Chapter 13
Three weeks pass. The shape of a life changes faster than you'd think.
Marco hired a lawyer — a guy named Patel who Heather says is reasonable, neither aggressive nor a pushover.
They're negotiating. The apartment is mine for now — Marco is at Danny's, sleeping on a pullout sofa in the basement.
He texted once to ask if he could pick up his winter coats.
I said yes. He came while I was at work.
I know because two hangers were empty when I got home. I counted.
My shifts continue. Tuesday, Wednesday, Thursday. The ER doesn't care about my divorce — it keeps sending people through the doors at the same rate. Chest pain, lacerations, overdoses, falls. I count vitals. I chart medications. I hold hands.
At 2:17 AM on a Wednesday, I'm charting and Deborah sits next to me.
"You seem better," she says.
"Better than what?"
"Than three weeks ago. Less tight."
I think about this. "The unknown is resolved," I say. "I know what's happening now. Before, I didn't."
She nods like this makes perfect sense. "The waiting is always worse than the thing."
"Yes."
She goes back to her patients. I finish my charting.
She's right — I am better. Not happier. Not healed. But organized. The chaos has structure now. It has a lawyer and a timeline and monthly payments. It has numbers I can track. And numbers are what I do.
At my lawyer's office the following Monday, Heather shows me the proposed settlement.
"His attorney is offering a 55/45 split in your favor," she says.
"They acknowledge the dissipation. Marco takes full responsibility for the credit line.
You get 55% of the joint savings — that's $13,430 — and he gets 45%, which is $10,988.
His 45% is then reduced by the remaining dissipation amount not covered by Brooke's payments. "
"Net to me?"
"Approximately $13,430 from the joint savings. Plus whatever Brooke pays over time. Marco keeps the truck and his tools. You keep personal property and the apartment lease."
I do the math. $13,430 from the divorce. Plus $12,000 from Brooke over two years (if she keeps paying). Total recovery: approximately $25,430. Over two years. Out of everything that was taken.
"I get back more than what was taken?"
"You get back a portion of what remains — which is less than what was taken, because the money is gone.
The dissipation credit means the court TREATS it as if the money still exists for division purposes.
You're not getting the actual amount back — you're getting a larger share of what's left, plus Brooke's repayment. The net effect puts you roughly even."
Roughly even. After two years. It's not justice — it's accounting.
"There's one complication," Heather adds. "The co-signed lease."
"What about it?"
"Brooke stopped paying rent last month."
I press my thumbnail into my finger. Four seconds. "What?"
"The landlord called Marco's attorney. She's two months behind. Under the lease guarantee, Marco owes $2,800. And counting."
"That's his debt. Not mine."
"Correct — we've established that in the filing. But it affects his ability to pay anything additional to you. If the landlord pursues him and she defaults entirely, he could owe another $7,000 by year end."
"She just sent me $500 on July first. She had money for MY payment but not for her rent?"
Heather spreads her hands. "People make choices."
I leave the office. Sit in my car for seven minutes. Count breaths.
Brooke is defaulting on the lease Marco co-signed while simultaneously paying ME back. Which means she's choosing to create a new debt for him while servicing the old one to me. She's punishing him. Using the lease as leverage.
Or she doesn't have enough for both.
Either way — not my problem. The lease is Marco's. The repayment agreement is mine. Two separate channels.
I drive home. Open the DIVORCE folder on my laptop. Update the numbers:
Recovery from divorce: ~$13,430
Brooke payment received: $500 (1 of 24)
Brooke payments remaining: $11,500 over 23 months
Projected total recovery: ~$25,430
My current savings: $6,900
Time to $32,000 (house fund): If I save $1,500/month + Brooke's $500/month = $2,000/month. I have $6,900 now. Add $13,430 from divorce when finalized (probably 3 months). That's $20,330. Then $2,000/month for 6 months = $12,000 more. Total: $32,330 in approximately 9 months after divorce finalizes.
Nine months. Nine months instead of twelve years.
Because the divorce gives me back what the dissipation took. The equivalent, if not the same money. The court's math corrects his math.
I'll be thirty-three. That's one year from now.
I close the laptop. Make dinner — a real dinner, salmon and rice, not hospital food. I count the broccoli florets out of habit. Eleven. An odd number. But my odd number now.
I eat at the table with the TV on low. Some reality show I'm not watching. I'm watching the numbers behind my eyes instead. $6,900. $13,430. $500 per month. $1,500 per month.
The machine works if you don't let anyone else touch it.
After dinner I wash the dishes. One plate. One fork. One glass. One pot. One pan. Seven items total. I dry them and put them away.
Then I sit on the couch — our couch, which I'm keeping — and I allow myself five minutes of something that isn't counting.
I think about Brooke. The before-Brooke, not the money-Brooke.
The woman I met in clinical rotations at twenty, both of us terrified of our first code blue.
The woman who brought me soup when I had mono junior year.
The woman who helped me study for boards — we made flashcards in her apartment and quizzed each other until 3 AM.
Twelve years of friendship. A decade of birthdays and bad boyfriends and late-night calls. All of it real. And then — not real. Or real but insufficient. Real but not strong enough to prevent what she did.
I don't miss her. I thought I would. But I don't miss someone who was lying to me every time she said "you and Marco are the only ones who care." She was right about one thing — we were. We cared more than she deserved.
Five minutes. Then I'm done. Back to numbers.
I check the banking app. $6,900 in the new account. $24,418 frozen in the joint.
Steady. Growing. Mine.
I set my alarm for 5 PM. Shift tomorrow. The routine waiting.
Some numbers are anchors. They keep you fixed while everything else moves around you.