Chapter 4: Courthouse Ghosts

The phone rang again and again—four, five times—before someone finally picked up. A lazy, just-woken female voice answered, husky with sleep and thick with something else.

"...Hello? Who is this?"

I pictured her stretching in my bed—our bed. She paused, letting the silence stretch. She knew exactly who I was.

After a moment, Nina Lawson’s voice came back, smooth as ever: "Oh, hey, sorry—I must’ve grabbed Mike’s phone by mistake. He’s still knocked out from last night. Want me to wake him?"

"No need," I cut her off, voice flat as stone.

"Just tell him I have all the documents ready. Three o’clock this afternoon, courthouse downtown. He knows the place."

I hung up before she could answer. The phone screen went black.

I hadn’t eaten since last night, but I felt sick, like I could throw up. My stomach churned with something worse than hunger.

So much for loving me. So much for forever. All those whispered dorm room promises meant nothing. Less than nothing.

He could turn around and sleep with her. Not even a day later.

People who cheat always find a reason. Maybe it’s just who they are.

I remembered in my last life, when I “accidentally” found out about them, I’d nearly collapsed in the restaurant bathroom. Cried, screamed, lost my mind. Exactly the scene they’d expected.

Nina had that apologetic look, but her words stung: "It was just a mistake, Sarah. You know how he gets when he drinks."

And Michael? He didn’t defend himself at all. Just stood there, silent, letting me make a scene.

His friends all took his side, like always. "You don’t know what he’s going through, Sarah."

They did it, but I was the villain. The crazy wife who couldn’t take a joke.

He was so calm, making me look unhinged. Maybe I was, by the end.

I started doubting myself. Was I really making too much of it? Maybe I was overreacting. Maybe I was wrong to question his and Nina’s “pure” friendship.

Which made Michael double down, sealing the deal with Nina just to spite me. A self-fulfilling prophecy.

I broke. Signed the divorce papers like they wanted.

After he handed me the agreement, his health took a nosedive. The cancer that had been in remission flared up out of nowhere.

Zach and the others blamed me, said I’d stressed him out. "He was fine until you pushed him!"

He’d done all this, supposedly to protect me. The martyr act. The noble sacrifice.

We were the only family either of us had. He knew I’d never leave, no matter what.

So he chose to drive me away, for my own good. That’s what they said.

I finally accepted the cheating, the loss, the humiliation. But his friends said it was all for love. The cruelest kindness.

He could’ve lived two more years, they said. Now, because I was “trouble,” he was dying. My fault, always my fault.

I couldn’t fight them all. In the end, I broke completely. The last thing I saw was Michael, unconscious in the ICU. Then I ran to the rooftop and jumped. Fifteen stories. They said I didn’t suffer.

Looking back, it was stupid. But love makes fools of us all.

Now, I was done. I was choosing myself.

At the courthouse, I waited. Watched couples walk in married, leave divorced. He showed up late, of course.

"I wasn’t feeling well and only woke up half an hour ago," he said before I could even speak. Already making excuses.

His breathing was uneven, shirt rumpled, same clothes as last night. Hair a mess, like he’d just crawled out of bed. Or been pulled out.

He looked at the locked doors and let out a sigh—relief or regret, I couldn’t tell.

Then he said, cold as ice, "Let’s reschedule for another time. This is on you for picking such a late appointment."

He didn’t even look at me as he said it, just stared at the locked doors like he wished I’d disappear.