I made a living as a divorce facilitator, helping people fast-track their paperwork. Today, I landed a massive client. Fifty thousand dollars. The divorce had to be finalized within three days. But I never expected that the client would be Cole, my boyfriend, who was currently sharing a moldy basement apartment with me. “I played a bit too hard before. Accidentally registered a marriage with another girl. I’m marrying my girlfriend next week, and I can’t let her find out.” Right after, he sent another message: “Honestly, I wanted to play around for another two years. But Julian is coming back to the States. He used to date my girlfriend, and I don’t trust him.” “You know how it is. You get it, right?” I stared at the screen and laughed. Oh, I was taking this job. “Bro, you online?” Today’s client was incredibly impatient. Before I could even reply, he spammed my Snapchat with over a dozen messages. I took a sip of my coffee and quickly typed back. “I’m here.” I drank too fast. The hot liquid burned my tongue. I took a sip of ice water to numb the pain. “I can book you a court date for two weeks from now. Guaranteed done.” He replied instantly. “I need it finalized in three days. Can you pull strings?” “Money is not an issue.” I did have connections to expedite emergency filings, but I usually saved those slots for women desperately trying to escape abusive marriages. Looking at this guy’s recent Instagram stories, he didn’t seem desperate. Last night, he was casually partying at a Michelin-starred restaurant. This was not a man suffering in a toxic marriage. Seeing my silence, he grew anxious. “No way. You can’t do it?” “They said you’re the best fixer in the city. Damn it!” After three minutes of silence, he seemed to realize something. If I couldn’t get it done, no one in New York could. Throwing money at a problem always worked best. And he knew I was desperate for cash. “Flat rate. Fifty thousand dollars. Can you get it done?” “If yes, I’ll PayPal you a ten-thousand-dollar deposit right now.” My hands shook. It took me thirty seconds to type a single word. “Yes.” The moment the notification popped up on PayPal, my eyes welled with tears. With this extra cash, I could finally afford a decent apartment downtown. Cole wouldn’t have to live in that damp basement anymore. Lately, the mold had been terrible. His allergies were acting up so badly that his back was covered in scratch marks. I quickly texted my real estate agent. “Sarah, that apartment we looked at last week? Keep it for me.” I transferred a five-thousand-dollar deposit, and my heart finally settled. If I weren’t so busy dealing with clients, I would have called Cole immediately to share the good news. Our hard times were finally over. I decided to wrap this up quickly. “Please send over the names and personal info. I need them for the filing.” The next second, the smile froze on my face. The message on my screen read: “Cole Brooks.” My broke boyfriend of two years.
I switched to my personal Snapchat account. Two hours ago, my pinned contact had sent me an update. “The gig is starting soon. Just letting you know.” He sent a group photo. “It’s just the band guys. All dudes. You can relax now.” “Once the Boston gig is over in three days, I’ll get paid and come straight back to marry you.” “Wait for me.” I searched “marry” in our chat history. The results spanned pages. “You look like my future wife. Want to get married?” “I wish I could wake up and be of legal age already, so I could marry you.” “I turned legal today.” “I want to get married so bad. I want to marry Iris.” “…” The most recent mention was just last month. Was someone playing a sick joke on me? But who would spend fifty thousand dollars just for a prank? I switched back to my business account. “I need the wife’s information too.” He replied with an OK emoji. “Hold on, let me ask her.” A moment later, he sent two voice notes. Amidst the loud background noise of a club, a sweet, playful female voice drifted out. “The name is Chloe.” “By the way, Cole, after the divorce, do I still get your bedtime service? The kind where you carry me to bed?” Then, a familiar male voice cut in. “Why do you always blab everything? I’ll deal with you later. Let go.” The voice notes were quickly recalled. I sat frozen for a long time. I bit down on the blister on my tongue, completely numb to the pain. Chloe. I remembered that name. Every time Cole’s indie band finished a gig, she would send him a bouquet of red roses. “I can’t shake her off. She’s so annoying.” That was how Cole described her to me. “Cole, after the divorce, do I still get your bedtime service? The kind where you carry me to bed?” And that was Cole in her world. When did it start? Suppressing the rising nausea in my throat, I started baiting him. “You guys sound pretty ‘intimate.’ Why even divorce?” “Once I book the court date, you aren’t going to back out, right?” The ‘typing’ indicator bubbled for two minutes. But his reply was simple. “No.” I replied: “I’ve had clients change their minds and ask for refunds. It wastes my time. Especially for a big order like this…” “I run a small business. I need some reassurance.” Thinking he would never cross paths with this random fixer in real life, Cole stopped holding back. “Just book it. I’m in a rush!” “I got drunk and married this girl for fun. Damn it! I didn’t know getting a fast dissolution in New York was this hard.” “I’m marrying my girlfriend next week. I can’t let her find out.” “Honestly, I wanted to play around for another two years. But Julian is coming back to the States. He used to date my girlfriend, and I don’t trust him.” “We’re both men. You get it, right?”
Julian. The name instantly locked in my mind. No wonder I always saw glimpses of Julian in Cole. They were brothers. Before we broke up, Julian had proposed to me too. A diamond ring under one carat, which had cost him his entire salary during his internship. He ate nothing but cheap bread for a month. Yet every night, he still had the energy to listen to me complain about the toxic people at my office. “That girl, Linda, wears the same Lululemon leggings for a week, yet she had the nerve to call my outfit trash in front of everyone!” “And Rebecca is such a snake. She makes me translate her documents and runs straight to the boss the one time I say no.” “Damn it, I spent weeks on that pitch, and Kevin just signs his name and takes all the credit!” As I ranted, I crouched on the floor, overwhelmed. Tears streamed down my face. “Iris, if New York makes you this miserable, let’s just go back to my hometown.” “We won’t make crazy money, but we won’t have to deal with this drama. We can live a quiet, simple life.” Julian had suggested moving back to his hometown more than once, but I had always brushed it off. Only that one time, blinded by frustration, I lost my ability to think. I buried my face in his chest and gave a muffled, “Okay.” His hometown was remote, only accessible by long-distance buses. At the crowded station, most people were young couples with children. One baby strapped to the chest, another toddler in hand. They pushed battered suitcases that looked ready to fall apart, clutching cheap plastic bags. Except for the kids, that was exactly how I looked when I first arrived in New York. I looked down at my 20-inch carry-on, stuffed to the brim just to maintain a shred of dignity. Suddenly, a wave of panic hit me. A dead-end job, endless family drama, getting married, having kids, turning into a haggard housewife gossip. The future in that small town was crystal clear. I refused to live that life. I would rather die in New York. So, I ran. I thought Julian had long since settled down with some local girl in his hometown, married with kids. I never expected that three years later, he would appear on the cover of a major financial magazine as the sole heir to the Brooks Group. If we met again, what would I feel? Guilt? Remorse? Humility? Thinking about it, none of the above. Actually, I felt Julian should thank me. If I hadn’t broken up with him, how would he, a guy who grew up with a single mother, have been motivated to reclaim his place in the Brooks family? The man on the magazine cover looked effortlessly elite. The watch on his wrist could buy an entire building. His cold eyes seemed to mock my past choices. The Amtrak train to Boston slowly began to move. Feeling annoyed, I stuffed the magazine into the seatback pocket. Drowsiness washed over me, but my mind was a mess. Sitting by the aisle, I had to stay alert in case someone needed to get by. Half an hour later, the other shoe finally dropped. “Excuse me, I have the window seat.” I opened my eyes and saw the person I least wanted to see.
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