MY EX HUSBAND’S REGRET

Picking up myself

The apartment was on the fourth floor of a building that had seen better days. Probably in the seventies.

I stood in the doorway with the last of my boxes, staring at the empty space that was supposed to be my fresh start. The walls were beige, that sad kind of beige that wasn’t trying to be neutral, just existing because no one had bothered to paint over it. The floor was worn hardwood, scratched and dull, with a stain near the window that looked suspiciously like old water damage.

One room. That was it. One room that served as bedroom, living room, and whatever else I needed it to be. A tiny kitchen area shoved into the corner with a two-burner stove, a mini fridge that hummed louder than it should, and about two feet of counter space. The bathroom was through a door so narrow I had to turn sideways to get my boxes through.

But it had a window, a decent sized one that looked out onto the street below, letting in natural light that made the beige walls look slightly less depressing.

“It’s not bad,” I said out loud, testing the words.

They felt like a lie, but I said them again anyway. “It’s not bad for a fresh start.”

The door clicked shut behind me, and suddenly the space felt even smaller. This was my home now. Not the townhouse with its exposed brick and vintage light fixtures, not the place where Ethan and I had slow danced in the kitchen and made love on lazy Sunday mornings.

This cramped studio apartment in Queens that had taken every penny of my savings just to get into.

First month’s rent, last month’s rent and security deposit. Jessica had tried to negotiate the broker’s fee down, but the landlord wouldn’t budge. Three thousand dollars gone just like that, the money I’d been saving for years for emergencies or maybe a dream vacation, just gone. Although I never thought a day like this would come, that’s why it’s always good to save, no matter how little it is.

I had eight hundred dollars left in my account, to feed myself until I found a job. Eight hundred dollars that absolutely could not go toward furniture or anything that wasn’t survival.

I dropped the box I was holding and looked around at my pile of belongings, suitcases of clothes, boxes of books and picture frames, kitchen stuff I didn’t have room for, my lamp, and some few throw pillows. All of them sat in the middle of the empty floor because I had nothing to put them on.

There was no bed, couch, table or chairs. It was just the floor and my stuff.

I started unpacking slowly, my body still aching from last night with that motherfucker and from hauling boxes up four flights of stairs because the elevator was broken. I hung my clothes in the narrow closet that barely fit half my wardrobe. The rest were folded and stacked along the wall. The books went under the window in neat piles and the kitchen stuff in the cabinets, though I didn’t have much, just a few pots, some plates, mugs and silverware.

I spread my bedding out in the corner farthest from the door, making a little nest on the hardwood floor with the sheets, blankets, and pillows. It looked pathetic, like a child’s fort, but it would have to do.

The bathroom was the only part of the apartment that wasn’t terrible. It was small, but clean and manageable. It has white subway tiles that were a little cracked but not gross, and a shower with decent water pressure, which I tested immediately. The mirror above the sink was spotty, and the light fixture flickered when I turned it on, but what was I expecting? Definitely not something better than this.

I caught my reflection and almost didn’t recognize myself. My hair was all over the place, tangled and greasy. My face was pale and drawn, dark circles adorned under my eyes that made me look ten years older. I looked exactly like someone whose life had fallen apart.

“You need a job,” I said to myself.

“Right now, today.”

My degree was in Marketing and Communications from NYU. I’d graduated with honors, done internships at good companies, and worked my way up at Carter & Associates for six years. I was good at my job. Social media management, campaign development, and brand strategy. I could write copy, design graphics, and analyze metrics. I could get a job anywhere anytime. I had to get a job.

I took a hot shower, scrubbing away the last two days until my skin was red and looked very raw. I washed my hair twice and stood under the water until it started running cold.

When I got out, I felt slightly more alive like the human I was. Still broken, but clean.

I put on something comfortable, just leggings and an oversized sweater, and sat down on my makeshift bed with my laptop. The wifi the landlord had promised was spotty at best, but it worked enough to load job sites, like Indeed, LinkedIn, Glassdoor. I opened them all and started searching.

Marketing Coordinator, Social Media Manager, Content Strategist, Digital Marketing Specialist and other jobs related. I applied to everything that matched my experience, tweaking my resume and cover letter for each one, highlighting different skills and different achievements. Making myself sound invaluable.

One application, then two, then five, and then Ten.

Finally, I applied to fifteen jobs in three hours, my eyes burning from staring at the screen, my fingers cramping from typing. Some were at companies I’d actually heard of, some were startups I’d never seen before while some were probably terrible places to work, but I didn’t have the luxury of being picky.

I needed money, and something to do besides sitting in this empty apartment and thinking about how unfair life was and about how thoroughly my life had been destroyed.

My phone sat next to me in silence. No calls or texts from anyone, except the automated responses from job applications. “Thank you for your interest. We’ll be in touch if your qualifications match our needs.”

I stared at Natalie’s name in my contacts for a long time before I finally pressed the call.

She answered on the fifth ring. “Hey.”

“Hey.” My voice came out rough. “Can I come over? I need to talk to you.”

There was a pause, and I heard voices in the background. It sounded like she was somewhere public.

“Now?” She asked.

“Yeah. If that’s okay.”

She paused for another eight seconds before finally answering.

“I guess…I’ll be home around six. Okay?”

Of course I would wait until six, I needed a support system.

“Yeah, I’ll be there.”

“Okay. See you then.”

She hung up without saying goodbye, but that didn’t hurt me, at least she didn’t cut me off.

I looked at the time and it was four thirty. An hour and a half to kill.

I should eat something, I’d barely eaten since the party, I’ve been surviving on alcohol and misery. My stomach was a tight knot, but I forced myself to go through the boxes until I found a granola bar. It tasted like cardboard, but I chewed and swallowed anyway.

The apartment felt too quiet and empty, full of my own thoughts.

I walked to the window and looked out at the street below. People walking by, living their normal lives. A woman pushing a stroller. A guy on his phone laughing at something and some couple holding hands.

They had no idea that four floors up, someone’s entire world had ended. Life just kept moving forward whether you were ready or not.

My reflection stared back at me in the window glass. Pale, tired and alone.

“You can do this,” I whispered. “You have to do this.”

Because what other choice did I have? Give up? Let them win? Let Ethan and everyone who’d abandoned me be right about me being weak and broken?

No. Absolutely not.

I was going to survive this, and show them I wasn’t who they mistook me for. I’m going to find a job, rebuild my life, and prove every single one of them wrong. I’m going to show them that Ivy Carter didn’t need their approval or their love or their belief to be okay. Since they all chose to believe an obvious lie.

I checked my email one more time, and there were three automated rejections already. “Thank you for applying, but we’ve decided to move forward with other candidates.”

Of course.

I closed my laptop and grabbed my jacket. The address for Natalie’s apartment was burned into my brain. Twenty minute subway ride. I could do that.

I needed to see her face when I talked to her, to look my best friend in the eye and ask her if she really believed I would cheat on Ethan. If she really thought I was capable of that.

Maybe if I could convince Natalie, she could help me convince everyone else. She was my best friend, she had to believe me eventually. She had to.

I locked the apartment door behind me, the key heavy in my hand. I walked down four flights of stairs because the elevator was still broken and stepped out onto the street where the evening air was crisp and cold.

The subway station was two blocks away. I walked with my head down, and my hands shoved in my pockets, invisible among all the other people rushing to wherever they needed to be. Just another stranger in the city, another person trying to survive.

I swiped my MetroCard and descended into the tunnel, ready to face whatever came next.

Ready to fight for the one friendship I hopefully still had left.