There is a limit of seven times. I turn around and leave.

For the sixth time, Juliet and I stood at the courthouse, and for the sixth time, we didn’t get a marriage license.

Six attempts at remarrying, three years after our divorce. Each time, on the day we were supposed to make it official, she’d come up with some excuse, some “emergency.”

I stared at our names on the screen, a flicker of hope still stubbornly clinging on. "Juliet, they’re about to call our number. It’ll only take a few minutes."

"Is it really that important, Ethan? Can’t this wait?" She looked at me, impatient.

“We were married before, Ethan. It's just a piece of paper.”

"I really have to go. Stop being difficult."

“I’ll…I’ll come back later. We can do it then."

…

Her words felt like a slap in the face. A condescending afterthought. I remained silent.

She left, without a backward glance, leaving me standing there, numb, like a zombie.

Our names echoed through the courthouse speakers. But she was gone. Who was I supposed to marry? Myself?

Our first marriage had been a business arrangement. Two wealthy families, merging assets. No love. I’d been consumed by work, neglecting her. We’d drifted apart. The divorce had been mutual. Amicable, even.

Then she’d started dating Zach. Twenty years younger. We were both in our thirties. It had been a humiliating spectacle. The whispers, the snickers… Is Ethan…you know…inadequate? Is that why she traded him in for a younger model?

A year later, her family’s business went under. She dumped Zach. I’d helped her, partly out of pity, partly because of…residual feelings. I’d spent the next five years rebuilding her family’s empire, making it even bigger than before. She’d finally seen how much I cared. My feelings for her had…rekindled. We decided to give it another shot.

But every time we were supposed to remarry, she’d bolt.

I knew where she was going. Back to Zach. I’d met him once. He’d even had the nerve to add me on Facebook.

He’d posted: [Happy Valentine’s Day! She dropped everything to see me. Just like old times. Still takes care of me. Still mine.] A picture of Juliet fastening his watch accompanied the post.

Valentine’s Day. She hadn’t even gotten me a card.

It had bothered me. A lot. I’d asked her, repeatedly, if she still had feelings for Zach. Why bother remarrying if she wasn’t over him?

She'd just rolled her eyes, telling me I was being insecure. “He’s depressed, Ethan! He almost killed himself when we broke up! I can’t just abandon him!”

“It’s not like that anymore. I don’t love him. I just…feel sorry for him. Be a grown-up, Ethan. What if he actually hurts himself?”

I’d listened, my heart a cold, hard stone. Suicide? If he actually went through with it, I'd build him a monument. I’d hold a vigil at his grave.

But he wasn't suicidal. He was manipulating her, playing the victim. He knew she wouldn't abandon him. He still thought she loved him.

…

I walked home, defeated, the past few years replaying in my mind. I’d been a fool. I loved her. Why else would I have don...