallowed up by the street noise.
My phone rang sometime later, and when I stood up to get it, I realized that I’d been sitting on the floor engrossed in Years of Grace ever since Joel left. Had a minute passed? An hour?
“Are you coming?” It was Annabelle, my best friend. “You promised me you wouldn’t sign your divorce papers alone.”
Disoriented, I looked at the clock. “Sorry, Annie,” I said, fumbling for my keys and the dreaded manila envelope in my bag. I was supposed to meet her at the restaurant forty-five minutes ago. “I’m on my way.”
“Good,” she said. “I’ll order you a drink.”
The Calumet, our favorite lunch spot, was four blocks from my apartment, and when I arrived ten minutes later, Annabelle greeted me with a hug.
“Are you hungry?” she asked after we sat down.
I sighed. “No.”
Annabelle frowned. “Carbs,” she said, passing me the bread basket. “You need carbs. Now, where are those papers? Let’s get this over with.”
I pulled the envelope out of my bag and set it on the table, staring at it with the sort of caution one might reserve for dynamite.
“You realize this is all your fault,” Annabelle said, half-smiling.
I gave her a dirty look. “What do you mean, my fault?”
“You don’t marry men named Joel,” she continued with that tsk-tsk sound in her voice. “Nobody marries Joels. You date Joels, you let them buy you drinks and pretty little things from Tiffany, but you don’t marry them.”
Annabelle was working on her PhD in social anthropology. In her two years of research, she had analyzed marriage and divorce data in an unconventional way. According to her findings, a marriage’s success rate can be accurately predicted by the man’s name.
Marry an Eli and you’re likely to enjoy wedded bliss for about 12.3 years. Brad? 6.4. Steves peter out after just four. And as far as Annabelle is concerned, don’t ever—ever—marry a Preston.
“So what does the data say about Joel again?”
“Seven point two years,” she said in a matter-of-fact tone.
I nodded. We had been married for six years and two weeks.
“You need to find yourself a Trent,” she continued.
I made a displeased face. “I hate the name Trent.”
“OK, then an Edward or a Bill, or—no, a Bruce,” she said. “These are names with marital longevity.”
“Right,” I said sarcastically. “Maybe you should take me husband-shopping at a retirement home.”
Annabelle is tall and thin and beautiful—Julia Roberts beautiful, with her long, wavy dark hair, porcelain skin, and intense dark eyes. At thirty-three she had never been married. The reason, she’d tell you, was jazz. She couldn’t find a man who liked Miles Davis and Herbie Hancock as much as she did.
She waved for the waiter. “We’ll take two more, please.” He whisked away my martini glass, leaving a water ring on the envelope.
“It’s time,” she said softly.
My hand trembled a little as I reached into the envelope and pulled out a stack of papers about a half-inch thick. My lawyer’s assistant had flagged three pages with hot pink “sign here” sticky notes.
I reached into my bag for a pen and felt a lump in my throat as I signed my name on the first page, and then the next, and then the next. Emily Wilson, with an elongated y and a pronounced