Chapter 8 - DAVID’S SECOND COLLAPSE
Four years after our divorce, David called.
I almost did not answer.
Then I did.
“Rebecca.”
He sounded different.
“What happened?”
“Nothing.”
“Then why are you calling?”
“I need advice.”
I laughed.
“That seems dangerous.”
“I know.”
Collins Ridge Construction was struggling again.
Not collapsing.
But one major client had delayed payment.
David had a decision.
Borrow heavily.
Or shrink.
“What do you think I should do?”
I became suspicious.
“Are you asking me for money?”
“No.”
Immediate.
“Are you sure?”
“Yes.”
“Then why me?”
He was silent.
“Because you were always better at knowing when enough was enough.”
That surprised me.
I had spent eighteen years thinking David was the ambitious one and I simply lacked drive.
Apparently he had seen something else.
“I don't know construction.”
“No.”
“But?”
“You know me.”
I considered.
“What do you want?”
“To keep proving the company survived.”
“To whom?”
Silence.
There was the answer.
“David.”
“Yes?”
“You lost majority ownership.”
“Your marriage ended.”
“Warren went to prison.”
“Angela left.”
“The people you were performing success for are not even in the room anymore.”
He laughed sadly.
“That sounds like therapy.”
“I pay someone.”
“Worth it?”
“Yes.”
He eventually chose to shrink.
Twenty-nine employees became nineteen.
The business survived.
More importantly, David did.
Months later he sent a message:
Thank you. No money required.
I smiled.
That was probably the healthiest interaction of our entire relationship.
Paul saw my expression.
“David?”
“Yes.”
“You two friends now?”
“No.”
“Enemies?”
“No.”
“What?”
I thought.
“Former family.”
That fit.
Angela and I crossed paths that same year.
A grocery store.
Of course.
No dramatic gala.
No courtroom.
Produce aisle.
She stood beside avocados.
We froze.
“Hi.”
“Hi.”
She looked older.
So did I.
“How are you?”
“Okay.”
“You?”
“Better.”
Silence.
Then she said:
“I heard about the library program.”
“Chicago is nosy.”
She smiled.
“I’m glad.”
“Thanks.”
She picked up her basket.
Then:
“Rebecca?”
“Yes?”
“I won't ask you to forgive me.”
“Good.”
“I just…”
She swallowed.
“I am glad you didn't lose yourself because of us.”
I looked at her.
For a moment I saw the seventeen-year-old girl who slept beside me after prom because neither of our dates worked out.
Then the woman who slept with my husband.
Both were real.
“I did lose myself for a while.”
Her eyes filled.
“I found someone else.”
“Who?”
“Me.”
She laughed through tears.
“That was cheesy.”
“Terrible.”
We both smiled.
Then walked in opposite directions.
That was our final conversation.
Not forgiveness.
Not reunion.
Not revenge.
Closure rarely feels as dramatic as people want.
May you like
Sometimes it happens beside avocados.
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