Chapter 12
I close my eyes. Count to five.
"What happens now?"
"He has thirty days to respond. He'll likely contact you — probably within the hour. He may be upset. You're under no obligation to discuss the case with him. Refer him to his lawyer."
"He doesn't have a lawyer."
"He will by end of day. People find lawyers fast when they're served."
"Thank you, Heather."
"One more thing — the automatic restraining order is in effect as of the filing. Neither party can move, sell, or dissipate assets. The joint accounts are frozen in place. He can't send Brooke another dollar."
"Good."
I hang up. I drink the cold coffee. I wait.
At 11:03 — twenty-one minutes after being served — my phone rings. Marco.
I let it ring. Four times. Five. Six. Voicemail.
He calls again immediately. I let it go.
A text: Nina what the fuck. DIVORCE? Can you please pick up?
Then: I'm coming home. Are you there?
I'm not there. I'm here. With cold coffee and a laptop and the specific calm that comes after a decision is made and there's nothing left to do but watch it execute.
He calls a third time. I answer.
"Nina—"
"I'm not at home. Don't go there looking for me."
"What is this? I thought we were — I was EARNING it back. I was working every weekend—"
"I know. And I appreciate that. But this isn't about whether you earn it back."
"Then what is it about?"
"You spent our future on another woman while I slept. You had sex with her on a night I was saving someone's life. You opened a credit line without telling me. And when I confronted you, you kept calling her."
"I TOLD you I wanted to tell her to sign—"
"Marco." I say his name and let it sit. Three seconds of silence. "I have a lawyer. You need to get one. That's the conversation now."
"I don't WANT a lawyer. I want my wife."
"That's not an option you have anymore."
He's crying. I can hear it — the wet inhale, the half-swallowed sound. For a moment I feel something shift in my chest — something that wants to comfort him. Six years of marriage built that reflex. I let the moment pass. I count it: four seconds of wanting to fix his pain. Then it's gone.
"Get a lawyer," I say. "The filing includes the dissipation claim and the credit line assignment. Your lawyer will explain what that means. Don't move any money — there's a restraining order on assets."
"Nina, PLEASE—"
"I'm going to hang up now. I'm sorry this isn't the conversation you wanted."
I hang up. Set the phone face-down on the table.
The barista looks at me from behind the counter. I realize my hand is pressing my thumbnail into my finger — the pressure-color test. I relax it. Four seconds. Color returns.
I close my laptop. I finish the cold coffee. I sit for another twenty minutes. He won't know where I am and he'll go home and find an empty apartment. That's okay. He needs to sit with it the way I sat with the bank statement — alone, with a number that changes everything.
At noon I drive to Rosie's house. She's waiting — I texted her this morning. She opens the door and doesn't ask how I am. She just hands me a glass of wine even though it's noon and I don't usually drink.
"It's done?" she says.
"Served at 10:42."
"How'd he take it?"
"Called three times. Cried. Said he was earning it back."
"That's not — that's not how this works."
"I know."
We sit on her couch and she doesn't make me talk. She puts on a cooking show — something gentle, low volume. I drink the wine slowly. One glass. I count the sips: fourteen.
At 2 PM my phone buzzes. Marco: I'm going to stay at Danny's tonight. I'll get my things later. I just need you to know I never stopped loving you. I'm sorry.
I read it. I don't reply.
Then another text — this one from Brooke. I signed the agreement this morning. Your lawyer has it. I'm sorry, Nina. I'll make the payments.
The timing. She signed the morning I filed. Like the universe is closing out the books on the same day.
I show Rosie the text from Brooke.
"Good," Rosie says. "Now she's legally bound."
"$500 a month. Starting July first."
"And Marco?"
"The divorce will handle his portion. Heather's requesting the full dissipation credit. Whatever's left after dividing assets — he owes me the difference."
Rosie nods. She pours me a second glass of wine.
I don't drink it — one is enough. I set it on the coffee table and watch the cooking show.
A woman is making pasta from scratch. Rolling dough thin with a machine.
Counting the passes through the roller — one, two, three, four, five, six. Setting each. Thinner every time.
Six passes. Then you cut.
At 5 PM I drive home. Marco's truck is gone. He took a bag — I can see the gap in the closet where his weekend duffel lives. His toothbrush is gone from the bathroom.
The apartment is mine. Just mine. For the first time in six years, no one else is here.
I stand in the kitchen and I count.
Tiles to the bathroom: twelve. Steps to the front door: twenty-two. Windows: seven. Rooms: four. Months until this is over: three to six.
Balance in my new account: $3,200 (last paycheck redirected here).
Balance in joint savings: $24,418 (frozen by court order).
Balance owed by Brooke: the full amount (minus whatever comes monthly).
Balance owed on credit line: Marco's problem now.
My net worth today: approximately $3,200. Plus whatever comes from the divorce.
I'm thirty-two. I have $3,200 and an empty apartment and a shift tomorrow night.
I set my alarm. Brush my teeth. Get into bed.
The bed is different with only one body in it. More space. Cooler. Quieter. No snoring. No warmth.
I count ceiling tiles. Fourteen.
I fall asleep at 8:30 PM — an unheard-of hour for a night-shift nurse. But I'm not working tonight. I'm just a woman alone in an apartment, starting over.
It takes seventy-eight sheep before I'm under.