Who could have guessed? Oh, right. Me. Then I hung up and went back to sleep. That was two weeks ago, and I haven't heard from her since.
Well, unless you count the Christmas card she sent last night. The envelope was shiny gold with glitter that looked like it was designed to make my carpet hate me. the front said, thinking of better times, maybe new chances. I opened it against my better judgment. Inside was a photo of Clarissa in a Christmas sweater standing beside a sad little tree. No Trent, no Greta, no baby bump, just her and regret, both looking tired.
The note read, "Hope you're doing well. I've been reflecting. Maybe someday we can talk again." I snorted so hard I nearly spilled my drink. Talk again?
What was left to say? Hey, remember when you tried to crowdfund a pregnancy and got scammed by your soulmate? I tossed the card into the fireplace. Here's to new chances, I muttered as it burned. A few minutes later, my phone bust.
Greta again. Don't tell me she's outside, I said. No. Greta sighed. But she still thinks you might take her back.
I tried telling her you've moved on, but she says you always had a soft spot for redemption stories. Yeah, I said. In movies, not in mortgages. Greta laughed quietly. She's working part-time at some yoga studio now.
Keeps talking about finding herself. Well, I said, I hope she uses a map this time. There was a pause. You know, Luke, I'll give you this. You handled all of this better than most men would have.
Greta, I said, after you've been called heartless, controlling, and financially abusive in one week, you learn to find humor in it. It's cheaper than therapy. She laughed softly. I guess that's one way to survive. Survive.
I said, "Greta, I'm thriving. I even got my weekends back. You know how long it's been since I had a Saturday without drama? Probably the honeymoon," she said. "Exactly," I said.
Now I spend my Saturdays doing what happy people do, nothing. And it's glorious. After we hung up, I poured myself another drink and went to sit on the porch. The sun was setting, gold spilling across the lawn, peace hanging in the air like a promise I'd finally kept to myself. Sometimes I still catch myself replaying moments with her.
Not the fights, but the small, stupid ones. The time we tried to assemble IKEA furniture without killing each other. The night she made spaghetti and dropped the sauce, but laughed until she cried. Those moments sting, but only for a second because I remember what came next. The lies, the gaslighting, the absurdity of hearing.
I'm getting my tubes untied because my ex wants kids. It's amazing how memory edits itself once you escape the fog. I used to think divorce was failure. But now I see it differently. It's not failure.
It's graduation. You just don't get a cap and gown. You get silence and a stack of signed papers. A week later, I ran into someone unexpected at the grocery store. Greta again.
Only this time, she wasn't calling. She was shopping, looking exhausted. You won't believe this, she said before I could even say hello. Clarissa is writing a book. I blinked.
A book? She says it's a memoir about rebirth and resilience. Working title untied. I laughed so loud people turned to stare. Tell her to put me in the acknowledgements.
Maybe under financial donors. Greta grinned despite herself. You're incurable, just accurate, I said, tossing coffee beans into my cart. Hey, if she publishes it, I might buy a copy. Seriously?
Yeah, I said. Be nice to see fiction get the attention it deserves. We both laughed and for the first time since the whole fiasco began, it didn't feel bitter. It felt finished. By the time I got home, my phone buzzed again.
Howard this time. Hey, my guy, he said. Heard you're officially done with the Morrison case. Done, dusted, and delivered. I said, you still drinking that overpriced whiskey?
Always, he said. Let's celebrate. drinks on me. That night, we met at our usual spot, a dim bar with terrible music and great burgers. Howard raised his glass. To freedom, to peace, I said.
To women who teach us lessons we didn't ask for, he added. I grinned. And to lawyers who make sure we never pay tuition twice. We clinky glasses and for a few hours I forgot the chaos. Later, as I drove home, the city lights glowed against the night sky.
I thought about Clarissa, about Trent, about the insanity that had taken over my life for a while. And then I smiled because none of it mattered anymore. Peace isn't loud. It doesn't announce itself with hashtags or declarations. It just shows up quietly, sits beside you, and reminds you what calm feels like.
And maybe that's the punchline of it all. After years of drama, you learn that happiness isn't fireworks, it's silence. When I got home, I turned off my phone, poured one last drink, and stood in front of my window, watching the lights flicker outside. I raised my glass to the reflection of a man who'd survived ridiculousness and come out laughing. To following your heart, I said, echoing my own words from that fateful pasta night.
But this time, making sure it has a brain. The bourbon burned on the way down. Warm, sharp, real. The next morning, I woke up early, made pancakes, and realized I hadn't thought about Clarissa once while I flipped them that I decided was progress. As I sat on the porch eating breakfast, a text came in from Greta.
She's moving out of state. Says she needs a fresh start. I smiled. Good for her, I replied. Tell her I hope she finds what she's looking for.
Preferably far away. Then I put my phone down and just listened to the birds, the breeze, the sound of my own unbothered existence. The war was over.