During the first week after I moved into my new apartment in Chicago’s West Loop neighborhood, Scott called twice. I ignored the calls. Then he tried again from another number. I blocked that too.
A few weeks later he finally reached me.
“Rebecca,” he said when I answered, using my name in a way that sounded almost careful. “Please listen.”
“What do you want?” I asked.
“Kelsey left,” he admitted.
I waited.
“She said the house felt awful,” he continued. “She kept saying it looked like a dorm room.”
“That must be difficult,” I said without emotion.
Scott sighed. “I didn’t realize how much work you did. I thought it was just stuff.”
“It wasn’t stuff,” I replied. “It was my job.”
“Can you help me fix it?” he asked quickly. “I can pay you.”
I leaned back on my couch in my bright apartment and looked around the room filled with pieces I had chosen for myself.
“We are divorced,” I reminded him.
“Not officially yet,” he said. “But soon. Rebecca, could you at least tell me what to buy?”
“You can hire a designer,” I said.
“I want you,” he insisted.
“You didn’t want me,” I replied calmly. “You wanted what I built.”
He fell silent.
“I wish you luck,” I said, and ended the call.