13April2025
Tonight I find myself scribbling in the back of the kitchen drawer, the only place I can be honest with myself.
I married Blythe Harper last month, not because I loved her, but to make Molly Whitaker feel the sting of loss. After her betrayal, I needed proof that I could move on, that I could endure the ache she left behind. I had been with Molly for almost two years, loved her with a fever that made the world seem pliable. I imagined us marrying, building a life together, bending the universe to her dreams. Yet every time the conversation turned to wedding plans, she brushed me off.
Why are we rushing into a wedding? she said one damp evening in Manchester, tapping the edge of her cheap mug. I havent finished my degree yet, and youre still stuck in a deadend junior role at the firm. No car, no flat of your own. And Im not keen on sharing a kitchen with your sister. Shed often used that line, and it cut deeper each time.
It was true, though. Blythe and I still lived in my parents modest terraced house with my sister Olivia. My startup hardware shop was just beginning to find its footing, and I was still a finalyear student at the university. I had taken the reins of the business before I even held my degree, hoping to keep the familys finances afloat. When we sold the house with Olivias consent, the proceeds cleared a mountain of debts, restocked the shop, and left a small cushion in pounds.
Molly, for her part, lived for the present, treating my parents responsibilities as if they were lightweight clouds. Watching her, I realised I had been forced into adulthood overnight debts, a fledgling business, and a sister who relied on me. I told myself everything would sort itself: a house, a car, a garden someday.
Nothing hinted at the storm to come. We agreed to see a film together, and Molly told me shed meet me at the bus stop. I waited, heart thudding, when a sleek black Audi pulled up. She stepped out, handed me a glossy paperback and said, Im sorry, Oliver, we cant be together any longer. Im marrying someone else. She turned and disappeared into the car.
The words hit me like a punch. When I got home, Olivia read the shock on my face without me saying a word.
Already know? she asked.
I could only nod.
Shes marrying a rich bloke. She asked me to be her witness I said no. Shes a traitor, Oliver. Shes just using him as a stepping stone.
I pulled her into a hug, trying to soothe both of us. Let her be happy. Well be even better off.
The next day I locked myself in my bedroom for twelve hours, refusing to see anyone. Olivia kept coaxing me out.
Come on, love, Ive made scones.
By evening, a cold fire burned behind my eyes.
Im getting married to the first woman wholl say yes, I told her flatly.
Impossible! Its not just your life, she protested, but I cut her off.
Ill go alone if I have to.
I walked into the park, where crowds bustled under the grey sky. A girl twirled a strand of hair, another fled in fright, but a third Blythe, with her fierce green eyes met my stare and said, Alright then.
Whats your name, love? I asked, trying to sound casual.
Blythe, she replied, cheeks flushing.
Lets celebrate this engagement, she said, pulling Olivia along to the nearby café.
The table fell into an uneasy silence. Olivia didnt know what to say, and my mind swirled with thoughts of revenge. I had decided: the wedding would happen on the twentyfifth of May, no matter what.
Do you have a serious reason for proposing to a stranger? Blythe asked after a long pause.
No. Youve already given your word. Tomorrow well file the notice and Ill meet your parents.
I winked. First, lets be on a firstname basis.
The whole month before the wedding we saw each other daily, talking, learning each others quirks.
Why all this, Blythe? she asked once.
Everyone has skeletons in their closet, I replied evasively. The important thing is they dont stop you living.
She smiled. I imagined myself a princess whose king would whisk her away at first sight. In fairy tales they live happily ever after, so I wanted to test that.
Love, however, never turned out to be a simple story. It left a broken heart and a small loss of savings, but it taught me to read people. Suitors swarmed around me, but I brushed them off at first glance. I wasnt hunting for the one; I knew I needed a clever, independent partner who could act. In Blythe I saw determination and a serious approach to business. Had he been surrounded by friends instead of family, she might have walked away.
What sort of princess are you then? I asked, looking at her thoughtfully. A shy one, a beautiful Vasilisa, or a toadprincess?
Give me a kiss and youll find out, she teased.
No kisses followed, and no more was ever said between us.
I handled the wedding preparations myself. Blythe chose the dress, the veil, even the flowers, while I bought the suit.
Youll be the most beautiful, I kept telling her.
At the registry office, just before the ceremony, we ran into Molly and her new fiancé. I forced a smile.
Congratulations, I said, planting a kiss on her cheek. May your wallet stay as full as your heart!
Dont make a circus of it, she replied, nervous.
She eyed my new bride, a striking, confident woman who carried herself like royalty. Jealousy gnawed at her, a feeling she couldt shake.
Everythings fine, I said, trying to sound casual.
Its not too late to stop, Blythe whispered in my ear.
No, I replied, We play this to the end.
When I finally looked into Blythes nowbright eyes during the registration, I realised the weight of what Id done.
Ill make you happy, I whispered, believing my own words.
Life settled into a routine. Blythe and Olivia quickly found common ground, complementing each other. Blythe, an ace accountant, straightened the books; within six months we opened a second store and later a team of tradespeople, turning our modest hardware shop into a fullservice renovation business. Profits multiplied.
She proved a modernday Vasilisa the Wise, presenting ideas that I claimed as my own. It seemed we could simply live and be content. Yet I missed the dizzy, reckless feeling I once had with Molly. Everything now felt measured, predictable, calm. Routine is a swamp that drags you down, I thought, I hate it.
Thanks to Blythes diligence, we even ventured into building turnkey cottages, the first one for ourselves. The better the business did, the more often I thought of Molly: If shed just seen the car I drive now, the house I own, shed be jealous.
Blythe noticed my lingering sadness. She wanted to be loved, but you cant force a heart that belongs elsewhere. Not all stories end happily, she muttered, yet clung to hope because a promise is a promise.
Olivia warned me, Youll lose more than you gain, looking at Mollys Instagram.
Dont meddle! I snapped.
Olivia shot back, Dont be foolish, Blythe loves you, and youre playing games!
The urge to hear from Molly grew louder, as if a child were pointing at me. I wrote to her. She complained that her personal life had fallen apart, that shed been thrown out with nothing, that she never finished university, that she was now living in a rented flat in the suburbs.
I hesitated for days, wondering whether to go. In the end circumstances kept me home; Blythe had to travel to her ailing grandmothers cottage in Yorkshire. I finally set a meeting, driving at speed, ignoring all road signs. My heart thumped, imagining what she would say.
Reality was harsh.
You look good, Oliver, Molly cooed, throwing herself around my neck.
The smell of cheap perfume hit me. I stepped back, annoyed. People are staring.
She laughed. I dont care.
Her short skirt, gaudy makeup, and bargainbin perfume made her look nothing like Blythe. Shes always been like this, I thought, watching Molly gulp down a pint.
Give me some cash and Ill repay you, she teased, licking her lips.
I didnt know how to get rid of her.
Sorry, Im busy, I said, standing up.
Will we meet again? she asked.
I dont think so, I told the waiter. The bill, please.
She tried to linger.
Let her enjoy the remainder of the tab, the waiter said, sliding a large note across the table.
I nodded, understanding.
Speeding home, I cursed myself. Stupid fool, I muttered. Olivia was right. Why did I even start all this? Yet perhaps it wasnt all for nothing.
I realized I hadnt called my wife Blythe Blythe in months. I never named my wife Blythe, I thought, feeling a pang of emptiness. I sat for five minutes, replaying years since the wedding in my mind.
I saw Blythes face, her bright blue eyes, the soft smile when I arrived home, the way shed gently tease my hair with her long, manicured fingers.
I promised to make her happy, I whispered, turning the car onto the country lane towards the cottage.
I pulled up outside her grandmothers house.
A week is too long, I said, when she ran out to meet me, tears glistening.
She laughed through her sobs.
Blythe, my love, I whispered into her ear, and we both swayed with a dizzy happiness that felt like the first breath after a long dive.
