“Rich and I have been separated for over a year. Let’s not make a big deal about the day the paperwork goes through, okay?” I hold up the gift card. “I appreciate the gesture, but I’m fine. Drink your own expired drinks tonight.”
“Only the card is expired—the drinks are perfection—but I can’t. Brady’s mom’s coming into town, so I have to pack all my stuff and pretend I live with my old roommate.” Her voice is light, as though temporarily moving out of her apartment so her twenty-four-year-old boyfriend can defer an uncomfortable conversation with the woman who pays for his cell phone plan is just another quirky Friday night.
For months, I’ve wanted to shake her, warn her, or at least forward the invoices from my divorce attorney.See!it’d say in the body of the email.This can happen even when you marry the guy who has monogrammed towels and a metal filing cabinet under his desk that heactuallyuses to file things. Even men like this leave! You think you can go the distance with the dude who has to ask his mom to adjust his data plan???
Thankfully, a notification on my phone saves me from saying something I’ll probably regret.
Ethan: I’m in the area, btw. It’s been way too long and a little birdie told me you might be having a tough day.
Something old and neglected flutters under my breastbone at the sight of Ethan’s name on my phone again. The one upside of divorce is that all your old friends who hated your husband come crawling back out of the woodwork. Ethan, my“shoeless friend,” as Rich called him—though it should be noted that the barefoot thing was more of a short-lived teenage phase and less of a lifelong aesthetic—was one of the handful of guests who had something “come up” on the day of my wedding the way emergencies seem to materialize on bad dates as soon as the waiter offers dessert. As my best man, his absence was slightly more noticeable and initiated a year of silence that only ended the day Rich left and I sent Ethan a tonally confusingTurns out, you were righttext message paired with a GIF of Kim Kardashian popping out of the bushes.
“What dude is sending you an ‘in the area’ text?” Stacy grabs my phone and examines the photo in my contacts. “Wait. Is this Man Bun from your bachelorette party? He was such a cutie,” she says in an exceedingly wholesome tone. “I love this for you. Unless he’s married. Is he married?”
“He’s just a friend,” I argue reflexively, because my oldest friend has never been a romantic or sexual option for millions of reasons, not least of which is that he’s a musician who’s been perpetually touring on the college circuit since we were nineteen, and I’m…well…me. “A friend who travels constantly and has been audited twice by the IRS. He’s not the kind of guy you can sign up with for a vegetable CSA.” I swipe my phone back from her.
“That’s your immediate concern for a date? Whether you can see yourself eating locally sourced turnips together? You don’t need to commit to a farm-share with Man Bun to rebound with him.”
“He only wore it in a bun that one time,” I deflect, despite the fact that I haven’t actuallyseenhim in years.
I suppose it’s possible he still wears it in a bun. The thought of seeing him again, knowing for certain how he’s changedoutside of the grainy concert photos he’s occasionally tagged in, sends a happy jolt through my ribs.
Ethan: Today’s no good, but I can be around tomorrow if you need anything.
I roll my eyes to counteract the pitiful rock sinking in my stomach. I somehow let myself forget that “in the area” to Ethan can mean anything from a state park three hours away to a dive bar in a nondescript town somewhere outside of Lincoln, Nebraska. He’s always hated being stuck in one place too long.
A third message appears.
Ethan: The little birdie is Lo. I don’t STILL believe I can talk to birds.
I snort at that one, and, as though summoned, my sister, Laurel, is now FaceTiming me.
“I have to take this, Stace. Have a wonderful time lovingly deceiving your potential future mother-in-law.”
She turns toward my door. “Enjoy the divorced zaddies at Ruth’s Chris.” She stops short, whipping her hair over her shoulder and holding up a finger in the universal gesture forSorry, one last thing. “You’re gonna talk to AgriTech, right?”
I loll my head back and find my already exhausted reflection in the window. How is it not even eight? “I’ll make them sweat first, but tell Bob it’s as good as fixed.”
Once she’s out of sight, I sweep the gift card into the wastebasket, because there’s no such thing as a little bit expired, and a table for one at a chain restaurant sounds toogrim, even for me. Then I pop in my AirPods and hold my phone level with my mouth like an octogenarian on speakerphone.
“Make it quick,” I tell my sister, glancing sidelong at the surrounding cubicles from my see-through office. “I’m pretending you’re a pesticide manufacturer.”
“You have a booger,” my sister says by way of greeting.
I raise my phone so I can glare at her properly. She’s parked in her car with the phone propped on the dash, fixing her lavender milkmaid braids in the video of herself. Once upon a time we had the same honey-blond hair and fair skin, but her junior year of high school, she discovered box dye and has never looked back. Right now, it’s more of a grown-out ombré, but she has the pixie-like features and unwavering self-confidence to make it look intentional.
Behind her, I can make out the hustle and bustle of a Love’s Travel Stop, which tells me she’s at least an hour north of her Saint Paul apartment. How early must she have started her day to already be outside of the Cities?
“Why are you FaceTiming me, Laurel? I’m at work.”
“I needed to get my eyeballs on you for D-day. I was hoping to see you in some kind of revenge outfit or at least rocking a little tasteful cleave.” She sounds disappointed.
“Please don’t compare the day the paperwork goes through on my divorce to the invasion of Normandy,” I practically beg her as I one-handedly type my network password into my computer.
Yes, today, this dreadfully ordinary Friday, is the day my divorce with Richard Warren is final.Finalfinal. I’m a twenty-eight-year-old divorcée and officially the proud single owner of too much house. When I was married to a thirtysomethingman with an enviable hairline, homeownership seemed like the obvious next step in my journey toward stability. Now, when I drag my bins out on Thursday mornings, I worry my neighbors look at me the way I do child pageant contestants, as a tragic display of the trappings of womanhood without any of the requisite life experience.
I glance down to see Laurel fighting with the credit card reader on the EV charging station. “I meant more like ‘D’ for ‘divorce.’ ‘D’ for—”
“I know you want to say ‘dick.’ Just say ‘dick’ so we can move on to—”
