Chapter 11 David
Icouldn't sleep.
I gave up and got dressed.
My therapist—Dr. Reeves, a woman in her fifties who didn't take any of my shit—had said insomnia was normal. "Your body is adjusting," she'd told me at our session last week. "You've spent months numbing yourself with alcohol. Now you're feeling everything. It's uncomfortable, but it's progress."
Progress. Right.
Four months since Emma kicked me out. Three months since I'd signed the divorce papers. Six weeks since I'd lost my job.
Margaret had been apologetic about it. "We gave you every chance, David. But you missed another deadline, and the client complained. We can't keep you on." She'd offered me a severance package and a neutral reference. I'd taken both and left without fighting it.
I should have been devastated. Should have spiraled. A year ago, losing that job would have destroyed me.
But I'd just felt... tired. Relieved, almost. I'd hated that cube, hated the looks from junior associates, hated being a cautionary tale.
So I'd started planning. A solo practice, maybe. Small cases. Simple work. Rebuilding from the ground up, on my own terms.
Dr. Reeves had called it "accepting reality and moving forward." I called it survival.
I walked down the empty street, hands in my pockets. The city was quieter at night, less frantic. A few people passed by: a couple holding hands, a group of friends laughing, a woman walking her dog.
Everyone else seemed to know where they were going. What they were doing. Who they were.
I was still figuring that out.
My phone buzzed in my pocket. For a second, my heart jumped—stupid, pathetic hope that it might be Emma. Even after all these months, this still happened every time. But no… no Emma.
It was my mom. A text.
Checking in. How are you doing?
We'd been talking again. Not a lot, but enough. She called once a week, asked how therapy was going, whether I was eating, whether I was taking care of myself. She didn't ask about Emma anymore.
I texted back:
Okay. Can't sleep. Out for a walk.
Three dots appeared. Then:
That's good. Walking is good. Call me tomorrow?
Yeah. Love you.
Love you too.
I put my phone away and kept walking.
I'd heard through the grapevine—my dad, who'd heard from Emma's dad—that she'd gotten into a nurse practitioner program. Starting in the fall. Two years of school while working full-time.
I'd wanted to text her. Congratulations. I'm proud of you. You deserve this.
But I hadn't. Dr. Reeves had been clear: "Leave her alone. Let her move on. If you actually care about her wellbeing, you'll respect her boundaries."
So I did. I didn't text. Didn't call. Didn't show up anywhere I thought she might be.
It was the hardest thing I'd ever done.
I turned a corner and found myself on Walnut Street. Restaurants and bars, still busy despite the late hour. People spilling out onto sidewalks, laughing, living.
I should go home. There was nothing for me here.
But I kept walking.
And that’s when I saw her, through the window of a restaurant. One of those trendy Italian places with Edison bulbs and exposed brick. The kind of place Emma and I used to talk about trying but never got around to because I was always working.
She was at a table near the window, and she was laughing.
Not the polite laugh she used to give my work colleagues at firm events. Not the tired laugh she'd had toward the end, when everything was strained and breaking. Real laughter. The kind that made her throw her head back slightly, her whole face lighting up.
She looked beautiful.
Her hair was different. Shorter, maybe? Or just styled differently. She was wearing a blue sweater I didn't recognize. And she looked... healthy. Vibrant. Like someone who slept through the night and went for runs and ate meals that weren't takeout.
Like someone who was happy.
There was a man sitting across from her. Tall, dark hair, nice smile. He said something and she laughed again, reaching across the table to swat his arm playfully.
The man, whoever he was, leaned forward, saying something else. Emma smiled, that soft smile she used to give me when we were first dating. When everything was easy and uncomplicated and good.
My chest felt like someone had reached in and squeezed.
I should leave. Should turn around and walk away. This wasn't my business anymore. She'd moved on. She was allowed to move on.
But I couldn't move.
I just stood there on the sidewalk, watching through the glass like some pathetic ghost haunting a life that wasn't mine anymore.
The waiter brought their food. Emma said something, and the man laughed. She took a bite, made a face like it was good, offered him a taste from her fork. He leaned forward and took it, and they both smiled.
It was such a small thing. Sharing food. The kind of intimate, casual gesture that couples do without thinking.
The kind of thing Emma and I used to do.
My phone was in my hand before I realized what I was doing. Her name was right there in my contacts, still not deleted, even though every call went to voicemail and every text went unread.
I could text her right now. I see you. You look happy. I'm glad.
Or: Can we talk? Please?
Or: I miss you.
My thumb hovered over her name.
Then I remembered Dr. Reeves's voice. If you actually care about her wellbeing, you'll respect her boundaries.
I put my phone away.
Inside the restaurant, Emma's date said something that made her laugh again. She looked so light. So free. Like she'd been carrying something heavy for years and had finally put it down.
She looked the way she'd looked in college, before I'd asked her to give up med school. Before I'd slowly, steadily taken pieces of her and convinced her it was for us, for our future, for something that mattered.
Before I'd destroyed everything.
A couple walking past bumped into me. "Sorry, man," the guy said.
I stepped back, out of their way, and when I looked at the restaurant again, Emma was laughing again. Her hand was on top of his.
I turned and walked away quickly, shoving my hands in my pockets, head down.
I didn't want her to see me. Didn't want to ruin her night. Didn't want to be the ghost that showed up and reminded her of everything she'd escaped.
I walked three blocks before I stopped, leaning against a building, breathing hard like I'd been running.
She was gone. Really, truly gone. Not just divorced-on-paper gone, but moved-on, dating-someone-else, laughing-at-another-man's-jokes gone.
And I had no one to blame but myself.
I pulled out my phone and opened my messages. Scrolled to Dr. Reeves's number.
Can we schedule an extra session this week? I need to talk.
Her response came five minutes later:
Tuesday at 4 PM work? See you then.
I walked home in the dark.
When I got there, I went straight to the kitchen and pulled out the whiskey bottle from the cabinet. Half full. I'd been rationing it, telling myself I was cutting back, that having one drink at night didn't count as a problem.
I unscrewed the cap, poured it down the sink, and watched it swirl down the drain until the bottle was empty.
Then I sat on my couch in the quiet apartment and pulled out my phone. Opened my notes app. Started writing down what I needed to do.
Call the potential client on Monday. Finish the consultation agreement for the solo practice. Schedule the follow-up with Dr. Reeves. Look into that co-working space downtown for an office.
Small steps. That's all I could do.
One day at a time. One decision at a time.
Without her.