"So, I say."

"So," Ben says. "What next?"

I can tell he is talking about logistics, not our relationship. We are over, and we both know it. I hand him Nina's draft papers and say, "It's all pretty standard when it comes to uncontested divorces in New York."

He takes the papers and glances down at them. He flips through them, page by page, until he gets to the part that discusses the division of assets.

"I just want the CDs," I summarize for him.

He looks up at me, surprised. "That's all you want? The CDs?"

"Yeah. I just want our music," I say, vowing that it will be my very last our. "Is that okay?"

"Sure, Claudia. The music is yours."

"Even all the James McMurtrys?" I say, hoping that he'll balk-or at least look upset. Ben has his favorite bands, and I have mine, but as a couple, James McMurtry is our number one. Maybe it's because we discovered and fell in love with his music together. I see Ben's chest rise slightly as he inhales. He exhales and looks at me. I hope he's thinking of last summer when we flew to Austin to see James perform at the Continental Club. I hope he's thinking of how we drank too many beers, our arms around each other, as we soaked up James's wrenching lyrics.

"Sure. Even James," he says sadly, as I make a mental note to leave just one CD behind, as if it were only an oversight. I pulled a similar stunt when I broke up with my college boyfriend, Paul. There were a lot of reasons for our demise, but among them was that we weren't geographically compatible. I wanted to live in New York-and he wanted to live anywhere but. I held out hope that he'd change his mind and strategized ways to increase those odds. So when I gathered up all of his stuff that had accrued in my apartment over the prior year, I stuck one random Uno card in the crate because Paul and I played Uno together all the time, and had kept a running score into the triple digits. The card was a red "reverse" which I thought was somehow symbolic. I hoped that he'd find it and have a moment of intense regret for letting me go, a desire to "reverse" his life, leave Denver and move with me to New York. Maybe he would even tape that card to his mirror, look at it every morning when he shaved, thinking of me and what could have been.

I try to imagine what Ben's expression will be when he comes across one of our McMurtry CDs. I picture him sliding the disc in the stereo, listening to one of our songs, and cursing himself for picking a baby over me.

"Claudia?" Ben says, interrupting my thoughts. "What are you thinking?" His voice is soft.

"You know," I say, shaking my head. I feel another enormous stab of sadness. I have to work hard to fight back tears.

"Yeah. I know," Ben says. "This sucks."

I nod and look away, over to a couple sitting near us, seemingly on a first date. They were seated just after we were and I noticed that he pulled her chair out for her. They are young and eager, all smiles and perfect table manners. They are off to a good start, happy and hopeful.

I nod toward their table and say, "Check out those two. First date?"

Ben turns slightly in his chair, studies them for a second, and says, "Yeah. Second tops. I bet they haven't even kissed yet."

"Maybe tonight," I say.

"Yeah. Maybe."

"I wish I could skip ahead and see their ending," I say sarcastically.

Ben gives me a look and says, "You always were a cynic."

I say, "Go figure."

"Maybe they'll live happily ever after," Ben says.

"Yeah. With two point two children."

"Or at least one," Ben says.

I let him have the last word-and the check when it mercifully comes.

seven

There is more than a sliver of me that wonders if I'm making a mistake as I let Ben slip away from me for good. I tell myself that second-guessing just comes with the territory. Whenever you make a big decision in life, at least any decision where you have a viable alternative, there is an inevitable uneasy aftermath. Anxiety is merely a sign that you're taking something seriously.

In this sense, divorcing Ben conjures up a similar set of emotions that I had when I married Ben. I knew I was doing the right thing then, too, but couldn't escape the occasional worry that kept me up in the middle of the night even after I took a few swigs of NyQuil. In the days before our wedding, I knew that my love for Ben was the most real thing I had ever known, but I still fretted that I was setting myself up for disappointment. I remember looking at Ben while he slept one night and fearing that I would someday let him down. Or that he would let me down. That things, somehow, wouldn't turn out well for us, and that I would look back and say, "How could I have been so stupid? How could I have not seen this coming?" Which of course is exactly what is happening.

And now, as I watch Ben slip away from me, I have the nagging feeling that I will someday look back at this fork in the road and point to it as the biggest mistake of my life.

So given my fragile state, I am very nervous about being around my outspoken family. I tell them nothing and put off seeing them for several weeks, until the day of my niece Zoe's sixth-birthday party when I can put it off no longer.

That morning, I take the train to Maura's house in Bronxville, staring out the window at scenery I have come to know by heart. I only let myself listen to the upbeat songs on my iPod, skipping over any faintly melancholy ones on my playlist as a precautionary measure. The worst thing I could do is show up at Maura's with any trace of sadness on my face. I have to be tough, I think, as I ponder my strategy for breaking the bad news.

By the time I pull into the station, I have decided that I will tell my family of my pending divorce after the guests have departed, and Zoe has gone to play with her new toys. It would probably be less dramatic to give everyone the news individually over the phone, but this way, I'll only have to say it one time. I'll hold one press conference and field one set of questions. When I can stand it no more, I'll thank my family and make my exit. Just like an athlete after a painful loss. Yes, I'm disappointed. I feel bad for letting my team down and missing that easy layup in the second OT. But I did the best I could. And I gotta move on…

My dad, who still lives in Huntington in the house we grew up in, drove to my sister's earlier this morning and picks me up at the train station now. Before I close the car door, he starts in on my mother. "That woman is so impossible," he announces. My father is usually very positive, but my mother brings out the worst in him. And apparently, he never got the divorced-parent memo that explains that it's not healthy for a child (even an adult child) to hear one parent tear the other down.

"So what did Vera do this time?" I ask.

"She made one of her trademark snide remarks about my trousers," he says.

I smile at my dad's old-fashioned term. "What's wrong with your pants?"

"Ex-actly! There's nothing wrong with them, is there?"

"Not at all," I say, but upon closer inspection I can see that he has paired cuffed suit pants with a collared golf shirt. It is the sort of offense my mother can't tolerate. Still, I have to wonder why she still takes his fashion faux pas so personally. What's it to her? I always think.

"Is Dwight with her?" I ask.

"No. He had an early golf game," my dad says, flicking on his turn signal. "I'm sure he'll make a grand entrance later, though."

"They have that in common," I say.

"Yeah. She's been prancing around all morning," he says. I picture my mother, head thrown back, perky nose in the air, just like a proud circus pony.

"Yeah. Everything is about her," I say.

My mother aims to be conspicuous at all times. She is sure to be overdressed, will likely give Zoe the largest and most expensive present, and will have a crowd of admirers around her at all times. That is one thing that has not changed since my sisters and I were young-our friends adore our mother. They call her things like "zany" and "a hoot" and "one of the girls." But deep down, I think they are all glad that she's somebody else's mother.

"Don't let her get to you, Dad," I say.

My dad smiles as if mentally shifting gears. Then he says, "So where's Ben?"

I knew the question was coming, but I still feel a sharp pain in my side hearing his name. I take a deep breath and muster a breezy tone. "He had to work."

"Not like Ben to miss a family party."

"Yeah. He's quite the family man," I say. I am being sarcastic, but it occurs to me that this much is actually true-he is quite the family man.


A minute later we pull into my sister's horseshoe-shaped driveway as I survey her four-million-dollar mansion (Maura insists that her house is not a mansion, but I consider any home with more than six bedrooms a mansion, and her house has seven) with my usual mix of admiration and disdain. I'm disapproving not because of the sheer magnitude of their riches-because that is all relative. Rather, I dislike how Scott earned his money-not from hard work or brains, but by being at the right place at the right time. He was working as the CFO of a small software start-up that was purchased for a ridiculous amount of money during the technology bubble. He has so much money, in fact, that I've heard him refer to guys with smaller fortunes as "nickel millionaires."

If he were good to my sister, all of this would be great, and I would applaud his good luck. But Scott is a cad (to use one of my father's expressions) and their home is a constant reminder to me of the daily trade-off Maura makes: nice things, philandering husband. I often wonder whether my sister would leave if she didn't have children with Scott. She says she would. I'm not so sure she shouldn't anyway.