My flight was slightly delayed on the tarmac at JFK. Once we took off and were safe in the air, I tried to settle and catch up on some sleep. But my thoughts were too preoccupied with Gabe, with Warren and what awaited me in Seattle, with what happened after Europe.
I was in the hospital for a week after Rome. In no condition to communicate with the outside world, Lily kept my phone, texting Billy, pretending to be me. Once I was discharged, Lily handed my cell phone back. Missed calls and texts from Warren lit up the screen. It felt like I was holding a live grenade rather than cell phone. The messages ranged from sweet to enraged.
Warren text: Just got back to the hotel room, where’d you go?
Warren text: Okay, so you’re not in Lily’s room. Ash says he can’t get a hold of her either. Where the fuck are you?
Warren text: Ash said Lily texted. You two went home? What the fuck, Addy?
Warren voicemail: Call me.
Warren voicemail, ten minutes later: Call me right now.
Warren voicemail, thirty minutes later: You’re my wife. I have the right to know if you’re okay.
Warren text: Seriously? You’re just going to shut me out?
Warren text: Baby, please.
On they went, Warren pleading, ranting and railing at me from an ocean away. His final message had my heart dropping clean out of my chest.
Warren voicemail: We have shows in France next week. If I don’t hear from you by then, I’m coming to the States.
I fired off a text, hoping to keep him at bay.
Me: Don’t come home. I’ll call you soon.
Take that, tyrannical asshole. Almost instantly, my phone lit up with an incoming call from War. I didn’t answer, letting it go to voicemail. A text came through.
Warren: When?
Me: When I’m ready.
I turned off my phone. I didn’t call. And I didn’t text again. I blocked Warren’s number. It was too painful to hear his voice, to hear all that I’d lost. When he started calling from unknown numbers, I bought a new phone and changed my number. A totally clean slate. He knew I lived in New York, but he didn’t know what part. I imagined myself in some kind of witness protection program. The person I was hiding from wasn’t a physical threat. He was an emotional wrecking ball.
I glanced down at my ring finger. For a couple months after Rome and the hospital, I’d had a faint mark where my wedding band had been. Once it faded, I had the first round of divorce papers sent to Warren. Even paid extra for a special two-night courier to Germany. They were returned without an explanation. I sent the papers every month for a year. All sent back, unsigned. Finally, I attached a note.
Dear Warren,
Let’s not make this any more difficult than it needs to be. Please sign the papers.
Addy
I thought it was succinct, to the point and very pleasant, mature even. Mentally, I patted myself on the back. Of course, Warren couldn’t resist responding. In record time, I received a reply in a box via my lawyer. No way was I giving Warren my address. The papers had been shredded, and in the middle of the scraps was an index card with a single word in Warren’s messy handwriting.
No.
In a fit, I shredded the note. I sold my wedding ring to a pawnshop and sent Warren the receipt along with a fresh set of divorce papers. For a week, I walked around, a smug smile on my face, until Warren sent the papers back in ashes. Fucking Warren.
I decided to cease and desist. Trust me, I wanted to do more. I had tons of ideas. Most of them ended with Warren’s head on a spike. But I was committed to being the bigger person no matter how hard Warren tried to make me feel small.
So for the last two years I’d sent divorce papers regularly. They followed him everywhere on tour, haunting him like a specter. I was convinced I would wear him down. No luck. So far. All I did was wear down my precious bank account. Money I’d earned working at a greasy diner because I refused to use Billy’s money. What’s that saying? Pride comes before the fall.
My feet rested on my backpack, tucked underneath the seat in front of me. Nestled safely inside was hopefully my last set of divorce papers. This time I was carrying them myself to Warren. Our game of cat and mouse was coming to end. I’d get him to sign the damn decree, even if I had to wrap a pen in his hand and force him to scribble his name. Our marriage would be over by the end of Wanks and Janks’ farewell tour.
Of this, I was sure.
Smiling, I slipped my earbuds in and pressed play on my phone. I listened to Radical Fish. Warren hated the folky indie band. Perfect. I was more than willing to align myself with all things my soon-to-be-ex-husband couldn’t stand. As far as I was concerned, Warren Price could go fuck himself.