Chapter 6
I shower. Dress in what I call my "real person" clothes — dark jeans, white blouse, a jacket. Brooke has only ever seen me exhausted, in between shifts, half-asleep on her couch. Today she's going to see me awake.
Marco is in the living room watching something on his phone with headphones in. He looks up when I come out.
"Going out," I say.
"Okay." He doesn't ask where. He's stopped asking. That's either wisdom or cowardice. I don't care which.
I drive to Miller Street. Unit 4B. Park in my spot — it's becoming a spot now, three visits in four days. I count the steps from my car to the building entrance: twenty-six. Up the stairs: fourteen. Down the hall to her door: nine.
I knock.
Fifteen seconds. Then the lock turns. The door opens.
Brooke is in sweats and a tank top. Hair in a messy bun. No makeup. She sees me and her face does something complicated — surprise, then pleasure, then a flicker of something underneath. Something watchful.
"Nina! Hey! Come in. I was just—"
"I know about the money."
Her smile freezes. Not drops — freezes. Held in place by will.
"What?"
"Twenty-three thousand dollars. From Marco. Over four months. I have every transaction. Dates, amounts, all of it. I also know about April fourteenth."
She doesn't move. The door is still half-open, her hand on the frame. Behind her I can see the apartment — the gray velvet couch, the new TV on the wall, a throw blanket I've never seen before. Teal. Cashmere, by the look of it.
"Can I come in?" I say.
She steps back. Automatic. The way you move when someone in authority tells you to make room.
I walk in. I count the room — not because I want to, but because my brain does it without permission. The TV is a 55-inch Samsung. The coffee table is live-edge wood. The rug underneath it is the kind that shows up in West Elm catalogs. Three plants on the windowsill in matching ceramic pots.
This apartment costs more to furnish than mine. And mine is the one with the working nurse living in it.
I sit on the couch. Brooke sits in the chair across from me. She hasn't spoken since the door.
"I'm not here to scream at you," I say. "I'm here to tell you what I know and give you one chance to respond before my lawyer handles it."
"Your lawyer?"
"I've already consulted one. The legal term for what Marco did is dissipation of marital assets. The legal term for what you received is unjust enrichment. Both are actionable in Connecticut."
Her face changes. The frozen smile is gone. Now it's something else — calculation. The same rearrangement I saw on Marco's face when I first confronted him. Both of them calculating. Both of them deciding which version to tell me.
"He offered," she says. "I didn't ask—"
"Brooke. I have his list. In his handwriting. 'She asked for groceries.' 'She said her electric was going to be shut off.' 'She said she was behind on the lease.' You asked. Every single time."
"I was IN TROUBLE—"
"You're a registered nurse. BSN, same as me. There are seven hundred open positions within thirty miles. You haven't applied to a single one."
"I COULDN'T—"
"You went to brunch on May twentieth. You got a manicure. You had wine with friends. You ordered from Amazon three times this week. You're not a woman who can't function — you're a woman who doesn't NEED to function because my husband is covering your life."
She's quiet. Her hands are in her lap. She's twisting a ring on her right hand — a thin gold band, cheap. The kind you buy yourself.
"How much do you want back?" she says. Small voice.
"All of it."
"I don't have twenty-three thousand dollars."
"I know. That's why I'm giving you a choice before this goes to court. Option one: you agree to a payment plan. Monthly. Documented. My lawyer draws it up. You sign. You pay until it's done."
"And option two?"
"I file the unjust enrichment claim. Your name goes on a court record.
The judge sees the Zelle receipts, the Venmo spending, the apartment, the lease.
The judge sees that you're a licensed nurse who chose not to work because my husband was funding your life.
And the judge orders you to pay it back — plus my legal fees. "
"That could take—"
"Years. I know. Option one is faster for both of us."
She stares at me. For twenty-three seconds — I count — neither of us speaks.
Then: "I didn't mean for it to go this far."
"That's not an apology."
"I know." She swallows. "I was scared. After the divorce, I just — everything fell apart and Marco was so KIND, and—"
"Don't." I hold up my hand. "Don't tell me how kind he was. I know how kind he is. That's why I married him. And that's what you exploited."
"I didn't EXPLOIT—"
"What do you call it when you let a man pay your rent while you sleep with him and tell him you're desperate?
While his wife — your FRIEND — works night shifts to save for a house you knew about?
You came to my home. You ate at my table.
You hugged me and told me you loved me. While every month another thousand dollars of my future was going into your bank account. "
Her eyes are wet. She blinks fast. Three times.
"I'll do the payment plan," she says.
"Good. My lawyer will send the paperwork this week. You'll have fourteen days to sign. If you don't sign, we go to court."
I stand up. I look around the apartment one more time. The couch. The TV. The rug. The appliances I know are in the kitchen — the washer, the dryer.
"One more thing."
She looks up.
"Who was the man here Thursday evening? Six-twelve PM. Tall, dark jacket, takeout."
Her face goes white. Actually white — like hemoglobin dropping.
"That's—" She stops. Restarts. "That's just a guy I'm seeing."
"A guy you're seeing. While my husband pays your rent."
She says nothing.
"Marco thinks he's the only one helping you," I say. "He thinks he's your lifeline. And there's a man bringing you dinner on a Thursday while Marco is at our house waiting for me to get home from a shift." I pause. "You're not desperate, Brooke. You're running a system."
I walk to the door. Open it.
"My lawyer's name is Heather Tsai. Expect the paperwork by Friday."
I pull the door closed behind me. Nine steps down the hall. Fourteen stairs. Twenty-six steps to my car.
I sit behind the wheel and breathe. In for four. Hold for seven. Out for eight. The technique they teach in nursing school for stress management. I've never used it for myself before. I use it on patients — hold their hand, tell them to breathe with me, count together.
Today I hold my own hand and count.
I drive home. I feel like I just finished a twelve-hour shift — that specific emptiness after sustained high performance. You've done everything right. You've been clear and competent and precise. And now you're tired in a way that sleep doesn't fully fix.
Marco is in the same spot when I walk in. Headphones off now. Looking at me.
"I talked to Brooke," I say.
His face tightens.
"She agreed to pay the money back. My lawyer is writing up a payment plan."
"Your lawyer?" He stands. "You have a LAWYER?"
"Yes."
"Nina — are we — are you—"
"I don't know yet." That's a lie. I do know. But the lawyer said not to announce it before she's ready to file. Let him keep talking. Let him keep admitting things. "Right now I'm focused on the money."
He sits back down. Slowly. His hands on his knees.
"Okay," he says. "That's fair."
Nothing about this is fair. But I don't say that. I go to the bedroom. I lock the door. I add today's conversation to the DIVORCE folder — time, date, what Brooke said, what she admitted.
Then I look at the house on Archer Street on Zillow. Still listed. $289,000. Three bedrooms. Fenced yard. Counter space.
Some day. Not with him. But some day.
I close the laptop and set my alarm for 5 PM. I have a shift tonight. Twelve hours. Forty-three steps. Fourteen streetlights.
The world that makes sense.