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I moved farther in and froze.
Rick was shirtless on the bed, stretched out on top of the covers with his head in Rita’s lap.
She was feeding him pieces of pineapple with her fingers.
One hand held the fruit. The other stroked his hair away from his forehead while he smiled with his eyes half closed, like a spoiled child getting tucked in after preschool.
Neither of them jumped when they saw me.
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Neither of them looked ashamed. They looked annoyed, like I was interrupting something private.
Rita clicked her tongue first. “You startled us.”
I just stood there staring.
Rick sat up a little, irritated. “What?”
And in that exact moment, with the sunlight cutting across the bed and his mother’s hand still resting possessively on his shoulder, one thought came into my mind so cleanly it felt like a blade.
This is a divorce.
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I walked to the side table, picked up my phone, and looked at Rick.
“I’m leaving.”
He frowned. “For another walk?”
“No. For good.”
That finally got his attention.
He swung his legs off the bed. “Diana, stop.”
Rita gave a little sigh, as if this were all becoming tiresome. “Honestly, this level of jealousy is not healthy.”
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I turned to her slowly. “Did you just call me jealous because you were petting your adult son in our honeymoon bed?”
Her lips tightened. “I was comforting him. You’ve been hostile since the airport.”
Rick stood up. “Let’s all calm down.”
I laughed again. “There is no ‘all’ here. There is you, your mother, and the woman you tricked into marrying into this circus.”
He walked toward me with both hands out. “Babe, you’re spiraling.”
“No, Rick. I’m waking up.”
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Rita stood too. “You are being cruel to him on purpose. He has always been sensitive.”
I looked right at her. “And you have made sure he never had to become a man.”
For the first time since I’d known her, the social smile dropped all the way.
She stepped forward and said quietly, “You are not the first woman to think she could come between my son and me.”
I stared at her. “What did you just say?”
Rick jumped in too fast. “She doesn’t mean that the way it sounded.”
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“Then how does it sound, Rick?”
Neither of them answered.
That silence told me more than any confession could have.
I picked up my passport and the small crossbody bag I’d left by the dresser. My suitcase was still half unpacked, but suddenly I did not care about dresses, sandals, or skincare.
I cared about getting out.
Rick’s voice sharpened. “Diana, don’t be ridiculous.”
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I turned on him. “You brought your mother on our honeymoon without asking me. You booked her the room next to ours with a connecting door. She walks into our suite whenever she wants. She orders your meals, strokes your hair, and talks about you like you’re her husband. And your concern is that I’m being ridiculous?”
He crossed his arms. “You’re making this something dirty because you have issues.”
That almost winded me, how quickly he could throw his own sickness onto me.
“No,” I said. “I’m naming what you’re too cowardly to face.”
I left before he could answer.
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By noon, I had changed my return flight.
I spent my last few hours at the resort sitting on the beach with a virgin pina colada and a legal pad from the gift shop, making two lists.
Things I needed to do.
Things I would never ignore again.
The second list was more useful.
When I got home, I stayed with my sister.
Rick beat me to our apartment and had the nerve to text, Take whatever space you need. Mom says time apart can be healing.
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Mom says.
Even then.
Even in the ruins.
I replied with five words.
My lawyer will contact you.
That was the first time he seemed to understand I was serious.
He called 18 times that day. Then he emailed. Then he sent flowers with a note that said, “Let’s not let outside voices destroy us.”
Outside voices.
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As if the problem were my therapist instead of the woman who packed resort wear for my honeymoon before I even knew she was invited.
The divorce process was ugly in the petty, predictable way. Rick wanted counseling. I said no. He wanted to “clarify intentions.” I said no. He wanted to frame the honeymoon as a “miscommunication about family inclusion.”
My attorney, a gorgeous woman named Celeste who wore red lipstick like a weapon, read that phrase and said, “Family inclusion? Why was he taking his mother on a honeymoon?”
When the divorce hearing finally came, Rick looked exhausted and furious.
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Rita sat behind him in a navy suit, chin lifted, like she was attending an awards ceremony.
I couldn’t stop staring at the absurdity of it.
My husband. My almost-husband. Whatever he was by then.
And behind him, the real wife.