“So, then you move back to Jersey or down here.”
I shake my head. The thought of living anywhere in the same state as Vaughn nauseates me.
“Okay, maybe not here, but I have connections at other schools.”
“Dylan, I don’t want you calling in any favors for me.”
“It’s not a favor. Look, would it help if I was able to give you more child support each month? Sounds like Jackie may be getting re-married. If she does, that means no more alimony. That should free up some cash. I can give you what I was giving her, and that should hold you over until you find something.”
The irony is too bold to ignore. Dylan, on his conservative salary, has to dish out money every month to his wretch of an ex-wife, meanwhile ‘ole money bags in New Jersey gets out of paying me anything. Utterly ridiculous.
“That’s kind of you. It really is, but I can’t let you support me. I can make do just fine, but I’ve got to take this job to do so.”
His phone rings. He presses the speaker button, and his secretary reminds him he has a three o’clock meeting. He peeks at his computer then turns back to me.
“Blair, I’ve got to run. We’ll talk about this later, okay? Tonight. I’ll call you or maybe I can come by.”
I stand, retrieve the envelope from my purse and rest it on his desk. “Please just think about it, okay?”
He tells me he will before his phone rings again.
On the elevator ride down, I wonder if I’m doing the right thing. If I’m being selfish. No. Since when is wanting to provide for your child a selfish thing? People move all of the time for better opportunities or to follow their careers. It’s what people do.
On the surface, any disinterested party would agree with what I’m doing. They’d applaud my efforts for refusing a handout and doing what it takes to build a life for myself and Morgan. But if they knew the entire story and everything I’ve put Dylan through, they might think I’m a fool for turning his offer down, may even consider me selfish, because if Dylan wanted me to stay, to be with him, I wouldn’t think twice. I’d tell Elle thanks, but no thanks and I’d build a life here, whether it be in New York or Pennsylvania. As long as I was close to him. But, I have to remind this disinterested party that this is not the case; Dylan is starting a life with someone else. And I’ll be damned if I stay here and watch.
Later that evening Dylan and I are meeting at a coffeehouse in my neighborhood. I chose it over my apartment because I need to keep a safe distance. No more intimate settings with this man.
“I have to take this job.”
“No, you don’t.”
“I have no other option.”
He smirks.
“What’s so funny?”
“Not funny. Sad. This conversation sounds so familiar.”
“This is different. It’s a whole different thing.”
“It is and it isn’t.” He takes a sip of coffee. “This is about risk-taking. And your aversion to it. Give me a little credit, Blair. I know you. You’re afraid to do anything outside of your comfort zone.”
“Oh really? Since when is moving to a new state within my comfort zone? I’m taking a huge risk here.”
“Are you really, though? You’re moving into your best friend’s house—”
“Guest house.”
“Excuse me, guest house. And you’re taking a job in her firm. Socializing with her friends. You’ll be moving into a readymade circle. Where’s the risk?”
I instantly regret giving him as many details as I had. “I resent that. I’m not Elle’s little project. I’ll have my own place and my own life. What’s different between you helping me find a job and her helping me find one?”
“Ex-actly. What’s the difference? It’s okay for her to help you, but not me?”
“It’s not the same.”
“Why?”
“Because she’s my friend.”
“And what am I?”
He can’t be serious. This man better not sit here and liken himself to Elle. Is that how he sees me? As a friend? It’s a kick to my stomach. When did I become this woman he regards as a “friend”?
“It’s just different,” is all I can think to say.
“How?”
“Listen, I spent nearly half of my life letting someone take care of me. For all of its perks, it takes a toll on who you are, what you think you’re capable of. I need more, Dylan. I need to know what it feels like to stand on my own two feet. Without your help. Now, whatever you give me for Morgan is one thing, but I won’t take anything more from you. I just won’t.”
“I get it. You want to be independent and all that, but Blair, this isn’t just about you. What about Morgan and me? Don’t we have a right to be with each other? I already missed the first two years of her life, and now you’re asking me to agree to seeing her once a season? C’mon now.”
“Nobody said once a season. I told you, I can bring her up once a month and we can take turns and when she’s older—”
“I know. I know. We can alternate summers.”
“Yeah,” I say. “What’s wrong with that? Lots of people do it.”
“I’m not concerned about lots of people.”
“You just don’t understand.”
“No. You don’t understand. I really thought we were beyond this.”
“Beyond what?”
“All the arguing and debating. Blair, I’m tired of everything being a battle with you. Sometimes I swear you get off on frustrating me, on not giving me what I want. Feel like I’m always begging you for something.”
“Don’t say that.”
“It’s true,” he says. “Do you get some kind of pleasure out of this? Out of keeping me in limbo?”
“No…”
“Look, I’m not trying to be an asshole, but…” He stands and retrieves my envelope from his satchel. “…I can’t sign this. This time I won’t bend. I’m sorry.”
“Dylan,” I say, reaching for my jacket, but before I can put both of my arms in the sleeves he’s out the front door. By the time I make it outside, he’s in his car and reversing out of his parking spot.
The following day I consult my attorney, and she confirms just what I don’t want to hear. That without his consent, I can not move Morgan out of the state, that I’d need to file a petition to begin a court proceeding and ask the judge to modify our existing custody order. More hearings. I can’t stomach it. I’m still tied up in divorce proceedings with Vaughn, and just the thought of stepping inside another courtroom makes me ill.
THIRTY-FOUR
I dog-ear the page in my Excel for Dummies book then slide it into my tote bag, right between my pumps. One more long sip of coffee before I get out and brave the ten minute walk from my car to the train station. It’s still raining incredibly hard. I’m glad for it though, because it’s washing away the slush from the weekend snow. On Friday night, Morgan and I sat in the window, awed by the oddity of an April snowstorm. Today the temperature is more spring-like, but it’s wet and damp. I hate the train when it’s raining.
Although I’ve finally gotten the hang of the subway system, at least once a day—mostly when I’m strap-hanging—I wistfully consider where else I could be. Like, in my car, commuting to a pretty building in Atlanta in seventy-degree weather. There, I’d have an office and a title of some stature, not to mention my best friend a mere two stories up. Instead I’m here, grappling for an inch of surface area, on what I’m sure is a germ-infested pole on the 6 train.
My new boss, Kate, is nice enough, but what makes her outstanding is that she gave me a chance when no one else would. She reviewed my resume and advised that she couldn’t offer me anywhere near what I was earning before, but she did have an entry-level position with room for growth. I would’ve scoffed at such an offer months ago, but my ego can’t pay the rent. So I swallowed my pride and accepted the administrative role, which came with the odd-smelling corner cubicle. Funny enough, I’m probably more under-qualified for this
role than I would be for one several pay grades higher. Word and Powerpoint are simple enough, but spreadsheets overwhelm me, and reconciling invoices has me wishing I’d paid closer attention in my college accounting classes. Kate is patient; I think she has her own personal story of riches-to-rags, because she has a keen sense of empathy towards me. I’m pretty sure she’s had to justify hiring an admin who struggles with both Outlook and manning a switchboard. But whatever her reason, I’m grateful.
Although this is not the way I imagined my so-called independence taking root, it’s not as horrific as I thought it would be. Dylan’s child support payments cover all of Morgan’s needs for now, and between my salary and savings, I’m managing. I still have several credit cards (all with ridiculously high limits) to keep me afloat, but my balances are almost as high. A fact I never had to consider when I had the income to pay them in full each month. Now, I’m only able to pay the minimum, which in some cases is eight and nine hundred dollars a month. If I pay them all off, it’ll carve a considerable dent in my savings, and I need to be as liquid as possible under these new circumstances.
There’s a voicemail message from my divorce attorney, Anna. I’m almost afraid to check it. Every time she calls me, faxes me or even opens my file, the clock starts ticking. I’ve already exhausted the ten-thousand dollar retainer I gave her and now I’m subject to her five-hundred-dollar-an-hour fee.
Of course, it’s less than encouraging news. Our court date has been postponed. Yet again. I’m sure it’s the result of one of Frank’s cunning moves. Anna suggests a forensic accountant to delve into Vaughn’s finances because she’s confident he’s already hiding assets in case the prenup doesn’t hold. But paying another over-priced professional, to search for assets I may never see, is where I draw the line. At this point I don’t even care about fifty percent. I just want a home to call my own and to be out of this debt. I’m no match for the two of them. I haven’t the resources nor the energy, and as talented as I believe Anna is, she’s no match either.
I make the decision right there and then to stop the bleeding. I call her and broach the “S” word; I tell her I want to settle the matter. I’ll let the prenup stand if he’ll provide me the cash to pay off these credit cards and enough for a decent co-op or townhouse. Anna doesn’t like this. She insists that I still have a good case if I’ll just hold out a little longer. That if I do, I can purchase several houses and everything else I want. Her agenda is two-fold: the longer this case drags on, the more billable hours and secondly, I can tell that she has an axe to grind. It’s as if Frank and Vaughn represent her ex-husband and his attorney. There’s a rancor in her eye. As if in beating them she’ll somehow prevail in her own personal circumstances. At first I was glad of it, figuring it meant she’d fight exceedingly hard for me. But my fight isn’t hers. I don’t know what she’s been through, but each day I prolong this is another day I’m delayed from moving on with my life. Every piece of paperwork, phone call and court proceeding brings me tumbling back to a life I want to forget. And as much as I never thought I’d utter the words—the money is just not worth it.
I ignore the disappointment in her voice. I don’t care if she feels like I’ve wasted her time. She’s been well-paid so far. Her protests are met with a resounding “No.” I just want to settle. I keep repeating this until she finally relents. She sighs with frustration before telling me she’ll contact Frank and get back to me.
The following day she calls to say they won’t agree to any settlement, which in her opinion is not only absurd but highly insulting. Further proof we should forge ahead.
“They think their case is ironclad. I don’t know anyone who stands to lose so much. What fool wouldn’t agree to this? Five-hundred-grand is a pittance compared to his net worth,” she barks.
She’s right. And it’s exactly what he offered Dylan to go away, but now he refuses me the same. Right now this is about principle with Vaughn. He feels wronged, and this is his only way of striking back.
She tells me what our next move should be, but I’m not interested. Whatever she has up her sleeve, Frank has already considered and planned his next play. Vaughn will fight me to the bitter end on this. He’s got both the resources and the time.
“Forget it, Anna,” I say. “I’m done.”
“Done? We can’t be done. What you’re requesting is beyond reasonable. Any judge will see that. We may be able to get Justice Hines to impose it, judges don’t want their docket filled up with nonsense.”
“No, Anna. I’m serious. Forget it. I just want this to be over with.”
She insists until I tell her that after today, I won’t be able to pay her. This changes her tune; she tells me she’ll draw up the papers and get back to me.
Dylan has Morgan for the afternoon, so I’m home alone today. This rare moment of silence fosters some self-reflection. I’ve often worried that karma was having its way with me. That this is my punishment for being unfaithful and lying about Morgan’s paternity. I never used to believe in karma for convenient reasons and I’m still not quite sure it exists, but that’s immaterial. The truth of the matter is that I was wrong. I was weak and afraid to lose everything, which, ironically, I still lost. I was terrified of the unknown. Afraid of ending up exactly where I am now. Somehow I thought I had it all figured out, thought that I could predict everyone’s moves. I drew the puppet strings and laid preemptive strikes, but none of this was ever in my control.
Never would I have believed that Dylan could be over me and in a new relationship. No one could have told me that I didn’t have him under my spell, that his love for me wasn’t all-encompassing, but it wasn’t. I could be replaced. And I have been. And Vaughn. Never could I have predicted that he would’ve stayed with me after learning the truth. Never conceived that even after it all was revealed, that it would be I who left him. That I would voluntarily sacrifice everything I struggled so hard to maintain.
Life, I know now, is predictably unpredictable, and much of it is out of our control. It took me an affair, a failed marriage, an estranged family and a daughter to learn this lesson. This next chapter, the second half of my life, will prove to be better with this knowledge. Not necessarily easier, but it has to be better.
THIRTY-FIVE
I’ve just gotten home and am unpacking groceries when my doorbell rings. Thinking it’s my neighbor who’s received a piece of my mail again, I yell “Coming!” before I place a dozen eggs on the top shelf of the refrigerator.
I peek through the peephole and freeze. The collarbone and chin are all too familiar. My stomach lurches, and the doorknob becomes wet in my hand. I look around the apartment for something to shove into my pocket, anything to guard me in case I need to defend myself.
“I can hear you, Blair. Just open the door.”
I know the voice, but I can’t help but look through the peephole again to confirm what I believe I heard. This time he’s bent low enough to meet my eye in the fisheye lens. I watch his lips say, “Blair, c’mon now. Just open the door.”
Against my better judgment, I cautiously unlock it, twist the knob and slowly draw it open.
There stands my soon-to-be ex-husband.
“Now, was that so hard?” Vaughn doesn’t wait for an invitation to enter. He shakes his head chidingly before stepping inside my apartment.
I close the door behind him and give the living room a frantic once-over. Ordinarily I keep the place excessively neat, but today there are pairs of shoes scattered about the living room, a few of Morgan’s toys are strewn across the carpet, and several pieces of mail are spread out over the coffee table. I’d been planning to write out my monthly bills before this unexpected visit.
“What are you doing here? How do you even know where I live?” I was careful to use a P.O. box address on all of my legal documents for this very reason.
Again, without invitation, he takes a seat on the couch and gives me a knowing glance, as if the answer to my question is obvious. Which, of course, it�
�s not. So I ask him again.
“C’mon now. This is me you’re talking to.”
“What do you want?”
He flicks a piece of lint off his pant leg. “To talk to you.”
“About what? There’s nothing left to talk about. You have anything to say, you discuss it with my attorney.”
“This is nice,” he says running his hand over the couch. He surveys the rest of my apartment. His gaze landing on the bills on my coffee table. Before I can collect them, he grabs one.
“Damn. Past due? Ya know, this isn’t good for your credit, Blair.”
“Give me that.” I snatch it from his hand. “Mind your business.”
He replaces the smirk with a look of concern. “Let me take care of this for you. Seriously. Give them all to me. I’ll zero the balances. It’s the least I can do.”
It is the least he could do and it’s exactly what I’d asked him to do, but he refused.
“I’ll be fine.”
“You don’t look fine.”
“I am.”
“You don’t have to act hard with me. I’ve known you for over half of your life. I can tell when you’re putting on a front.”
“I’m fine. Vaughn, seriously. What are you doing here?”
“Am I really that much of a bad guy? I know things got ugly towards the end, but you act as if it was all bad. And it really wasn’t.” He taps at his throat. “Do you have anything to drink? A little Pellegrino, maybe?”
I retrieve a bottle of Poland Spring from the refrigerator and toss it in his direction. He catches it, although I secretly hoped it would strike him.
“Ah, you forget what I used to do for a living. I can’t let anything slip through these fingers.”
I ignore his double entendre.
“It wasn’t all bad, Blair.”
“More bad than good.”
“That’s not true, and you know it.” He shakes his head. “We both made some terrible mistakes. But when we met, we were just kids. We dealt with a lot more than your average college sweethearts. The league, the money, the life. It was a lot to deal with at such a young age.”
A Delicate Truth Page 24
