Page 24 of After Everything
My phone buzzed in my pocket. Probably David, from another new number, probably some desperate follow-up to whatever scene he'd just made.
I didn't check it.
I had patients to take care of. People who actually needed me. People whose lives depended on me staying focused, staying sharp, staying present.
David could wait.
Actually, David could fuck right off.
I had work to do.
CHAPTER 9: DAVID
The security guard watched me until I got in my car.
I sat in the parking garage for twenty minutes, hands on the steering wheel, staring at nothing. People walked past—doctors, nurses, visitors. Someone knocked on my window to ask if I was leaving the spot. I shook my head and they moved on.
Not anymore.
That's what she'd said. When the security guard asked if she knew me.
Not "yes." Not "it's complicated." Not even "we're getting divorced."
Not anymore.
Like I'd been erased. Like eight years ofmarriage, of building a life together, of morning coffee and shared groceries and inside jokes… like all of it had just been deleted from her memory. Like I was a stranger now. Less than a stranger.
A stranger might have gotten five minutes.
My phone sat on the passenger seat. No messages. No calls. Nothing from Emma, obviously. I'd been blocked on every number, every platform, every possible way to reach her. But nothing from anyone else either.
Sarah hadn't responded to a message in six weeks.
My parents hadn't called in three.
The few friends I'd tried reaching out to had been polite but distant. Busy. Sorry man, can't make it. Maybe another time.
Work didn't count. The junior associates I was supposed to be collaborating with on document review barely looked at me. Everyone knew what I'd done, why I'd been demoted. I was a cautionary tale now. The guy who torpedoed his career for an affair.
Margaret had stopped by my cubeyesterday—not my office anymore, I had a shitty cube now—to tell me I'd missed a deadline on a contract review. Her voice had been clipped, professional, devoid of any warmth. "This is unacceptable, David. Get it together or we'll have to reconsider your position here."
I'd nodded. Said I'd fix it. Went back to staring at contracts I couldn't focus on, legal language that blurred together into meaningless shapes.
I'd lost count of the days since I'd actually spoken to another human being about anything that mattered. The mediator at the divorce signing. The woman at the front desk of my apartment building. The guy at the liquor store who'd started giving me a look when I came in three times a week.
That was it. That was my entire social circle now.
I started the car and drove back to my apartment.
The apartment wasa one-bedroom in a building that advertised "luxury living" but delivered beige walls and thin floors. I could hear my upstairs neighbor walking around at all hours. The couple next door fought every weekend. The elevator smelled like cigarettes and desperation.
I'd signed the lease two weeks ago, after it became clear the hotel wasn't sustainable. After I'd looked at my bank account and realized I was hemorrhaging money and needed to figure out how to live on a junior associate's salary instead of what I'd been making before.
It was half the size of the house Emma and I had shared. The house that was being sold, the proceeds split fifty-fifty per the divorce agreement. My half wouldn't even cover a down payment on something decent.
I dropped my keys on the kitchen counter, which was nothing but a tiny strip of laminate that barely fit a microwave and a coffee maker. The sink was full of dishes I hadn't washed. The trash needed to be taken out. The whole place smelled stale.
There was a bottle of whiskey on the counter, a quarter full. I'd bought it on Sunday. It was Wednesday.
