My Copycat Divorce Went Wrong Chapter 2

Regina yelled at me on the sidewalk for fifteen solid minutes.

I didn't say a single word back.

It wasn't that I didn't want to defend myself; it was that I literally had no face to do so.

When she finally finished her tirade, she leaned against her car door, panting as if she had just run a marathon.

"Belinda," she breathed, "have you ever made a single decision for yourself in your entire thirty-one years of life?"

I thought about it.

Honestly? No.

"Do you even realize what kind of mess you're in now?" she continued. "You're divorced. You walked away with nothing—"

"Who said I walked away with nothing?" I interrupted. "Chris didn't ask me for—"

I cut myself off and pulled out my phone to check my messages.

A text from Chris had arrived three minutes ago: "I keep the condo, you keep the car, and I’m taking the savings. Car keys are with the lobby doorman."

I opened our joint banking app.

Balance: $4.73.

I slid my phone back into my pocket.

"What?" Regina asked.

"Nothing," I murmured. "You were right. Pretty much walked away with nothing."

Regina slammed her fist against the car door.

She wasn't angry with me anymore; she was angry with herself.

"If I hadn't sent that stupid text—"

"It has nothing to do with you," I said quietly. "It was my decision."

She looked at me with a complicated expression.

It was probably the first time she had ever heard the words "my decision" come out of my mouth.

Then the irony hit her. "For thirty years, every decision you made was because of me. And the one time you make your 'own' decision, it’s a divorce."

I stayed silent.

She stayed silent.

We just stood there under the warm glow of the streetlamp for a long time.

Finally, she patted my shoulder. "Get in the car. You're staying at my place tonight."

"Won't Jackie mind?" I asked.

She hesitated.

"He... probably doesn't know yet."

As it turned out, Jackie didn't just know—he was literally rolling on the bed laughing when he found out.

That night, as I sat on Regina’s living room sofa, Jackie walked out of the bedroom in his sweatpants to grab a glass of water. He froze when he saw me.

Standing by the kitchen door with his mug, he tried to hold it in for a few seconds, but his shoulders shook, his mouth twitching uncontrollably.

"Belinda," he said, his voice trembling as he fought back a hysterical laugh. "Hey. You, uh... you want some dinner?"

"Whatever," I muttered.

He turned and rushed into the kitchen. The second the door swung shut, I heard a muffled snort, like he had stuffed his face into a dishtowel to keep from howling. Then he turned the sink faucet on high to drown out the noise of his laughter.

I sat on the sofa, staring at the fruit bowl on the coffee table. A single apple and an orange, perfectly placed.

Regina sat down next to me, her lighter clicking three times before she finally got her cigarette lit.

"What's your plan now?" she asked.

"What do you mean?"

"You're divorced, Belinda. You have no house, no savings. Where are you going to live?"

"Your couch is pretty comfortable," I said.

She slammed her lighter onto the table. "I'm asking you seriously."

"I am being serious," I said, turning to look at her. "Look at my life. When have I ever not followed you? Just tell me what to do next."

She took a deep drag of her cigarette, exhaling a cloud of gray smoke. "I'm not telling you anything anymore. Starting today, you figure out how to live your own life."

I blinked.

The weight of her words hung heavy in the air.

For thirty years, she had never spoken to me like that.

I opened my mouth to say something, but the kitchen door swung open. Jackie walked out carrying a bowl of hot ramen, topped with a perfectly fried egg and a neat sprinkle of scallions.

He set it down in front of me. "Eat up. We’ll figure out tomorrow, tomorrow."

Staring at the steaming bowl, my eyes suddenly welled up with tears.

It wasn't because I was deeply moved.

It was just that he had put too much chili oil in it, and the spicy steam was hitting my face.

After finishing the noodles, I lay down on the sofa.

The living room lights were turned off, leaving only the tiny red standby light of the television blinking in the dark.

I pulled out my phone and went to Instagram.

Chris had posted a photo an hour ago.

It was a glass of red wine on our—his—balcony. The caption read: "New beginnings."

I scrolled through the comments.

His buddy: "Finally!"

His coworker: "About time, man."

His dad: "Come stay with us this weekend, I’ll make that roast you like."

I kept scrolling.

Not a single person asked him what happened.

No one expressed shock.

It was as if the entire world had been waiting for him to divorce me.

And I was the only one who hadn't realized it.

I closed Instagram and pulled up my chat history with him.

The last message was his text about the condo and the car.

I scrolled up.

Three days ago. He asked: "What do you want for dinner?"

My reply: "Whatever."

Five days ago. He said: "Wanna see a movie this weekend?"

My reply: "Can't. Regina wants to play tennis."

Eight days ago. He sent a photo of a new blue button-down shirt he had bought.

My reply: "Nice."

Just one word.

I pressed the phone against my chest, staring up at the dark, invisible ceiling.

A chilling thought struck me.

We had been married for three years.

In all that time, I don't think I had ever initiated a single conversation.

Every interaction was started by him. Every response from me was an afterthought, a half-hearted obligation.

It was as if he were just an NPC in the background of my life.

My entire focus, my entire universe, had been anchored to Regina.

Not in a romantic way, but in a psychological one—my identity didn't belong to me.

It belonged to her.

The thought made my skin crawl.

I rolled over, trying to force my mind to go blank.

"Sleep," I told myself. "Think about it tomorrow."