Divorced and Delicious

Under her best friend's expert guidance, my wife finally divorced me.

The day she slammed the door and walked out, my only real reaction was a sigh of relief: I finally had sole custody of the TV remote.

It didn't take her long to realize that the guys sweet-talking her on the dating scene were all talk and no commitment. They wanted a free trial, not a subscription.

But what truly broke her was discovering that her dear best friend, the very one who had coached her into signing the divorce papers, was currently marching over to my apartment with a hot tray of homemade lasagna.

When Brooke slammed the divorce papers onto the dining table, I was deeply engrossed in a food delivery app, trying to decide on a new fried chicken combo.

"Tedd, sign it."

I looked up at her, glanced down at the papers, and then looked back at my phone.

"Hang on a second. This coupon expires in three minutes."

Brookes face flushed, shifting from a pale white to a deep, furious crimson.

To be honest, I wasn't surprised we had reached this point. Her best friend, Amber, had a mouth that acted as a catalyst for disaster.

Since last year, Amber had been practically living at our place, showing up every few days like she was reading from a script.

"Babe, you deserve so much better."

"Tedd is just a mid-level corporate drone. What kind of future do you have with him?"

"There are plenty of wealthy, single guys out there driving luxury SUVs, just waiting to treat you like a queen."

At first, Brooke would defend me. But over time, her defenses grew quieter. Eventually, she stopped defending me altogether. And finally, it led to this.

I placed the order for the chicken, picked up the pen from the table, and flipped to the signature page.

"How are we splitting things?"

Brooke blinked, clearly caught off guard by how cooperative I was.

"The house... my dad paid the down payment"

"Fine. The house is yours."

"The car... we bought it after we got married"

"Take the car too. I can bike to work. Its better for the environment anyway."

Brooke's expression turned incredibly complex.

She had probably rehearsed this moment a hundred times in her head. She might have pictured me begging on my knees, crying, pleading for another chance.

What she hadn't anticipated was me ordering takeout while signing away our marriage.

"That's... that's it?"

I signed my name, slid the folder back to her, and capped the pen. "What else do you want?"

"Aren't you even going to try to save this?"

I thought about it for a second. "If you can waive the delivery fee on my chicken, I might consider it."

Brooke took a sharp, ragged breath. She snatched the papers, turned on her heel, and marched toward the door. Just before leaving, she looked back, her eyes rimmed with red.

"You're going to regret this, Tedd."

The front door slammed shut.

The apartment suddenly felt empty. Truly, physically empty. Brooke had cleaned out all her clutter, her towering shoe racks, and her endless supply of skincare products.

I sat down on the sofa, picked up the remote, and pressed the power button.

The sports channel flared to life.

For three years, I hadn't been able to watch a single game without sitting through hours of mindless reality TV first.

The doorbell rang. Dinner was here.

I opened the door, and the delivery guy handed me a steaming bag of fried chicken. "Big meal for one, man?"

I took the bag and smiled. "Just got divorced. Treating myself."

His look of pity instantly morphed into pure envy. "Man, you are the happiest-looking divorcee I've ever seen."

He didn't get it. It wasn't just happiness. It was the feeling of a bird seeing the cage door open after three years of confinement.

Once I finished the chicken, I shot a text to Marcus.

It's done. Signed.

Three seconds later, my phone buzzed with an incoming call from him.

"What do you mean, done? She actually went through with it?!"

"Yeah."

"How are you holding up? Where are you? Are you okay? Bro, I'm coming over right now."

"I just finished some fried chicken. Grab a six-pack of beer on your way."

A brief silence stretched over the line. "Are you sure you just got divorced and didn't win the lottery?"

"Honestly, it feels about the same."

Marcus hung up. Twenty minutes later, he kicked open my door carrying a case of IPA. First thing he did was look around the living room.

"Damn. She really cleared the place out, huh?"

"Yep."

"The vanity desk?"

"Gone."

"That massive shoe rack?"

"Gone."

Marcus's eyes lit up. "Your living room literally looks twice as big!"

He collapsed onto the sofa, popped a beer, and tossed it to me. "Bro, let me be real with you."

"Go ahead."

He began counting on his fingers.

"First, no more handing over your paycheck to a shared account. Second, no more playing mind reader when shes mad. Third, no more getting kicked out of bed at two in the morning because she had a dream that you cheated on her."

I choked on my beer. "How do you know more about my marriage than I do?"

"Are you kidding? You called me at three in the morning crying because she dreamed you were eating tacos with another girl, and she made you sleep on the freezing living room floor. You forgot about that?"

"Can we please strike that from the record?"

Marcus took a slow sip of his beer. "Never. I still have the voice memo of you crying. I play it whenever I have a bad day. Its better than therapy."

I seriously considered dumping the rest of my beer on his head. But since he bought it, I let it slide.

Around midnight, Marcus let out a soft burp and got unusually quiet. "Seriously though, what's the plan now? Living solo?"

"What else?"

"Just watch your back. Newly single guys are prime targets. Some women smell the freedom and pounce."

I laughed. "Pounce on what? I'm a mid-level IT guy making ninety grand a year. Who's targeting me?"

Marcus shook his head, looking incredibly wise. "You don't get it. Some women aren't looking at your bank account."

At the time, I brushed it off. It wasn't until later that I realized Marcus had actually been far too conservative with his warning.

Three days after the divorce, my life took a massive turn. Not for the worsefor the better. It was so good I started wondering if Id spent the last three years in a white-collar prison.

First of all, my bank account didn't hit zero at the end of the month.

When we were married, my paycheck would clear, and a chunk went to Brooke's allowance. Then she'd want a new designer bagmoney transferred. Then she'd have brunch with her girlsmoney transferred to cover her share.

Yes, you read that right. I was covering her portion of those endless lunches with her friends.

Now, that money stayed right where it belonged. Looking at the balance, I felt a sensation I hadn't experienced in years. I had to search my vocabulary for the word: wealthy.

Second, I suddenly had an abundance of time.

Our old weekends used to go like this: morning shopping trips, afternoon movies, dinner dates, followed by late-night drinks with her friends. And then, I'd have to drive her friends home, only to get grilled by Brooke on why I dared to look at Amber through the rearview mirror.

My new weekends looked like this: sleeping in, playing video games, ordering takeout, and playing more video games.

Marcus warned me I was going to turn into a vegetable. I told him that being a vegetable was a luxury he couldn't comprehend.

Just as I was settling into this peaceful routine, Amber reached out.

Yes, Amber. The very same best friend who had spent years telling my wife to "find herself," "aim higher," and "know her worth." The architect of my divorce.

She sent me a text.

Hey Tedd. I heard about you and Brooke. Are you holding up okay?

I stared at the screen for ten seconds. The sheer audacity was almost impressive.

I replied: I'm fine.

Amber: Make sure you're eating well. Takeout is terrible for your stomach. You should have some real food.

Tedd: Sure.

Amber: Why don't you come over tomorrow? I'm making a batch of homemade lasagna.

Tedd: Can't. Got plans with Marcus.

Amber: How about I drop some off at your place then?

I hesitated. Free lasagna. Only an idiot turns down free lasagna.

Tedd: Alright.

The next afternoon, Amber showed up at my door holding a heavy, foil-wrapped glass dish.

Objectively speaking, Amber was attractive. Slender, nice style, always wore perfect makeup. But today, she had definitely dialed it up. Her makeup was heavier, and she was wearing a low-cut sundress that left very little to the imagination.

When she bent over to set the dish down on the kitchen counter, well... let's just say I kept my eyes on the counter.

"Just put it on the table," I said, grabbing a fork.

Amber hovered by the entryway. "Aren't you going to invite me to sit down?"

"Oh. Yeah, come in."

She stepped inside, looking around the living room. "You keep this place pretty clean for a bachelor."

"Fewer people, less mess."

She smiled, taking a seat on the couch. I dug into the lasagna. She watched me quietly.

"How is it?"

"Really good."

"I made it with three types of cheese, just the way you like it."

I paused mid-chew. How did she know I liked three-cheese lasagna? Id only ever mentioned that to Brooke.

I looked up. She was smiling sweetly.

I shrugged and kept eating. Whatever, the lasagna was incredible.

When I finished, Amber insisted on washing the dish. When she came out of the kitchen, her sleeves were rolled up, and her hands were still slightly damp.

"Tedd, you're almost out of dish soap. You need to replace it."

"Yeah, I'll grab some."

"I can bring some over next time I visit."

"Oh. Sure, thanks."

Amber smiled again, this one lingering a bit longer.

After she left, I texted Marcus.

Amber just dropped off lasagna.

Three seconds later, he sent a flurry of texts.

Are you an idiot?!

Why is she bringing you food?!

Have you lost your mind?

You don't think that's incredibly shady?

I replied: The lasagna was spectacular.

Marcus: I hate you.

I tossed my phone aside. Marcus was a good guy, but he was paranoid. Amber was probably just being nice, checking in on her friend's ex out of basic human decency.

Even when she posted a photo of the lasagna on Instagram later that evening with the caption "Simple joys," I didn't think much of it. People post photos of food all the time.

I chose to believe in the basic goodness of people.

A week after the divorce, I saw from Brooke's social media that she had officially entered the dating market.

She posted a heavily filtered selfie with the caption: "New beginnings, new me."

Her friends flooded the comments with praise. Amber's comment was right at the top: "Babe, you look stunning! You deserve the world!"

I scrolled past it.

Honestly, Brooke wasn't a bad catch. She was pretty, had a decent job, and was generally pleasant when she wasn't being influenced by her friends. In a normal dating pool, she'd do fine.

The problem was the criteria Amber had set for her: a guy with a luxury SUV, a six-figure salary, a degree from an Ivy League school, and standing at least six-foot-two.

Brooke made forty-five thousand a year. That wasn't dating; that was fantasy.

How did I know all this?

Because of Mrs. Gable, our neighborhood gossip. She lived down the hall, knew everyone's business, and loved sharing it.

Ten days after the divorce, she cornered me near the mailboxes.

"Tedd! Have you heard about Brooke?"

"No, what?"

"She went on a blind date last weekend! The guy claimed he owned a tech startup. Took her to a high-end steakhouse downtown."

"And?"

Mrs. Gable slapped her knee. "After a hundred-and-fifty-dollar dinner, the guy said he forgot his wallet in his car. He walked out to get it."

"Did he?"

"Did he hell! He bolted! Left her with the bill! Your ex-wife had to pay the whole thing herself."

I just stared. I wasn't hurting for Brooke, but I felt a phantom pain in my own wallet. In the past, that would have been my money.

Mrs. Gable leaned in closer, dropping her voice. "But that's not even the worst part."

"What happened?"

"On her second date, she met a guy who actually seemed legitimate. Nice sports car, expensive watch. They went out three times. After the third date, he vanished. Blocked her number, ignored her texts."

I sighed, leaning against the mailboxes.

"She was crying to her friends about it. Apparently, the guy just wanted a quick hookup. He had no intention of taking her seriously."

Mrs. Gable shook her head. "Essentially, he wanted the free trial, not the subscription."

I kept quiet. Even though we were divorced, hearing about her getting treated like that felt a bit uncomfortable. Not out of lingering affection, just human empathy. But it wasn't my problem anymore.

Our paths had diverged.

A few days passed, and Mrs. Gable caught me again.

"Tedd! You won't believe this!"

I sighed. "What now?"

"Brooke's third date! This one was set up by Amber herself!"

My eyebrows twitched. "Amber set it up?"

"Yeah! Supposedly some big-shot venture capitalist, making millions. Want to guess how that turned out?"

"How?"

"Married. With a wife and kids. Just looking for a side piece."

I gripped the keys in my hand a little tighter.

"Your ex-wife got so angry she threw a glass of water right in his face. And the guy just laughed and said, 'I like them feisty.'"

I didn't say anything. No matter how things ended between Brooke and me, she was still my wife once. Hearing someone treat her like that was irritating.

But what bothered me more was something else.

The guy Amber set her up with was married.

Did Amber not know? Or did she know and do it on purpose?

A picture flashed in my mind: a wolf standing guard at the chicken coop, smiling warmly.

But I brushed the thought away.

After all, Amber's lasagna was really good.

That was enough of a reason to suspend suspicion for now. People are simple creatures. Sometimes, a warm plate of food is all it takes to keep your mouth shut.

How pathetic.

Amber's visits shifted from once a week to three times a week.

Monday was lasagna. Wednesday was slow-cooked ribs. Friday was beef stew.

My fridge had never been this well-stocked.

Honestly, I started feeling guilty. Groceries cost money, and I couldn't just keep accepting her charity.

So every time she brought food, I tried Venmoing her.

She declined it.

I tried again.

She declined it again.

"You not taking my money is making me feel bad," I told her.

Amber blinked, her long lashes fluttering. "Then how about you buy me dinner?"

"Sure."

I took her to the cheap taco truck down the street.

Two street tacos and a soda. Total cost: twelve dollars. My treat.

Amber sat on the metal stool, looking at the paper plate of greasy tacos. Her lip twitched.

"You... normally eat here?"

"Yeah, best tacos in the city. The salsa is homemade, and the meat is incredibly tender."

"You said you'd buy me dinner, and you brought me here?"

"Is this not dinner?"

Her mouth twitched again.

I took a massive bite of my taco, juice running down my hand. "Eat up before they get cold."

She stared at her plate for a few seconds. Then, she picked up a taco and took a bite.

As we walked back to my apartment, she suddenly spoke up.

"Tedd, you know you're different from other guys."

"Different how?"

"You're just... real. Genuine."

"Is that a compliment or an insult?"

"A compliment."

Back home, Marcus called again.

"Did you go out with Amber again today?"

"How do you know?"

"She posted on her Instagram. A photo of the taco truck with the caption 'Simple joys'."

"It's just a taco truck. Why is she posting about it?"

Marcus's voice cracked. "Are you dense? She's clearly into you!"

"No way. She's my ex-wife's best friend."

"That's exactly why it's terrifying! Think about it"

"I'm hanging up. I have a raid in ten minutes."

Marcus was a great friend, but his paranoia was exhausting. Amber was just a nice person who felt bad for a guy living alone.

And as for the Instagram posts... maybe she just liked the aesthetic of street food.

Over the next week, Amber's routine changed. She wasn't just bringing food anymore.

She started helping me clean. She washed my curtains. She bought me a new set of bedsheets. She even put a vase of fresh baby's breath on my coffee table.

I stared the flowers for a long moment, a vague sense of unease settling in my chest. But I couldn't put my finger on why.

The most obvious shift happened last Saturday.

She came over wearing a thin slip dress.

It was November. It was forty degrees outside.

The dress was incredibly short, revealing a fair amount of smooth, pale leg. She sat on my sofa, crossing her legs, letting one high heel dangle from her toes.

I looked at her, then silently walked into my bedroom and grabbed a thick fleece blanket.

"Here, drape this over yourself," I said, handing it to her. "The draft in here is pretty bad. Don't want you catching a cold."

When she took the blanket, her fingers brushed against my palm.

My skin tingled. Probably just static electricity.

That night, Marcus texted: Did she come over today?

Yeah. She helped me put up the new curtains.

And you still don't think she has an angle?

She's a five-foot-five girl. What kind of angle could she possibly have?

Marcus sent a link to an article titled: When a Woman Starts Cleaning Your House, It's Time to Worry.

I replied: Get help.

Then I blocked him. I unblocked him two seconds later, of course. I still needed him to carry me in our game tomorrow.