Page 101 of The Best Part of Breaking Up

“Always so impatient,” he says with mock disapproval.

I give him a smug grin as he passes me my reheated bowl. I’m careful not to get any garlic-butter-sauce on my spare copy of our notes and briefings as I slide them between us. He eyes them as he settles in beside me.

“You are obsessed,” he says. “You thought you were just going to sneak this in? That I wasn’t going to notice a giant stack of legal documents, staring up at us while we try to enjoy our dinner?”

“C’mon. I can’t remember the last time I had dinner without legal documents in front of me. They’re the perfect pairing. Like popcorn and movies. A podcast and a long plane ride. Don’t act like you’ve never done this.”

He chortles. “Guilty on all counts. Should we find something to watch?”

I’m two steps ahead, already turning on the TV and going through the autopilot motions of locating one of my standby shows. I don’t select it. Instead, I find myself hesitating on the menu, suddenly studying his profile. The tousled mess of his hair. His smooth brow. The perfect slope of his nose.

“Sure,” I say, passing him the remote. “It’s your turn to pick.”

He scrolls for a few moments before settling on a nature documentary. A soothing soundtrack softly sweeps through the room, followed by stunning images of our planet’s oceans. Quentin is already half-eating, half-perusing the papers I laid out. My heart feels so full there’s barely any room in my chest when I inhale. I twist pasta onto my fork and reach for an interrogatory, letting myself swell with the hope that we could really do this.

That somehow, like Jeanine said in my interview, I can turn this into a win-win.

That I really can have it all.

Win, win, win.

“All right, PBG,” he prompts. “Hit me with your opening statement.”

26.

If you told me six months ago that the biggest case of my life would be a media circus that would devolve into a never-ending fight to the death over who gets custody of a scraggly, yellow-eyed werewolf cat, I probably would have laughed in your face.

And, well, here we are.

I should have known something was wrong when we had to wade through a gaggle of protestors to get into the courthouse on Monday morning. I clutched my cold brew in close to my chest, ducking through the small but enthusiastic group. I’ve been shouted down on the sidewalk before, but never by a bunch of twenty-somethings holding signs with a cat’s alienesque face on them. When we finally make it to the metal detectors, I can still hear chanting.

Stop Glasslighting. Free Farkas. Stop Glasslighting. Free Farkas. Stop Glasslighting. Free Farkas.

“That was… different,” Quentin notes. “Do they realize this is a divorce trial? For humans?”

“Apparently not.”

The whole thing gives me the eerie sense of old photos I’ve seen from the Manson trial, and the devoted followers who camped outside, awaiting his release. Gigi might not be a full-blown cult leader, but she definitely has her own brand of devoted followers. It’s a strange sort of power that seems to crackle in the air. As we settle into the courtroom, I attempt to shake the feeling of uneasiness.

A few minutes later, Teddy shows up in a pair of jeans, a sport coat over a band T-shirt, and beat up Vans. But hey, he showed up. And he showered, as far as I can tell. His hair is extra glossy and smells faintly of pears. He sweeps a hand through it with a sigh as he settles in between me and Quentin. Mike Murdock is already grinning at us from across the aisle, adjusting his tailored suit. Gigi is sitting beside him, prim and proper in her damn 1980s power suit. I see her smirk when she glances over at Teddy.

His clothes are the least of my worries.

Mike is suspiciously agreeable for the first half of the day. We easily settle determinations on the house (they’ll sell and split the profits), the cars (each walks away with one), and the boat.

Okay, maybe the boat wasn’t easy. As Mike points out, it does quite literally have her name on it. But in the end, he chuckles at our pointing out that Teddy owned it long before he met Gigi – and that, to our knowledge, she’s never set foot on it – so we all move on.

It’s all going so smoothly that by lunch, I wonder why the hell we didn’t do this in mediation.

But every now and then I become aware of the faint murmur of people behind us. The quiet sounds of shuffling. The intermittent click of cameras. The courtroom is only half full, but it feels like a lot of media for a run-of-the-mill divorce trial. The protestors sit in the back with their signs, which the judge allowed as long as they promised to behave themselves. So far so good.

After lunch, we launch into arguments about Avid. These begin and seem to have no sign of ending. We provide testimony from bands who have produced albums there in the past few years, all of whom signed under oath that Gigi did not factor into their decision to record there. We cite revenues prior to Teddy’s courtship with Gigi and compare it to present day. It’s surprisingly steady. If anything, business expenses increased upon Gigi’s arrival, and profits went down. Flights, hotels, and VIP tickets to all those festivals – which she listed as ‘scouting trips’ – weren’t cheap. If anything, she owes him.

But, Mike argues, the divorce will separate Gigi from her means of employment and thus significantly reduce her future earning potential. It’s because of this that they’re pursuing her stake in Avid, in the form of a large financial sum – so large that it would require Teddy to sell Avid in order to pay up. And I can only imagine this will also turn into a sizable request for alimony, once we get to that stage of the trial.

We trade blows.

Close to the end of the day, when I can see the judge getting antsy like she’s ready to call a recess, Mike Murdock suddenly transforms into the respectful, reasonable attorney again, conceding that Avid is Teddy’s. It feels like a win. I can tell from the way the whites of Mike’s teeth flash when he looks at us across the aisle that it isn’t. This was always his plan. They just wanted us to waste our time on this. They also wanted us to show our cards, warm up to our tactics. And they wanted Gigi to stand outside the courtroom and take somber selfies with the protestors. It’ll be all over social media before dinner.

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