Keep Them Close(44)
* * *
Time for my morning walk. First, I send Grayson his daily note: The biggest mistake you can make is being what others would have you be, rather than being yourself.
My phone buzzes with a text message, but it’s not Grayson responding, as he sometimes does. It’s Fin: I still love you. With all my heart.
I pull on my top, long-sleeved and insulated, zipping it up to my neck.
Another text: Doesn’t that count for anything?
It doesn’t count for enough. A marriage needs more than love, I reply, but my thumb hovers over the send button. Do I really want to engage right now? He can tell I’m typing, no doubt, from the bubbles, but I decide against sending it. Let him stare at bubbles for a while.
Meanwhile, the messages keep coming.
19 years of marriage doesn’t count for anything?
I’ll do anything. Just give me another chance.
I tuck in my earbuds and turn on music on my phone. Sometimes I go for upbeat and motivating. Today, I’m looking for chill and zen.
As I look at my phone, I notice a text message I received from my bank, Grace Community Bank, in the middle of the night:
GC Acct 4117: The $50,000 transfer to FIRST FEDERAL on Mar 19, 2026 at 3:49 am is greater than the $200 in your Alerts settings.
What? Someone transferred $50,000 from my savings account in the middle of the night?
I jump onto my bank’s app and pull up recent transactions. Currently pending is a $50,000 transfer to an account at First Federal. Finley. He’s probably worried about money, as if I would cut him off. As if I legally could cut him off.
And since when does he have an account at First Federal? When did he open a separate account at a different bank? Had he been planning for this breakup?
I go back on the app and cancel the transfer, which my bank quickly confirms:
GC Acct 4117: The $50,000 transfer to FIRST FEDERAL on Mar 19, 2026 at 3:49 am has been CANCELED. The availability of these funds may be affected by this transaction.
Meanwhile, the text messages from Finley continue:
Don’t give up on me.
We can make this work. I know we can.
Say something, please!!
If only he devoted a fraction of this energy to our marriage.
* * *
At work, I sit at my desk, the blinds cracked just enough to let in a thin blade of midday light. The office is quiet, the hum of the city just beyond the glass.
I text Luke with the news. Sorry to hear that, he replies. Or not sorry??
That about covers it. Yet another text from Finley: You canceled the money transfer?
I reply to Fin:
The $50K transfer? You didn’t tell me about it first. I didn’t even know you had a separate account. If you want a separate account and separate money until our divorce is final, then just tell me that. We can work that out. Don’t do it in the middle of the night without telling me. Money won’t be an issue.
He replies: Money may not be an issue for someone with a steady paycheck. But my work has never been compensated that way. So not so fun for me.
I almost laugh. His “work” hasn’t been compensated, period, for years.
Not that I ever cared about his money or lack thereof. We were a team. He could have contributed in many ways. Help more with Gray, take care of the house, cook the meals.
But by the time he lost his sales job, and I was now banking serious money in private practice, he’d grown accustomed to life in the upper class. No menial sales job would cut it any longer. A stay-at-home dad? Please. He was Finley Brice, hanging out at the fancy country club, a big talker with a three handicap, a backslapper, a player, a big deal.
But that’s water under the bridge. And if I’m going to get through this trial and Luke’s situation, I need as little drama as possible from Finley. So I send him a peace offering:
Go ahead and do the $50K withdrawal if that makes you feel comfortable for now. We will work something out later.
Within ten minutes, my phone buzzes with notice of the $50,000 withdrawal. This time, I don’t stop it. Hopefully, that will keep him happy for a while.
But I know better. The drama’s just beginning.
35
Allison
“It’s bullshit,” says Grayson through my earbuds as I return from my morning power-walk-slash-grocery-trip, the heavy Treasure Island bags thumping lightly against my thighs. “She’s acting like my interpretation is wrong. There’s no right or wrong when it comes to opinions. She can disagree with it, but she’s saying it’s wrong. How is an opinion wrong?”
“Then tell her that,” I say. “Defend yourself.”
“She’ll probably penalize me for it.”
“Not if you do it the right way, constructively. She’ll appreciate that you care enough to talk to her about it, right?”
“You don’t know this professor. This…is so unfair.”
“Sorry, kiddo. Life is unfair. Stand up for yourself. Nobody else will.”
The sun peeks over the horizon, slanting through houses as I near our intersection. I’m supposed to love this part of my day—the ritual, the cold air on my skin, the sweat cooling on my back, the produce shifting in the bags. But while Grayson talks, my brain is having its own debate: Tell him. Tell him about you and Fin. Don’t tell him. Not yet. He’s got classes, midterm exams next week. Don’t burden him. But he deserves to know. But not like this. But when, then? When?