Chapter 1: The Drunk Act and the Divorce Word

By the third year of being married to my old-fashioned husband, I started itching for a little excitement.

It was a Tuesday—sticky, slow, the kind of evening where, honestly, even the ceiling fan looked like it was about to give up. I sat on the edge of our queen-sized bed, fidgeting with the hem of my T-shirt, thinking, Is this really all there is? Should I actually be bold enough to ask for a divorce? Divorce. The word felt dangerous, like a live wire on my tongue.

Just as I was plotting how to bring up the whole divorce thing, my brain started scrolling through comments like a live chat on fast-forward:

[Bro, this dude grabbed an alarm clock at the party and bailed.]

[Dude literally sprinted home just to see his wife! He even dabbed whiskey on his neck at the door to fake being drunk!]

[He thought his face wasn't red enough, so he actually slapped himself—twice!]

[Lol, this shy guy only dares to get close to Savannah by pretending to be drunk at parties.]

It was almost like I had a peanut gallery living in my head. Girlfriends, nosy neighbors—everyone chiming in with their two cents. Honestly, sometimes I thought, Maybe I'd watched too many reality shows. Or maybe my life really had gotten that surreal.

I was still lost in thought when—

Ethan Monroe stumbled in, face red as a firetruck, eyes shiny with unshed tears. He looked pitiful. For a split second, I just stared, caught off guard by how small and lost he looked.

His keys hit the floor. He wobbled, looking like he'd just lost a bar fight—with his own dignity. For a split second, I wondered if he'd actually had a drink for once, or if this was another one of his little acts. Knowing Ethan, it was probably the latter.

He pouted, rubbing his head. “Babe, it hurts. Right here.”

He pressed his messy hair against my chest.

He smelled faintly of aftershave. And something sweet—maybe that hint of whiskey he'd dabbed on like cologne. He was warm and heavy, like a big, clueless puppy who had no idea how huge he was.

When I didn’t react, his tears finally spilled over. His voice went hoarse, just a little shaky.

“Babe, it hurts right here. Why won’t you rub it for me?”

He grabbed my hand, pressing it to his head. I let him.

He was so earnest, so childlike. For a second, I forgot everything else. My palm pressed against his hair, and I felt the heat of his skin, the thrum of his heartbeat, and that ridiculous ache in my chest that never quite went away.

The real heat of his skin snapped me out of my daze.

I lowered my head, squinting at Ethan’s face. Still handsome, even now.

There really were slap marks!

I reached up, brushing his hair back to get a better look. There they were—faint, pinkish prints on his cheek. Unmistakable. He really had gone and done it—slapped himself just to sell the part. I almost laughed, but the absurdity of it just made my heart ache a little more.

He caught my gaze and panic flickered in his eyes. He buried his head even deeper into my chest.

He mumbled, “Babe, I didn’t mean to drink. They made me.”

I hadn’t even opened my mouth.

Before I could say a word, the silent barrage popped up again:

[Bro, if you’d actually touched any booze, you’d reek of mint gum, not whiskey.]

[Lmao, talking while buried in Savannah’s arms—he’s got some serious lung power!]

[This bashful hero’s faked being drunk just to cling to his wife, what, seven times this month?]

[Every time he comes home, he hugs his wife and sniffs her, then knocks out as soon as he’s satisfied.]

[No wonder Savannah wants a divorce. He gets her all worked up but never takes the next step—what girl could stand this kind of tease!]

Sometimes it felt like my own mind was heckling me, like I was stuck in a sitcom where the laugh track never quite matched the punchlines. My cheeks burned. I could almost hear the audience groan in my head.

I stopped short, just as I was about to walk him to the couch.

A nameless anger bubbled up. Just thinking about it made me furious.

I clenched my jaw, feeling my pulse throb in my ears. It was like someone handed me the world’s prettiest dessert and then snatched it away before I could take a bite.

Honestly, half the reason I wanted a divorce was this.

Ethan was old-fashioned and uptight.

Always buttoned his shirts to the top, always kept a safe distance.

If I wore anything even a little revealing, he'd scold me. “Savannah, have some self-respect.”

I thought I’d married some antique, until Ethan got drunk once and clung to me, calling me “babe.”

I really liked the contrast.

A prim and proper old soul in public. A needy puppy in private.

Back then, his honest and proper little self had me totally bewitched.

I’d make him chicken soup and spoon-feed it to him.

I’d prep his toothbrush with toothpaste and hand it over.

Worried he’d get confused and slip in the shower, I’d wait right outside the bathroom for him to finish.

And the result?

He touched my hand.

He kissed my lips.

He buried himself in my chest.

I even took off my dress in bed.

He said he wanted to sleep!

But I was so taken with his looks, and those manly pecs that somehow reminded me of a protective mom.

I’d touch them a few times and, just like that, my anger faded. I didn’t want a divorce anymore. I was bewitched all over again.

I’d run my fingers over his chest, marveling at the solid warmth, the gentle slope of muscle under skin. Even when he was impossible, there was something about him that made me want to stay—at least for a little longer.