My palms felt sweaty.
Since I’d been in New York, I had narcissistically tried to focus on everythingbutBen. Partly it was survival. If I thought too deeply about how much I’d hurt him or how our marriage had failed, I was afraid I wouldn’t be able to channel the forward motion I needed to succeed.
I stared at the phone long after his name disappeared, then moved it to the opposite side of my desk. I leaned back in my chair, a knot forming in my stomach. Who said avoidance was bad? Facing my past seemed worse.
I jumped as my office phone emitted a high-pitched ring.
“This is Sam,” I answered shakily.
“Oh my god. It’s after midnight.Go home!”
I exhaled an unsteady breath.
“Christ, Charlie. You suck. Let me work,” I said, trying to steady my voice.
“Okay fine, but we were out till three a.m. last night! You need sleep. Hope you’re winding down.”
“Night. Bet I’ll still be up before you in the morning.”
He chuckled. “You already are. Get some sleep.”
I hung up and decided to put off responding to Ben until I finished the memo. My mind felt like a sieve.
I was pure OCD as a junior attorney. Four hours later, I had spell-checked the memo eight times, read the cover email aloud three timesto make sure it flowed, and deleted and retyped Eddie’s email in the “to” line too many times. Finally, I squeezed my left eye shut and hit send.
I ordered an Uber as I leaned against the cool metal wall of the elevator, willing myself to stay awake until I got home.
As I settled into the Uber, I checked my Gmail and saw an email from Ben with everything the text hadn’t said.
He was coming to New York next week for a conference at the Federal Reserve. He had work dinners every night but was free Wednesday. Did I want to have dinner?
Chapter Eleven
I didn’t know how to feel about Ben coming to New York. It felt too soon after the wreckage of the last time we’d seen each other, three weeks before I flew to Rochester to take the bar exam. A week before I spiraled at Vin Rouge.
I’d been packing up my off-campus apartment when the doorbell rang. A FedEx driver handed me an envelope with the divorce papers I’d mailed to Ben with a note stuck to the front, asking him to sign and send them back promptly so I could finalize everything before I took the bar.
Relief washed over me. Even with something like this, he was still reliable, and I was grateful for it. I opened the envelope and pulled out the papers, marked with a “sign here” tab on each of the three pages that required Ben’s signature.
He’d signed the first two.
The last page was blank.
I felt exhausted and frustrated. I’d spent the entire summer doing nothing but studying for the bar, and I needed to be able to file the papers before I moved to New York.
He picked up the first ring.
“Hey, it’s Sam. The papers just arrived. There were three signature tabs, but you missed the third one.”
The line was silent for a second, but I could hear his breath close to the phone.
“Sorry. It’s been a rough week. Mail ’em back to me, I’ll sign the one I missed.”
I’d already done the unthinkable by leaving him. But I’d allowed myself to go on autopilot so I could just get through to the other side, and my anxiety had overtaken my guilt. “I can’t wait that long. I’m driving them back to you now. Please be home.”
I pulled in an hour later, rattled from stress. He had sold our townhouse and moved closer to his family, into an apartment complex that was reminiscent of the place he’d lived in when we met in college. Not seeing Ben for months had made it easier to ignore the emotional fallout from ending our marriage. I climbed a worn wooden staircase to the second-floor apartment, my eyes locking on what looked like a waste stabilization pond behind the building. Everything was a visual reminder of the impact my choices had had on his life.
I knocked and waited. I knocked again a few seconds later, then jiggled the doorknob and realized it was unlocked. The door opened to a plastic linoleum foyer that led to a carpeted living room. Ben was sitting on a couch I recognized from his parents’ basement. There was a metal floor lamp bright enough to illuminate only half of the couch. From what I could see of his face, he looked tired. The circles under his eyes hurt to look at.
