Hey, why is my card not working?
I stared at the screen, chewed my sandwich slowly, and smiled.
Then I typed back:
Maybe it's seeing other people.
Read at 6:17 p.m.
No reply.
I laughed out loud.
Even Milo looked impressed.
"Don't look at me like that, buddy," I told him. "You'd do the same if you had thumbs."
A few minutes later, she called.
I didn't pick up.
I wanted her to marinate.
10 minutes after that, another text.
Belinda:
I'm trying to buy groceries. What's going on?
Me:
Maybe Karma's cutting carbs.
I tossed my phone aside and poured myself a drink.
God, it felt good.
Not cruel, just balanced.
The universe had been tipping in her favor for too long, and I was just redistributing resources.
Around 8:00, Tar called.
"You sound happy," he said suspiciously.
"I met Delgado," I said.
"The lawyer?"
"Yeah. She's like if Judge Judy and Wonder Woman had a love child."
He laughed.
"That good?"
"She reorganized my financial life in an hour. I feel spiritually audited."
He whistled.
"So, what's next?"
"Now," I said, leaning back, "I wait. Delgado's filing the paperwork, locking down the rest of the accounts, and I'm sitting here watching justice slow-cook."
He chuckled.
"Damn, you really went full spreadsheet on this."
"Of course," I said. "If she can multitask between lies, I can multitask between revenge and meal prep."
He laughed harder.
"You're sick, man."
"I prefer methodical."
We hung up after a few jokes about Belinda's inevitable meltdown.
I poured another drink and flipped on the TV, but I couldn't focus.
My phone buzzed again, this time with a voicemail notification.
Curiosity won.
I hit play.
Her voice was small and tight.
"Oliver, please call me. My card got declined at the pharmacy. I needed to pick up something important."
I smirked.
Hope it was humility.
I didn't call back.
I didn't even feel bad.
This was the woman who'd looked me in the eye and confessed her affair like she was reading a grocery list.
She'd earned this little inconvenience.
The next morning, I met with Mrs. Delgado again to sign final documents.
She had a file thicker than a Bible, neatly tabbed and labeled.
"All you need to do," she said, sliding it across, "is sign here, here, and here. And congratulations, Mr. Carver. You're about to become independently unbothered."
I signed each page with the satisfaction of a man autographing his own comeback story.
When I was done, she said, "Now, one last thing. Do you want to freeze her access to the joint car lease?"
I grinned.