The Seven-Day Agreement

The other one said, “Yeah, stupid rainy day.”

My knuckles turned white around the paintbrush. I reached to dip the brush out of habit, then realized I had nothing left to paint.

If Vera had walked only two steps farther into the room, she would have seen what I had spent a month creating. It was the day we first met.

I stood in silence for a moment. Then I reached for the black paint in the corner and poured the entire can over the canvas. I grabbed another, then another, until every trace of the image disappeared beneath the dark surface.

When nothing remained, I pressed the divorce agreement flat against the wet paint and wrote in small white letters along the bottom.

“Vera, I will not be remarrying you.”

…

That night, Vera did not come home. She sent me a single message.

“I’ll be staying at Austin’s for the next seven days. Get some rest. Seven days from now, nine in the morning, we’ll meet at the city hall.”

I had not replied yet when Austin Bennett posted on his social media. It was a close-up photo of their hands interlocked, fingers threaded together.

“Officially divorced. My seven-day exclusive.”

In the photo, the ring finger on Vera’s left hand was bare. The only sign that anything had ever been there was a faint pale line where the ring used to sit.

There was nothing left to show that she and I had ever loved each other.

It was only then that it sank in that I was actually divorced. I raised my own hand and tried to take off my ring, only to find that the band that had slipped on so easily five years earlier now refused to move past the knuckle. No matter what I tried, it did not budge.

Maybe I should leave it, I thought. It was only a ring. It did not have to mean anything.

Then Austin sent me a photo.

Vera’s missing wedding ring hung from his dog’s collar, a small tan thing that looked barely bigger than a stuffed animal. In case I had not seen it clearly, Austin had taken thirteen more photos from different angles, each one with a smiling emoji underneath.

He ended it with a message.

“Hey Sean, Vera says if you’re going to do something, do it properly. So for the next seven days, I’m afraid you and my dog are a matching set.

“Sending love.”

The color drained from my face. I called the jeweler who had made our wedding bands and told them I needed the ring off by tomorrow, whatever it took.

The next morning, a staff member from the jewelry store came to the house to help. My assistant, Sophie Carr, who was usually full of chatter and energy, kept stopping herself mid-breath like she was trying not to say something.

“What is it?” I asked.

She pressed her lips together and chose her words with care.

“Sir, I received a billing notification from the Litton Hotel. It was a luxury couples suite with a full truckload of roses included. The name on the booking was Austin’s.”

I said nothing, not because it hurt, but because I suddenly remembered that Vera had once sent me roses too. Nine thousand, nine hundred and ninety-nine of them, so many that two arms could barely hold them.

She had said, “If every rose is one measure of love, then I want to give you nine thousand, nine hundred and ninety-nine of them, so you never have to envy anyone else.”

It was strange how women tended to recycle the same gestures.

The front door opened. Vera walked in quickly, a cluster of marks along her neck that she made no effort to hide. She glanced around the living room and asked without much thought, “Why are there so many people here?”

I did not look up. “The jeweler. They are here to get the ring off.”

Vera stared at me. “We have six days until we remarry. Why would you take it off?”

“You took yours off too.”

That caught her off guard. A flicker of guilt crossed her face before she huffed and muttered, “So dramatic.”

She turned and stormed upstairs, calling for the housekeeper to pack her things.

Sophie told me quietly that Vera had been wandering around up there, drifting in and out of rooms, and that every so often she stopped and looked down toward where I sat.

I smiled a little and did not think much of it.

Ten minutes later, the jeweler’s staff member came downstairs looking apologetic.

“Sir, the ring is too tight. I am afraid there is no way to remove it as it is. The only option would be to cut it, but since you work with your hands, I would strongly advise against taking that risk.”