Three Years and Eighteen Goodbyes

For three years, we held a wedding in name only—my husband, Kit Rutgers, a pilot, canceled our marriage registration eighteen times.

The first time, his female trainee, Katy Ferguson, had a test flight.

I waited outside the county clerk’s office the whole day.

The second time, he got a call from her mid-drive, made a sharp U-turn, and left me standing on the side of the road.

After that, every time we planned to make it official, some crisis with Katy mysteriously arose.

Eventually, I chose to walk away.

But the moment I boarded a plane to Solara, he lost his mind—and chased me there.

We had been married for three years, but Kit Rutgers still hadn’t made it official with me.

Today marked his one-thousandth successful flight—a major milestone—and the seventeenth time he had promised to go with me to register our marriage.

But during the celebration banquet, while his commanding officer pressured me into drinking, Kit sat across the table, feeding and clinking glasses with his female trainee, Katy Ferguson.

Meanwhile, I fought through a high fever, drinking until I nearly blacked out, and he didn’t even spare me a glance.

Many of our colleagues sighed and shook their heads, their eyes full of pity and disapproval.

Anyone with any sense could tell who I was forcing myself to drink for.

And yet, after the banquet, when he was supposed to take me to the county clerk’s office, Kit broke his promise yet again.

He pulled the car up to the restaurant entrance and stretched an arm across the passenger seat to stop me from getting in.

“Katy’s had too much to drink, so I’ll take her home. You take a cab,” he said.

“As for the registration this afternoon… we probably won’t make it. Let’s talk about it another day.”

Without waiting for a response, he jumped out of the car and carried Katy into the front seat.

Five years of dating, three years of marriage—and this marked the seventeenth time Kit had postponed our marriage registration because of Katy.

At times like this in the past, I would have already broken down, crying and yelling, demanding to know: who was really his wife? And who had just taken the drinks for him?

But this time, I simply smiled and said, “Alright. Take care and drive safely.”

He seemed surprised by how composed I was, but only for a moment.

Then he regained his cold demeanor and said, “I’ll bring you a gift tonight to make up for it.”

With that, he drove off.

Before leaving, he even leaned over to roll up the window for Katy, worried about how the cold breeze might affect her while in her drunken state.

He used to hate the smell of alcohol in his car, so every time I had a drink on his behalf, even in winter, he would keep the convertible roof wide open.

Looking back now, I realized it was only because the one in the car