Chapter 16
September. The divorce finalizes.
I sit in Heather's office and sign my name fourteen times. Fourteen — I notice because of course I do. Each signature on a different page. Asset division. Debt assignment. Name restoration. Waiver of alimony. Release of claims.
Marco signed his copy last week. His lawyer sent them over. Clean, uncontested. He didn't fight a single term.
"That's it," Heather says. "Once the judge signs off — which is a formality — you're done. Should be processed within two weeks."
"And the credit line?"
"Assigned entirely to him. His debt. His responsibility."
"The co-signed lease?"
"Also his. Brooke defaulted — he owes approximately $7,400 to the landlord. That's between him and the property management company."
"My share of the joint savings?"
"Wire transfer to your credit union account within five business days. $13,430."
I nod. I collect my copies. I walk out of her office — eleven steps to the elevator. Thirty-two to the parking lot. I sit in my car.
$13,430 arrives in five days. Plus my current savings: $11,400. Plus Brooke's payments to date: $1,500 (three months). Total liquid assets after divorce: $26,330.
I was at $114 once. I was at $3,200 twelve weeks ago. Now I'm at $26,330 and climbing.
The house on Archer Street sold in August. I saw the "SOLD" sticker on the listing. Someone else lives there now — someone whose partner didn't empty their savings account into another woman's life.
I'm not angry about the house anymore. I was, for about two weeks in July. A hot, useless anger that didn't produce anything. Now I've moved past it the way I move past a shift: it happened, I survived it, I documented the lessons, I moved on.
The new plan: I don't need Archer Street. I need ANY house that's mine. And at my current savings rate — $2,000/month — I'll have enough for a modest down payment by spring. Six months. A house by my thirty-third birthday.
Smaller than Archer Street. Probably a condo. Maybe a two-bedroom in the complex on Willow Drive — they list around $215,000. Down payment: $21,500. I'll have that by February.
I start the car. I drive — not home. To Willow Drive. I park outside the complex and look at it. Newer construction. Brick. Balconies. Assigned parking. A woman walks out with a dog — waves at me like I belong here.
I could belong here.
Inside, I sit on the couch that used to be ours and is now mine and I call Marco. First time in weeks.
He picks up on the second ring. "Nina?"
"The divorce is finalized. I just signed."
Silence. Then: "I know. I signed last week."
"I wanted to — I don't know. I wanted you to hear it from me that it's done."
"Thank you." His voice is tired. "I'm... I'm sorry, Nina. For all of it."
"I know."
"The lease thing — the landlord sent me a payment plan. $400 a month. It'll take almost two years."
"I'm sorry."
"Don't be. I co-signed it. That's on me."
We're quiet. I count the seconds. Eight.
"Are you okay?" I ask. I don't know why I ask. Reflex. Six years of marriage. The habit of caring about whether someone is eating, sleeping, surviving.
"I'm okay. Working a lot. Danny keeps me busy." A pause. "Are you working tonight?"
"No. Off until Tuesday."
"Good. Rest." Another pause. "I miss — I miss us. The before."
"The before wasn't real, Marco. The before was happening while you were sending her money."
"I know. I just—" He stops. "You're right. I'm sorry."
"Take care of yourself."
"You too."
I hang up. That's the last time I'll call him. I know this the way I know twelve tiles and forty-three steps — with certainty. The marriage is a closed file now. The case is discharged.
I make dinner. One portion. Eat at the table. Wash the dishes. One plate. One fork.
Then I open my phone and text Sadie: How are things?
She replies within minutes: I talked to a lawyer. I have a consultation Monday. The transfers are at $3,600 now — he sent another $1,400 last week. I haven't confronted yet. Waiting like you said.
Good. Get the lawyer's advice first. Then decide.
Thank you. How are YOU?
Divorce finalized today.
Oh. Are you okay?
I think about it. Am I okay? I'm divorced. I'm thirty-two. I have $26,330. I work nights. I live alone.
I'm counting forward instead of backward. That's something.
I don't know what that means but it sounds right.
I smile. Actually smile — the first time in weeks that my face has done that without me making it.
It means I used to count what was taken. Now I count what's building.
I'll get there too?
You will.
I put the phone down. I don't set an alarm — nowhere to be tomorrow. Brush teeth. Bed.
Then I get into bed. My bed. In my apartment. My name on the lease, my paycheck in my account, my plan in my head.
$26,330. $2,000 per month. Six months to a down payment.
I fall asleep counting forward. Each number is bigger than the last.