She came in pregnant and left embarrassed. I call that labor pain. He laughed. You want me to block her number again? Already done, I said, tapping my phone.
For the rest of the day, I tried to focus on work, but my brain kept replaying the absurdity. Pregnant, 3 weeks post surgery. Trent gone. It sounded less like a relationship and more like a limited time scam. By evening, I was back home grilling steak on the patio when my phone buzzeded again.
Unknown number. Against my better judgment, I answered, "Luke, it's Greta." "Oh, good." I said, "Tell me it's about the apocalypse and not your sister." She hesitated.
Clarissa is saying you humiliated her at your office. I didn't humiliate her. I said she humiliated herself by showing up with a fairy tale pregnancy and an expired sob story. Greta aside, she's not doing well. She won't stop crying.
Keeps saying she's scared. I rolled my eyes of what reality? She needs help. She needs a time machine. Luke, Greta, listen, I said, cutting her off.
I gave that woman 15 years of stability. She traded it for chaos. I'm not swooping in because she finally realized her circus doesn't have a safety net. Greta was quiet for a moment. You've changed.
No, I said I just stopped auditioning for the role of nice guy who gets screwed. She sighed. You really don't care anymore. Not in the way you think. I said, I wish her peace.
Preferably far, far away from me. When I hung up, I felt oddly peaceful. Maybe this was what emotional closure looked like. less dramatic than expected, more satisfying than revenge. But then two weeks later, my phone buzzed again. This time it was Greta.
The message read, "False alarm. Period." I read it twice, then laughed so hard I spilled my drink. Of course, the miracle that wasn't. I forwarded the text to Howard with the caption.
Told you it was nonsense. He replied instantly. You called it, "Woman's writing her own soap opera. It's not even a good one." I texted back, "Lowbudget, bad acting."
That night, I got home to find a letter in my mailbox, handwritten. The envelope smelled faintly like her perfume. Expensive regret and lavender. Against my better judgment, I opened it. Luke, I'm sorry for everything.
I was scared. I wanted to feel wanted again. Trent lied. I made mistakes, but I didn't deserve this much hate. Maybe one day you'll remember the good years, and forgive me, Clarissa.
I stared at it for a while. The handwriting was shaky, dramatic loops on every Y, smudges where tears had fallen, or maybe spilled wine. Either way, it felt like a chapter closing. I folded it neatly, and slid it into a drawer right beside the divorce decree. Then, I poured a drink, turned on some music, and toasted to irony.
"Here's to Clarissa," I said aloud. "May her next miracle come with better math." A few days later, Howard called again. So, she's dropped the pregnancy story, he said. Yeah, apparently she and biology had creative differences.
He chuckled. Any new drama? Not yet, I said. But give her Wi-Fi and wine, and I'm sure we'll see a Facebook essay soon. We both laughed.
The next week, Greta called again, her voice oddly calmer. She's talking about getting therapy, she said. I nodded to myself. Good. Maybe her next relationship will involve less surgery and more sense.
She wanted me to tell you she's sorry. I bet she does. I said, "Tell her I accept from a distance. Maybe you two could." Greta, if you finish that sentence, I'm blocking you.
She sighed. You're impossible. I'm peaceful. I corrected. Huge difference.
That night, I sat on the porch, bourbon in hand, thinking about how full circle everything had come. Clarissa wanted a new beginning. She got one, just not the fairy tale she imagined. Her miracle had turned into a memo from reality. And for once, I wasn't the punchline.
I wasn't angry anymore. Not even bitter. Just done. The kind of done that comes after a storm when all you can do is look at the wreckage, nod, and say, "Well, that happened." Maybe somewhere down the road, she'd actually figure herself out.
Maybe she wouldn't. Either way, it wasn't my story anymore. And as far as I was concerned, that was the real miracle. Two months later, the dust had finally settled. The paperwork was done.
The court stamps were dry, and the house no longer echoed with the ghost of Clarissa's complaints about emotional availability or spiritual alignment. What it did echo with, though, was laughter. My laughter, because every time I thought back on the absurdity of it all, I couldn't help but grin. Clarissa walked away with $73,000, and I walked away with my sanity. Honestly, I got the better deal.
She thought she'd ruin me, but all she did was renovate my peace. The first morning after the divorce was finalized, I made coffee in a kitchen that finally felt mine again. No scented candles labeled empowerment. No passive aggressive sticky notes about recycling energy. And no Trent lounging on my couch pretending existential dread counted as a hobby.
Just silence, caffeine, and the faint smell of victory. My brother Kyle called that afternoon. So, it's official. You're free. Free?
I said, "Pouring bourbon into my coffee just because I could." Judge signed it. Lawyers toasted it and the devil collected his client. Kyle laughed. "What's she up to now?
Still chasing fertility dreams with Picasso the broke." "Better," I said. Trent ran off to Costa Rica with her baby fund. He coughed mid laugh. "You're kidding."
"I wish," I said. He took five grand and a promise of eternal love, then disappeared faster than her common sense. Kyle whistled. And what did she do? Called me at 2 in the morning, I said, sobbing like a Tenova villain.
Said he left me, Luke. He took everything. Kyle burst out laughing. And what did you say? I told her.