A point John was quick to point out when he found out I’d sold the house. He’d shown up as I was hauling a giant box down the stairs, and because he didn’t seem to remember—or care—that he no longer lived there, he let himself in.
Instead of helping, he stood there watching.
When I finally reached the bottom of the stairs, I blew out a breath and looked at him. “Wow, thanks for the help.”
“Just want you to see what it’s going to be like when I’m not around,” he said.
I rolled my eyes and walked toward the kitchen. “Right, because you’ve been so reliable since you moved out,” I said over my shoulder.
As expected, he’d followed me into the kitchen. “What are you thinking, Claire? Amelia told me you think you’re moving to Chicago?”
“No,” I said, aware and annoyed that he’d used our daughter’s given name—the formal one that suited his family—and not the nickname I’d given her practically since the second she was born.
“No?”
“I don’t think it,” I said, vaguely gesturing to the rest of the boxes strewn about. “I’m doing it.”
“That’s a bad idea.”
“I didn’t ask your opinion.”
“The crime there isterrible,” he said. “It’s like the Wild West.”
“It’s really not.”
He continued as if I was just there to listen to him talk and not be a part of the conversation. “And it’s expensive. Really expensive. Especially in the city—are you going to get a job?”
I smiled right at him and shrugged.
“Do you have a budget?” he asked. “My alimony check will only go so far.”
I stopped briefly. “Here’s the great thing about divorce, John. You don’t have to care. You don’t have to wonder, or worry, or have an opinion about anything I do anymore, ever.”
He crossed his arms over his chest and studied me. “You haven’t thought this through.”
I sighed and pulled a bottle of water from the refrigerator.
“I’ll figure it out,” I’d said, with far less conviction than I intended to. But honestly! I’m forty-six years old. A competent, capable woman. I steeled my jaw and leveled my gaze. “Everything is figure-out-able.”
He’d stared at me like he couldn’t believe what I was saying. “Did you read that on a poster somewhere? You’re making a huge mistake.”
A plaque in HomeGoods, actually, but I didn’t tell him that.
What if John’s right? What if this whole plan is going to crash and burn?
I shake myself into the present. I’m still holding the key in my hand.
The house sold in record time. The sale set me up for at least a year to make things figure-out-able.
I’m here. With a new apartment. In a new city. In a new state.
In a new life.
The thought is equal parts terrifying and exciting, but I shove all the feelings aside as I push the key into the lock and turn it.
The door swings open, both in front of me and metaphorically.
I breathe in and look around.
