Page 61 of The Best Part of Breaking Up

We’d gone through the directives a dozen times, and in the end, that’s exactly what I did. I sold my dad out.

It’s not that my dad had ever done anything wrong to me, but my mom and her counsel were incredibly convincing. Everything that my dad had perpetrated against my mom, they explained, he’d also done without regard for me. To me. They coached me say that I didn’t feel safe with my dad.

But I did, I told them.

Didn’t I?

They said I didn’t know yet how untrustworthy he was being, that he was manipulating me so that he could keep more of his money. They told me that my dad didn’t want me – or rather, they told me that my dad had said he didn’t want me to live with him. To a seven-year-old, that sounds a lot like the same thing.

On the flip side, he was telling me that my mom was lying in order to hurt him. Saying anything she could to destroy his life. That he loved me to the moon and back. That I had to believe him.

How was I supposed to feel about all this? It was a tornado, silently ripping its way through me. They were each begging me to trust them. In the end, I didn’t trust anyone, least of all myself.

I know there’s a big trend now about reassuring your kids the divorce has nothing to do with them. As a present-day divorce attorney, I’m a huge proponent of that trend, but I can tell you that kids are still quietly used as bargaining chips in too many situations. People love to act like kids aren’t people. They’re great to brag about, or pose for family photos, or attempt to conform to your agenda. It’s easy to get attached to that grand idea you had before they were ever born about how they were going to be with you: the activities they would participate in, the aspirational paths they’d pursue, the clothes they’d wear. And then we show up, and we’re our own people, with our own feelings and ideas, and things get complicated. Sometimes it’s subtle, and I can’t prevent all of it, but on the legal side? In the ones I negotiate? I try to make sure kids aren’t used as expendable trump cards. I never say things like, “We need you to speak up about this.”

And, for better or worse, I never let kids stay in the room while we discuss the particulars.

What my dad had really said, I found out years later in court records, is that he thought it was best that I stayed with my mom. I don’t know if that’s the same as saying “I don’t want my kid”, but that’s how it was presented to me. And that hurt. It hurt down deep, in a way I still can’t really explain. What was I left with after that? A mother who, according to my dad, was apparently so evil that she would willingly hurt the people she cared about – yet he wanted me to stay with her. At that moment it was him she was hurting. What if one day it was me?

Regardless, once they worked their magic, I didn’t have as many issues saying everything they wanted me to.

I don’t feel safe with my dad.

I don’t want to live with my dad.

My dad makes my mom cry.

My dad makes me cry.

I’m scared my dad will hurt me.

I didn’t look at the judge, but I knew he was there. The attorney stood nearby, gently coaxing me along. Everyone was murmuring about how brave I was. How mature. I remember afterwards, as a reward for my testimony, I got a Giga Pet. A fucking Giga Pet. As I descend the elevator with Quentin, I imagine the tiny screen filling up with little piles of digital poop.

I hide behind my sunglasses as we step onto the sidewalk. We walk without saying anything, and I follow without protest, though I have no idea where we’re going. I know there’s no Teddy emergency. I also know we aren’t headed to our apartment building. Really though, I don’t care. I’m happy to be anywhere except in that office. I keep picturing Bernadette’s mouth in the shape of a perfect O, and Emma’s bright red, summer sunburn cheeks as her mom grabbed her arm and dragged her away.

God, I’m sure my own face looks pretty mortified right about now. I feel hot all over, like I need to jump headfirst into the deep end of the pool without a single toe-dip teaser. This walk isn’t helping, but I don’t say anything. Maybe this is the fate of the Heidi who loses her edge and can’t even keep a basic meeting under control: she’s damned to wander the earth – or the sunny sidewalks of downtown – until her skin scorches off her bones.

About ten minutes later, Quentin holds open the door to an unimpressive little building that smells like sweaty socks. I wrinkle my nose, wondering if he actually expects me to go inside. The dim lighting and grimy windows make it look about as appealing as climbing into a basket of dirty laundry. He levels his gaze with mine, as if to say, You’ve followed me this far.

I roll my eyes behind my glasses, pushing them up into my hair as I step inside. Apparently I’m making all the worst decisions today.

The place is narrow, like most of the old buildings downtown, and somewhere deep in the shadowy spaces near the back I hear a gruff old man call out from a threadbare sofa pressed against the wall.

“Hey, pretty boy. It’s early to be seeing you here.”

“Hey, Frank,” Quentin calls back. “Just stopping in with a friend. Good if we use the bags for a bit?”

“Go for it.”

I’m standing amongst two rows of punching bags suspended from the ceiling and other types of free weights, mats, and equipment I wouldn’t know what to do with if my life depended on it. Thankfully, we’re the only people here at this point in the day, so there’s no one – besides Frank – to witness what is bound to be my impending embarrassment. Quentin points me towards the seedy-looking ladies’ room with an uneven W scrawled on the door in black paint.

“I’m going to get changed,” he says. “Meet me out here in five.”

“What are we –?”

“Go,” he urges, giving me one of those ridiculous smirks.

I fold my arms across my chest. I don’t want to do what he says, mostly because he looks like he thinks people will do anything he wants when he flashes those dimples at them. In the end, though, I don’t want to stand out here with Frank eyeing me over his book of sudoku puzzles like he’s never seen anyone in a power suit and heels before.

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