Page 75 of The Best Part of Breaking Up

“It doesn’t really matter what I think, Quentin. What matters is the judge. The press. And let me tell you, if you pull some shit like that –”

“God, I’m sorry, Heidi. I took a chance, okay. I know that doesn’t make any sense to you, but sometimes you have to try things even if you know they might not work out,” he says. “I’m sorry.”

It cuts deeper than I mean for it to. I’m barely breathing, as if being still will keep it from hurting. I tug my bag a little tighter under my arm and slide my sunglasses into place, moving for my car. I have to get out of here. I can’t stand in this parking lot, trading blows with him.

“I really don’t need your apologies, Quentin.”

“I can fix this.”

“No need. I’ll fix it. You’ve done enough.”

I slam the door of my car and put it in gear, leaving him standing, silhouetted on the sidewalk.

***

I’m developing a twitch in my right eyelid. I should probably file this under workers’ compensation, citing the previous evening’s events as the date of injury, but I don’t. Realistically, I can’t blame this on much more than my fitful lack of sleep and the fact that I haven’t changed my contacts in over six months. Every time Meg and I incidentally discuss this, she goes on a rant about how she can’t believe my corneas haven’t peeled off yet.

“Are you really so busy being a total badass at your job that you can’t focus one afternoon on the fact that you want to be able to see?” she regularly exclaims.

The answer is always: yes, probably. With a defensive, I’ll get to it.

We have some version of this conversation when I swing by the cafe for my iced coffee, trying to pretend my eye isn’t spasming like I’m deranged, before I ignore her amateur optometry advice and head over to Avid Records. When I get there, I don’t find Teddy sleeping on the sofa in his office like I expect. He’s also not in the kitchen. All I find is a half-empty pot of scorched coffee, that crumpled statement-slash-love-song beverage napkin, and Zelda, who looks over her yogurt cup at me like I should’ve known better than to show up here.

“He’s already gone,” she says, dropping her gaze back to the book she’s reading and sucking her spoon.

“Gone?” I question. “Gone where?”

“Gone fishing.”

She says it with such a flat tone that I can’t tell if she’s being sarcastic or not.

“Fishing,” I repeat, seemingly weighing the validity of the word. “Okay. I can wait.”

“You’ll be waiting a while. I told you, he’s gone fishing. As in, he took Farkas and headed out on one of his fishing trips. In Florida.”

“Florida,” I repeat. The declaration falls somewhere between shock and disbelief. I still can’t tell if she’s fucking with me, so I tack on a more direct line of questioning. “Florida?”

“Do they teach you that in law school, or is it some sort of nervous habit you picked up from a talking bird? Yes, Florida. Don’t look so devastated. He’ll probably wear himself out on sunshine, seasickness, and spiced rum in about a week or so.”

“But we’ve got court on Monday.”

“You have court on Monday,” she corrects. “He’s got a broken heart and a rundown fishing boat with her name on it.”

I immediately pull up his contact card in my phone and hit the call button. It goes straight to voicemail. Though I know there’s no use, I try two more times with the same result.

“I cannot believe this,” I mutter.

Zelda has already returned to her book and breakfast, as if she’s moved on to acceptance. But I can’t accept this. I can see this case, the partnership, possibly my entire professional reputation slipping away from me. It’s one thing to be involved in a messy, high profile case. It’s another entirely to show up to court without the fucking client. As if this wasn’t already a social media circus, I now officially feel like a clown. I sink into the chair across from her and try not to throw anything.

“We won’t win this case without him,” I rant. “Not showing up is like an automatic forfeit.”

She turns the page without looking up, as if this isn’t her problem. “I’d say he’s probably betting on it.”

I blink at this, completely incensed. “Why would he hire a divorce attorney if he doesn’t actually seem to want a divorce?!”

“Because she wants a divorce.”

My mouth falls open slightly, but nothing comes out. I’ve officially been reduced to doing my best impersonation of a goldfish. Zelda must sense my brain imploding, because she finally sighs, looking up.

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