Chapter 15
FIFTEEN
TORI
The apartment is doing that thing quiet does—pressing in from every corner like soundproof foam.
The heat kicks on and off in little breaths, the Betty Boop clock above the TV ticks one second at a time like it’s proud of itself, and my brain—mashed potatoes.
I’m in my comfiest leggings and an oversized hoodie with a hole in the left cuff, hair in a messy bun that’s more a metaphor for my current state of mind than an actual hairstyle.
On the coffee table: a legal pad from Jacob Sterling’s office; my neat, anxious handwriting; a capped pen I’ve been uncapping and recapping for the last two hours.
Fairly certain the tiny circle imprinted on the tip of my thumb is permanent.
I can still hear Mr. Sterling’s voice. Measured.
Even. Exactly how you’d want a man to sound if he were holding a sharp knife and cutting your life in half—careful enough not to sever a finger, steady enough not to slip.
I left work at lunchtime today so I could meet with him this afternoon.
I had planned to attend this one solo, but once again, my trusty, blue-haired—nay, now purple-haired—sidekick met me at the stairs to the building just as I was about to enter.
“I’m not here to destroy your husband,” he said, sitting back in that too-perfect leather chair, palms flat on the desk as if to say no tricks here.
“Thank you, Mr. Sterling.”
“Please,” he said, “Call me Jake.”
I nodded. That definitely made everything feel less formal, less stuffy and uncomfortable.
“Destroying someone else is not the point of this process, and it’s not how I practice. I’m here to ensure you’re taken care of and this is fair. We will be firm where we need to be and humane where we can be. You shared real years. I won’t pretend they didn’t happen.”
Humane. Firm. Fair. Words that feel like a level surface after months of walking on marbles.
During our first meeting I got the impression that Skye was not the biggest fan of Jake, but she is not in the habit of making decisions for me and refused to offer any opinions or guidance after we left.
She simply asked questions about what I wanted, and had me answer whether or not Jacob Sterling fit the bill.
He did. She asked if I wanted to meet with anyone else or if I felt comfortable with him.
I felt comfortable. That was that. Jake was my guy.
He went line by line, patient, precise: house in Moraine (primary marital asset; equity to be split), the joint checking and savings (trace the deposits, freeze the account from any surprise withdrawals), Chase’s 401(k) and pension track (QDRO—Qualified Domestic Relations Order—filed if needed; “Don’t worry about the acronym; that’s on me,” he’d said with a small smile), my tiny retirement from the accounting firm (barely a blip, but it’s still a piece on the board), the cars (titles, current value), the shared credit card (close it; we’ll divide responsibility based on dates of use).
He even asked about furniture, and I told him about the coffee table we bought from that antique shop the summer we first moved back to Moraine—the one with the drawer that sticks and the carved elk antlers on the legs.
Not because I want the coffee table. But because I ramble when I’m nervous and he wanted to know if I had any sort of attachment to things that might surprise me later.
I didn’t. Not to objects. Not anymore.
“Spousal maintenance,” he continued, “is not a punishment. It’s a tool. You’ve been the lower earner the last few years. The court looks at need and ability to pay, length of the marriage, standard of living, both parties’ earning capacities. We’ll run the numbers. We don’t posture; we present.”
He said we every time. Not you. Not I. We.
I thought the word would make me feel small—like the person with the law degree was creating the illusion of partnership to get me to sign things.
It didn’t. It made me feel… held? Not in a romantic way.
In a someone competent has the wheel way.
My mother likes to say Jesus, take the wheel when she’s overwhelmed.
Well, Jake, take the wheel. Because I sure as hell don’t know what I’m doing. I’m glad he does.
At one point, I’d blurted, “I don’t want to ruin him.” It came out too fast, too raw, right in the middle of something he was saying, and Jake nodded like I’d just solved for x on a chalkboard and he’d been waiting for me to catch up to myself.
“Good,” he said. “We’re aligned. We don’t litigate vengeance. We litigate clarity. And if we can do this without court? We do. If not, I know that road, too.” His mouth twitched. “But I don’t leave people limping. Your husband won’t leave with nothing. He’ll leave with what’s fair. So will you.”
I exhale. My shoulders drop. I hadn’t realized they’d been lodged up by my ears since noon.
This—this is why I hired him. Because while he can be heavy-handed if someone forces him there, he also respects the reality of a shared life.
He isn’t going to turn our last decade together into a bloodbath just to spike a win percentage.
I never wanted that. I want clean. I want done.
I want to sleep again without waking up with my molars clenched.
I flip the legal pad to the next page. My own notes look like a stranger’s handwriting—not because the actual writing looks any different, but because the words don’t feel like my own.
The act of getting divorced is still so foreign and unfamiliar.
Gather tax returns (last 3 years). Bank statements (12 months).
Retirement plan statements. Car titles. House deed.
Itemize furniture only if it’ll matter to me emotionally later—(it won’t).
Passwords—already changed, but double check.
A doodle of a tiny box labeled “marital property” with a stick figure version of me climbing out.
I should feel better.
I do. A little.
The clock still ticks. The heat still clicks on, then off. On again.
Skye’s not home—closing the coffee shop, probably doing a latte art competition with herself and talking to regulars about their dogs. The whole apartment feels like a waiting room. Waiting for, what? Who even knows.
And then, because it always happens, the ache sneaks in. The missing.
Yes, I still miss him. Every. Single. Day.
Does it make sense? No. And also, yes.
It isn’t the missing of who Chase is now.
I’m not that delusional. It’s the missing of the man I married—the boy with the cocky grin who I tutored in tenth grade, who kissed me behind the gym like I was his nerdy little secret, who told me he loved me and meant it.
The man in college who wanted to marry me and build a life with me.
Where did he go? Was he ever truly there, or am I remembering glimpses of reality but not the whole picture?
That’s what terrifies me—constantly wondering if my own memories are lies.
If I distorted reality because I saw potential instead of an actual person standing in front of me each day.
Was our love a lie? Our marriage a farce?
Was it real? The connection? The intimacy?
Or was it all fabricated, forced. Held together by the sheer will of a fifteen-year-old girl who saw a beautiful, broken boy who needed someone, anyone, to love him, and she thought that person could be her.
Come here, broken boy. I’ll love you. I’ll make it all better.
I mourn for her naivety. The hope she had for the future—for their future, together.
I wonder if he’s okay. What if he’s not okay?
I pick up my phone. Set it down. Pick it up again. It’s pathetic. I’m pathetic.
Chase’s name stares back at me from the screen. The photo is from years ago—Denver weekend, rooftop bar, sun in his eyes, squinting smile. I should change it. I should delete it. I should do anything besides what I’m about to do, which is tap his name like my thumb has a mind of its own.
Would he even answer?
Of course he’ll answer. He wants me to come home.
Would he be happy if I called?
Do I care if he’s happy? I don’t want him to be unhappy. I also don’t know that I care about making him happy. He can be happy, but I don’t have to be the one who made it happen. It’s not like I was ever any good at contributing to his happiness before.
The call screen hovers. I freeze, then swipe it away like it’s hot. End. End. End. I back out, opening a new text instead, because typed words feel safer than his voice. That voice I know too well.
I met with an attorney today.
My thumb hovers over send. I delete it.
How are you?
Delete.
I love you.
Nope.
I hate you.
No, but, also yes. But, also no.
I miss you.
My chest clenches. I delete that so hard my thumb hurts.
The sickest part? I do miss him. And I hate that I miss him. I hate that grief and relief coexist in my ribcage like roommates who refuse to move out.
Hi, hello, my name is Victoria Foster and I am a walking contradiction. Yes, mhmm, it is incredibly frustrating. What’s that you asked? How close am I to Britney 2007? About as close as I am to throat punching you for asking that question in the first place.
My thumb finds the microphone icon by habit. I almost press it. I want to ask if he’s eating actual meals. If he found the gray sweater I left in the dryer. If he’s sleeping. If he thinks about me when he pours his coffee or if I’ve already been edited out of the morning routine.
I put the phone face down on the far side of the coffee table like distance will save me. I know it won’t. I could walk across the room and throw the damn thing into the kitchen sink and it would still hum in my bones like a mosquito in the dark.
There’s only one thing I can control right now, and it’s not my heart. It’s my body chemistry. And if I can’t calm my mind, I can at least calm my body. Decision made, I stand from the couch and head to my room.