“You’re still there?” he repeats. “How are you even surviving?”
“Yes, John, I’m still here,” I deadpan. “I’m doing just fine. I actually live here now.”
The condescending noise he makes has me wishing someonewould invent a new type of phone where a person—say, me—could reach through and slap someone with their own hands on the other end.
“I’m calling to make sure you legally changed your name back to Karadec,” he says.
“Why?” I ask. “Are you concerned that a woman over the age of forty might be running wild with your family name?”
“No, it’s just that... Misty wants to be the only Mrs. John Wellesley,” he says.
“Ha!” The laugh/scoff is out before I can stop myself.
I stop at a crosswalk and wait for the light, the sound of traffic and conversation filling the air around me. On the other end of the line, it’s completely quiet.
“Has Misty met your mother?” I ask, annoyed. “Mrs. John Wellesley?”
John starts to say something, then pauses like he hasn’t actually realized this, then says, “You know what I mean, Claire.”
I’m downtown on the Magnificent Mile, and I pause to admire the thousands of tulips blooming on Michigan Avenue. They’re so bright and cheerful, I almost forget it’s my ex-husband on the other end of this call. If it were anyone else, I might switch to FaceTime just to share the view.
The light changes, and I join the foot traffic crossing the street like I actually know where I’m going.
“You can tellMistyshe can have your name,” I say. “I got rid of it months ago.” She can also have his snoring, his cigar smoking, and his inability to put dirty clothes in the hamper, but I don’t say that part out loud.
“Great!” he says, like we just finalized a low-interest loan at a bank.
Silence.
I absently wonder if they’ve set a date for the wedding but decide I don’t care enough to ask.
I shift my weight. “Is that all?”
He sighs. “Uh... how’ve you been?”
I bite the inside of my cheek to stop the dammed-up reservoir of choice words pooling at the front of my brain.
“Seriously?”
“Well... yeah,” he says. “You know, I’m just... wondering how... it’s all... going. There. With you.”
The last bit of my patience is about to hop on a plane. I know there’s more. Something he’s not saying. Something he undoubtedly needs.
“John, just say what you want to say.”
There’s another pause. And then, “I, uh... I need a favor.”
I slow my pace, trying to figure out if I heard him right. “I’m sorry—did you say you need afavor? From me?”
“It’s work, Claire. Don’t make a thing of it.”
I half laugh. Is he serious?
“Are you serious?”
“We’re trying to land that company—Oleander? You remember?” he asks.
“Oh. I remember.” It’s a high-end line of women’s spa products. The kind I can no longer afford.
