Chapter 8 - The Last Thing He Asked Me to Sign
By winter, the divorce had become less dramatic and more exhausting. There were statements to review, belongings to divide, appointments to schedule, and long stretches when nothing seemed to move. I learned that liberation sometimes looked like sitting under fluorescent lights while someone located a missing attachment. Elena kept me informed without promising an easy outcome. When I wanted to rush simply to stop feeling frightened, she reminded me that finishing carefully would matter long after finishing quickly stopped feeling urgent.
Landon's proposal included an obligation tied to the Bellwether deposit. Elena requested the underlying records. They showed that he had made a personal commitment while anticipating money I had never authorized him to use. There were arguments, revisions, and days when I felt sick opening my inbox. The disputed signature was documented separately, and Elena explained my available options. I followed her advice about preserving evidence. I did not turn it into a bargaining chip for a prettier settlement.
Eventually, we reached terms I could live with. The house would be sold. Each of us would receive the amounts set out in the agreement. My inheritance remained outside the proposed venture, and the settlement did not assign me Landon's private business commitment. There was no magnificent courtroom speech. No stranger declared that every hurt had been counted correctly. There were pages, initials, difficult compromises, and a future that finally looked like something I could enter without asking permission.
On the afternoon we reviewed the final papers, Landon asked to speak in the hallway with our attorneys nearby. He looked older than he had at the resort. I probably did too. “I thought if the property worked, you would understand,” he said. “Understand what?” He rubbed the back of his neck. “That I wasn't trying to leave you with nothing.” I studied him. “You were trying to decide what counted as enough for me.” He looked away.
For once, he did not argue. That made his next sentence more painful. “Were we really unhappy all those years?” I remembered thunderstorms, bakery bags, his hands around mine at our wedding. “No,” I said. “Some of it was good. That's why this hurt.” His eyes reddened. I felt compassion, but it no longer arrived carrying an obligation. “I loved you,” I added. “You knew that. You had choices.” Then I returned to the conference room and signed.
The divorce became final several weeks later. I received the confirmation while standing in the storefront, helping Marisol unpack brushes. I read the message and sat on an overturned bucket. She quietly took the box from my hands. I expected relief to feel triumphant. Instead, it came mixed with grief and a strange, weightless uncertainty. I was no longer married. I was not yet accustomed to the life that sentence made possible. Both things were allowed to be true.
That evening, Brit and Keeley brought takeout. We ate on the studio floor because the tables had not arrived. Nobody proposed a toast to destroying Landon. Brit raised her paper cup and said, “To decisions you get to make.” I cried again, which was becoming less embarrassing with practice. After dinner, we taped possible business names to the window. Most were terrible. Keeley's suggestion, Open Table Studio, stayed. It sounded welcoming. It sounded like there would always be room.
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When the tables arrived, I assembled the first one incorrectly and had to start again. Keeley read the instructions aloud while I loosened screws. We were tired, hungry, and laughing too hard to work efficiently. Years earlier, that mistake would have embarrassed me. Now it felt almost reassuring. Something could be taken apart, understood, and built properly without anybody deciding the person holding the screwdriver was the problem. We ordered pizza afterward.
Before leaving, I found one last envelope among the boxes from the house. Inside was Landon's original anniversary card, the one that came with twenty-four roses. For years, I had treated it like proof that I should keep trying. I read it once, thanked the younger woman who had believed it, and placed it in a memory box. A promise could belong to my past without being allowed to govern the rest of my life.
