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The rest of the day, I’m a ball of nerves. Did she save him? Did I just blow this entire operation?

Nothing eases my anxiety until I get home. There’s a box of stupidly expensive and addictive cookies on my counter. “Thanks -A.” She broke in again. But at least she left me dessert. I open the pink box and grab one with chocolate frosting. The cookie itself is soft, and a tad dry, but the frosting makes up for it.

My personal phone buzzes, and the cookie absorbs all the moisture in my mouth. My ex. The biggest mistake of my life.

Fucknugget: Hey Katie, I’m leaving town for a little while.

Me: Cool, sign the damn papers.

Fucknugget: Will do, when I get back.

Me: No. NOW.

Fucknugget: Too bad I can’t find a pen.

I grab a pillow and scream into it. With my long list of accomplishments, you would think I could handle my ex, but no. And every time I get close, somehow, he fucks it up again. And technically, he’s my ex-husband in my heart, body and mind, on paper we are separated but not divorced.

There’s a point where I wish I had friends. Other women I could drink wine with and chat. Instead, I have a voice on aphone who drops off cookies I can snack on while I sit at home and watch documentaries about my favorite musicians.

It’s times like this I miss Markus and Uri. But most of all, I miss Dimitri. I broke a million protocols leaving a phone for him and setting up a date. But it hurts not seeing him. Every action I do, it’s a reminder of him. Every tall man I see is like a flashbang memory of him and a life I could’ve had.

Three days later, my phone buzzes again.

Fucknugget: Lunch?

Me: I’d rather eat a baby, thank you. I thought you were going out of town.

Fucknugget: I was highly motivated to return.

Fucknugget: Please. We need to talk. We can go to that shitty café you like.

Me: It’s not shitty, it’s homey and cute as fuck.

Fucknugget: Whatever.

Me: I’m bringing pens. Lots of them. And copies of the paperwork.

I never get a response

The next afternoon, I’m waiting at the cafe and, of course, he's late. I’ll give him five more minutes, and I’m out. I’ll get something to go. They have a berry and goat cheese salad that’s to die for.

Five minutes turns into ten, and now I’m pissed off and too hangry for takeout. Table for one, it is. Another five minutes gone, and I hate myself for checking to make sure my lipstick hasn’t faded and left me with a weird lip line. Nope. All good. Check one for me. Plus, yummy salad on deck. So far, I’m two for two.

The café is full of the lunch crowd. One table of men stands out. They’re not the cozy café with blue cows on the wall type. They’re all in suits of various degrees—track suits, white shirts with black ties, or a fully custom suit. There’s a plate of cookies at the table, and the track-suit guy takes a bite, makes a face, and chugs a glass of water.

I’m with him on that. The salads are great, the baked goods are not. I’m a pink box cookie kinda gal.

My ex walks in wearing a baseball cap, his head down. His cheek is swollen, and both eyes have deep dark circles under them. He slides into the seat across from me.

“Holy shit, what happened to you?”

His hands shake as he pushes the divorce papers across the table. “Here you go.”

My brain doesn’t register what it’s seeing. “I don’t understand.”

He winces with every word. “You can have everything you want. Just take it while I’m gone.”

“Does this sudden very generous action have anything to do with your face?”