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Kat
September
I try not to notice the empty spaces Scott left, the absence of him obvious in every room of the apartment. I stand at the counter, my bathrobe pulled tight around my waist, and think through next steps. I fight the urge to call Meg. To tell her she was right and to ask her what I should do next. I understand better the powerless rage she’s felt for years, so much sharper than the blame I assigned to her so long ago. That rage vibrates through me now, a low-frequency anger that pulses with every heartbeat. What lengths would I go to make Scott pay?
I lose hours wondering what Meg would do if she were me.
***
When Scott had gotten out of the shower, he found me sitting on the couch, my hair drying into awkward clumps, my face still bare of makeup. “You’re not ready,” he said.
Then he saw the cell phone sitting on the coffee table in front of me.
Several emotions flashed across his face—first fear, then anger, and finally a stoic resolution, as if a curtain were closing behind his eyes. “What’s that?” he asked.
“Don’t.” I was numb, miles away from the initial stab of shock and pain. Instead, I felt an icy calm envelop me, and I welcomed it. I wanted to live inside that pain-free bubble for as long as possible, because I knew the alternative was to relive every betrayal, over and over again, long after this moment had passed.
He collapsed in the chair across from me and cradled his head in his hands. “I’m so sorry,” he said.
A familiar refrain, danced to again and again. I knew all the steps—the apologies, the self-flagellation, the regret. Then the promises. And we would drag ourselves out of the hole once again.
Instead, I bypassed all of it. The questions about what triggered it. How it started, and why. The recriminations, telling him that if he’d only told me he was struggling, we could have worked together to get him through the rough patch. The words floated out of my mind, there and then gone. I had nothing left to give.
I slipped off my engagement ring and placed it on top of the dark cell phone, and I wondered how much I could get for it. Was it even real? I should have taken Meg up on that appraisal when she offered it.
Scott lifted his head and said, “Kat, no.”
“Thirty thousand dollars,” I whispered, and he flinched.
“I was going to pay it back, I swear.”
The script was exactly as I remembered it. “You worked so hard to make me believe I was the one who fucked up, that I led Meg here because I was careless. Too trusting. But you were the one who took the statements. Who didn’t pay the bill, and then blamed Meg for that as well.”
“I’ll go back into treatment,” he said. “Five days a week. We’ll get through this together. I need you.”
I gave a sharp laugh. “You need my credit score. You need the very little money I’ve got left in my savings account. But you don’t need me.”
“That’s not true.”
“I don’t think you know what true is,” I told him. All his lies, his fake outrage over Meg came rushing back, juxtaposed against Meg’s quiet concern. How she’d tried to help me see what was right in front of me.
It says something when the con artist is more trustworthy than your fiancé.
“I need you to get out,” I said. “Tonight. You have two hours to get packed. Anything left will be sold and put toward the debt you’ve accrued.”
Scott’s remorse flashed to anger. “What happened to I love you? What happened to I’ll support you in your recovery?”
I looked at him in disbelief. “I’d hardly call running up a five-figure debt ‘recovery,’ would you?”
“Where the hell am I supposed to go?”
I shrugged. “Call your sponsor. Find a friend. Sleep on someone’s couch. I don’t care.”
“And if I don’t?” he asked.
“I’ll call the police. One of your colleagues will show up, and I’ll explain what you’ve done. Then I’ll hand over the cell phone which has evidence of you trying to breach my bank account and the email linked to the credit card. I’m sure they can sort it out with you at the station.”
“You wouldn’t.”
