Page 102 of The Best Part of Breaking Up

I see Paolo and Jeanine on our way out.

“She’s good,” Jeanine says.

Yeah, I don’t say out loud. That’s what I’m worried about.

I also worry, even though we’ve put the former Mrs. Glass up in a nearby hotel, that she will have to fly back to Iowa before we get to character references. Classes at the university where she teaches start soon. She’s a good sport, but she’s not willing to sacrifice everything for this case. She has a life – unlike me, apparently. All I seem to be able to do is obsess over the details. What is their next play? What are we missing? It feels like we’re walking into a trap.

And then, of course, we do.

On day two, Gigi produces tears as Mike makes the case for why she deserves ownership of Farkas. This is the first time he brings up spousal abuse. He puts Gigi on the stand, and she is a star. She paints a picture of a woman who was scared into silence, who was smiling on the outside to hide the horrible pain she carried on the inside. I can hear sniffling from behind me, no doubt the result of tears of solidarity being cried by some in attendance. At one point a woman is sobbing so loudly that the judge has her escorted out. Teddy stares at his hands, and testimony regarding the cat – and his character – drags on.

By day three, I imagine pitching one of those ridiculous movie scenarios where we haul Farkas into the courtroom, place him somewhere that is equidistant from Gigi and Teddy, and see which one he runs to. You know, like late-nineties Air Bud?

(Obviously I can’t do that. At this point, would I if I could? Probably, yes.)

“You’re not going to let them take him away, are you?” Teddy asks, worried. “He’s all I’ve got.”

I refrain from pointing out that he now has the studio, half the house, and a car, because on some level, I get it. While the law may see Farkas as personal property, I have to acknowledge that loving a pet is not the same as the studio, or a house, or a car. Farkas is Teddy’s best bud. As much as I don’t care for the little goblin-looking alien, it will gut me if he actually goes to Gigi.

“I know,” I say, firmly but gently. “We’re doing our best. And we’ve made good progress. It’s not over. You know if you would consider testifying –”

“No,” he says. “Like I told you in Santa Lucia, I won’t talk about it in court. And like you agreed, you’ll find another way.”

The truth wriggles a little further out of reach. I swell with a breath, wondering if we can save this sinking ship without his piece of the truth.

Each day we arrive, there are more protestors. More people filling the courtroom. You’d think they have jobs to go to. Lives to live. Or that eventually they would get bored listening to two grown adults pay people to argue for them. But no, the duration of this trial only seems to fuel their indignation. And their interest. A couple of podcasters have made this the highlight of their week. The whole thing is bizarre enough that we’re starting to pop up on morning radio shows.

Dane & Zed in the Morning: Currently in bizarre news, a Tennessee divorce trial between social media influencer Gigi Russo and recording studio mogul Teddy Glass has turned into a fight to the death over custody of their cat. Now, this isn’t any ordinary cat. It’s known as a lykoi cat. Have you seen pictures? Pull up a picture.

Zed: Dude, that is one ugly cat.

Dane: Ugly enough to win the hearts of millions, apparently. Social media hashtag #FreeFarkas is now trending on three platforms. A group of protestors is camping outside the courthouse in downtown Memphis.

Zed: Who do they want him to stay with?

Dane: I think they’re Team Gigi. But we want to hear from you. If you’re following this case, give us a shout. Or go online to cast your vote. Who should get custody of this cat?

Zed: Maybe no one should. Maybe he should be emancipated. Can cats be emancipated?

Dane: I’m so glad you asked, Zed. And fortunately we’ve got our favorite guest attorney on the line to help us understand exactly what’s going on here…

By midweek, I finally have to lock down my socials and stop reading the news. This doesn’t stop Meg and Auntie Lena from prying when we hit the pool with Kamille. They’re sitting under an umbrella, drinking lemonade and using foldable paper fans to stave off the heat.

“C’mon. Give us something,” Meg says. “You can’t expect us to have to wait for information like everyone else.”

“You know I cannot comment on an active case,” I remind them. “And we’re here to support Kamille.”

August crept up on us the way that the end of summer always does, just when you’re sure its merciless heat will stretch on in a shapeless, hazy-humid kind of eternity. This means the moment we’ve been training for all summer is finally upon us. This weekend, Kamille will board a charter bus that will take this region’s best and brightest to the state-run music camp for all the top performers in her age group. She’s been practicing her violin nonstop, and I know she’ll shine at the end-of-camp concert, where I will be sitting front and center with her family. And ideally, when they finish up their show and spend that last glorious day at the water park, she won’t be hanging out in the kiddie pool.

Quentin settles beside me on the edge of the pool with his suit pants rolled up to the knee, swishing his feet through the water. We were only released from today’s session half an hour earlier; I went to pick up Kamille, and he ran by the office to grab some files for another case. He’s got an entire evening of work ahead of him, but when he heard we were hitting the pool, he said he had a few minutes to join.

I’m aware of the way he leaves a respectful amount of space between us. When I thank him for coming, he winks at me. My heart does a shameless flip in my chest. Auntie Lena and Meg do their best to behave when I introduce him.

“How was Florida?” Meg asks him over the rim of her glass. “I hear it’s awfully hot this time of year.”

I cut her a look, and she gives me an innocent smile. Auntie Lena’s eyes are alight with mischief, like she’s grabbing the popcorn and settling in to watch a rom-com.

“Florida was… successful,” Quentin offers. “We got lucky.”

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