Never the Good Girl

Eyes Open

I wake up before the sun is even fully out.

For about three seconds, I have no idea where I am. I'm just staring at a plain white ceiling and feeling sheets that aren't mine. Then it all hits me at once. The gym, the bedroom, the bar, him. I lie completely still, just blinking, letting the weight of yesterday settle in my chest.

He's still asleep right next to me.

I turn my head slowly. He's on his back with one arm tossed to the side, his chest moving up and down in a deep, steady rhythm. In the grey morning light, he looks younger, and less intense. I watch him for a second longer than I should, thinking about how he actually looked at me last night.

Then I start moving. I sit up an inch at a time, holding my breath every time the mattress makes a tiny sound. I find my hoodie on the floor and then my leggings. I dress as quietly as I can, like the room might wake up and demand an explanation if I make too much noise.

When I get to the door, I pause. I look back at him one last time. I don't even know his name. This stranger ran after me in a parking lot, talked me down when I was losing my mind, and spent the whole night making me feel like I actually mattered.

I take one last look at him, then shut the door with a quiet click.

The city is barely awake when I step outside. The air is cold and crisp. My car is still sitting in the lot where I left it, looking like a ghost from my old life. I get in and just sit there for a minute without starting the engine.

Last night, I was a wreck. I was a woman who found another woman in her husband's bed and drove away with no plan and no hope.

This morning, I'm still technically that woman. Nothing is fixed. Fred still wants to throw me away. I have no job, no money of my own, and no idea what happens next.

But something feels different. For the first time in years, I don't feel like I'm invisible.

I start the engine and drive.

****

Shantel opens her front door wearing a silk bonnet and a huge T shirt. She's got a mug of coffee in one hand and her reading glasses perched on her forehead. She takes one look at my face and moves out of the way immediately.

"Get in here, girl."

"Good morning to you too…."

"I said get in here, Samantha." She grabs my wrist and pulls me inside, kicking the door shut. She marches me straight to the kitchen. "Sit. Don't move. I'm making you something to eat and you're going to tell me everything. You look like you drove through a war zone and stopped for drinks on the way."

"That's actually pretty accurate," I mutter, sliding onto a stool.

She starts cracking eggs and pulling stuff out of the fridge, but she keeps cutting looks at me over her shoulder. She knows it's bad.

"How bad?" she asks, not looking away from the pan.

"Pretty bad."

"Fred bad or the world is ending bad?"

"Both."

She drops the spatula and turns around fully. "What did that asshole do?"

I take a deep breath. "I came home from the gym yesterday and there was a woman in our bedroom."

Shantel goes completely still. "No way. In your bedroom?"

"She was on her knees in front of him. In front of the dresser. It was… a lot."

"Oh, hell no," Shantel says, her voice rising with a mix of shock and pure anger.

The kitchen goes quiet for three seconds. Then Shantel lets out this sound half shriek, half groan and slams her hands onto the counter. "I cannot! I literally cannot process this. In your house, Sam?"

"In our bedroom. On my dresser."

"The house you helped him build? The one you sacrificed everything for?" She stops herself, her face turning red. "And then what? Please tell me you broke something. Please tell me you set his car on fire."

"He came downstairs and shouted at me," I say, my voice sounding flat even to me. "He called it his house. Told me I had no right to bother him. He said the woman was… better than me."

Shantel's face changes. The shock is gone, replaced by a cold, hard rage. "He said what?"

"He wants a divorce. He said he's bored out of his mind. Told me I couldn't satisfy him, and then he just… went back upstairs to her."

Shantel takes a long sip of her coffee, her eyes fixed on the wall. She's trying so hard not to explode. "Samantha," she says finally. "I've been telling you for three years that Fred was going to show you exactly who he was. I've said it while crying, I've said it while yelling. I've lost sleep over it." She sets the mug down. "I take zero pleasure in being right."

I look at her, feeling the sting of the truth.

"Okay," she admits, her voice softening. "Maybe a little pleasure. But only because it means you're finally done with that trash."

Something in my chest actually loosens, and I let out a short, shaky laugh.

Shantel points at me. "There she is! There's my girl." She walks around the counter and pulls me into a hug so tight I can feel it in my ribs. "Baby, this is not the end. This is the start. That man did you the biggest favor of your life by showing his hand."

She pulls back, her eyes narrow and focused. "You're going to be okay. And we're going to take him for every single thing he has. Which brings me to this."

She goes to a drawer near the fridge and pulls out a business card. She slides it across the counter toward me like a weapon.

"Fred has his name on everything," she says. "The company, the house, the accounts. You need a shark. Someone aggressive. Someone who makes people shake just by walking into the room."

I look at the card. Harlow & Associates. Corporate and Family Law.

"He handled my cousin's divorce," Shantel says. "Her husband tried to hide every penny. This lawyer found all of it in three weeks. The man is a bloodhound in a suit."

I flip the card over. "Will he see us today?"

"I'm calling him right now," Shantel says, already grabbing her phone. "He'll see us this afternoon. I've been waiting for this day for two years, Sam. Don't look at me like that. Finish your eggs. We have an appointment at two."

****

Harlow & Associates is on the fourteenth floor of a huge glass building downtown. The place is fancy. Everything about the office says we win.

I straighten my jacket, trying to look like I have my life together, and follow Shantel down the hall. The receptionist's heels click perfectly on the marble floor.

“Mr. Harlow will see you now,” she says, her voice soft, almost hesitant, as she pushes open the heavy door.

I take a breath and walk in.

The man behind the massive desk rises as we step inside. He’s tall, wearing a charcoal suit that fits him perfectly. He lifts a hand, like he expects me to shake it.

And my entire body goes still.

No.

No, this is not happening.

My eyes lock on his face, tracing every line like I need to confirm it. The jaw. The eyes. The mouth I—

It’s him.

The stranger from last night.

The man from the bar.

The man from the hotel.

The man who had me shaking and forgetting my own name just hours ago—

Now standing in front of me. For a second, his eyes change, like he remembers me

Then it’s gone.

His face goes blank again, calm and unreadable… like nothing ever happened.

Like last night didn’t happen.

His hand is still out in front of him.

Waiting.

Shantel doesn’t even glance our way. “Mr. Harlow, this is my best friend Samantha Jones. Sam, this is the best divorce lawyer in the city.”