The Hundred Thousand Dollar Settlement

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My boyfriend told me his company was doing a week-long dark period retreatno phones, no outside contact, just intensive leadership training.

He was supposed to be back tomorrow. I decided to head over to his place a night early, wanting to surprise him with dinner and a bottle of the good bourbon he liked.

But when I reached the door, I heard noise coming from inside.

Hed lived alone for the three years wed been in this city. He made a point of telling me how much he valued his "bachelor sanctuary" until we finally moved in together.

A girls voice drifted through the wood, playful and teasing. "Stop it, let me see your phone."

My hand froze an inch from the keypad.

Then came his voice, thick with a laugh I knew too well. "Not a chance. I didn't even get your good side in those photos."

My body went cold, a sharp, localized frost spreading from my chest to my fingertips. I pulled out my phone and dialed his number.

Inside, the laughter stopped. A few seconds later, he picked up. "Hey, babe? Everything okay?" His voice was smooth, practiced.

"Im at your front door," I said, my voice sounding like it belonged to someone else. "Open up."

The silence that followed was absolute.

I hung up.

I reached into my bag and pulled out my spare key. Hed given it to me two years ago, pressing it into my palm with a look of practiced sincerity. Keep it, hed said. Come over whenever. Its going to be your house eventually anyway.

I had never once used it without calling first. I believed in boundaries. I believed in him.

I slid the key into the lock. It turned with a sickeningly familiar click.

The door swung open.

The entryway light was on. His Nikes were kicked off by the shoe rack, sitting right next to a pair of strappy white heels Id never seen before.

I didn't move past the foyer. I just stood there, rooted to the hardwood.

From the living room came the frantic sounds of movementthe rustle of fabric, the friction of skin against cushions, hushed, panicked whispers.

I took two steps forward.

A lilac sundress was draped over the arm of the sofa. It was tiny, made of a flimsy material that looked like it would dissolve in the rain. A single white no-show sock lay on the rug. On the coffee table sat two half-empty wine glasses and a bottle of Cabernet.

Then I saw them.

He was scrambling up from the couch, fumbling with his jeans. His button-down was half-open, the buttons misaligned, his hair a birds nest of guilt.

The woman was shrinking behind him, trying to use his frame as a shield. I could see a faint, angry red mark on the curve of her shoulder.

I stopped in the middle of the room.

A stray thought flickered through my mind: Im glad I called first. If I hadn't, what would I have walked in on? Would it have been more visceral? More disgusting than this?

"Nydia."

His voice was tight, strained.

"How... why are you here?"

"I thought you were at a retreat," I said, cutting through his stammer.

He blinked, finally getting his fly zipped, but his shirt was still a mess. He looked down at himself, then back at me, his expression a pathetic cocktail of a caught thief and a man trying to pretend the house wasn't on fire.

"I, uh... I got out early," he said.

"Right," I nodded slowly. "Got out early to continue the training here?"

He went quiet.

The woman stepped out from behind him. She kept her head down, snatching her dress off the sofa and pulling it over her head in one jagged motion. She looked youngmaybe twenty-two, twenty-three. Her hair was a trendy honey-blonde, her face flushed with a wine-soaked glow. Her hands shook so violently she had to tug at her zipper three times before it caught.

I watched her.

She risked a glance at me, then looked away just as fast.

"And who is she?" I asked.

His mouth opened, a few hollow syllables dying in his throat. He stood there, hands hovering uselessly before he finally balled them into fists at his sides.

The silence in the room was suffocating.

The woman finished dressing and stepped into those white heels. The clack-clack of the plastic tips against the floor sounded like gunshots. She looked at him, then at me, then bolted for the bedroom, slamming the door behind her.

Thud.

I stared at the closed door, then turned my gaze back to him.

"Talk," I said.

"Nydia, I..." He took a step toward me, then stopped. "I messed up."

"I asked you who she is."

"Just a friend. Someone from work."

"A friend?"

He looked at the floor.

I let out a short, sharp laugh. I didn't know if I was laughing at him or at the sheer stupidity of my own life. Eight years. I had known him for eight years. Wed gone from high school proms to college midterms to our first real jobs. I thought I knew every mole on his back, every fear in his head.

I had never seen this version of him.

"It won't happen again," he said suddenly. He looked up, his eyes swimming with a desperate, manipulative kind of pleading. "I swear, Nydia. Never again."

I said nothing.

He suddenly turned and began rummaging through the living room. He checked the drawers under the TV, the side tables, shoved his hand under the sofa cushions. I watched him, bewildered.

After a minute, he pulled out a small, velvet red box.

He walked over and held it out to me.

"I got this for you," he said, his voice dropping to a low, intimate register. "I was going to give it to you in a few days. For our anniversary."

I looked down.

It was a jewelers box. I opened it. Inside was a silver necklace with a small, diamond-chip star pendant. It was beautiful. It was also a bribe.

I held the box for a few seconds, feeling the weight of it.

Then I walked over to the kitchen trash can and dropped the box, necklace and all, right on top of the discarded takeout containers.

"Nydia!" he barked.

"I don't want your guilt-offerings," I said.

I turned to face him. The light hit his face, and for the first time, he looked like a stranger. A poorly rendered imitation of the man I loved.

"Eight years," I said. "This is how you treat eight years?"

He ducked his head, silent.

"Eight years, Jason. Since we were seventeen. I moved to this city for you. I stayed up late making you dinner when you worked overtime. I took care of your mom when she was in the hospital so you wouldn't have to miss meetings. I thought we were waiting for the right time. Waiting to save enough for the house, waiting for the promotion, waiting for life to be 'ready.' What were you waiting for?"

He still wouldn't speak.

"Were you waiting for her?"

"No!" He looked up, his voice frantic. "Its not what you think, Nydia. It was a mistake. I was drunk, I wasn't thinking"

"Drunk?"

"Yeah, we just had some wine, and things got out of hand..."

The bedroom door opened.

The woman walked out. She had changed into a white button-down and jeans, her hair pulled back into a messy knot. She looked more composed now.

But she couldn't hide the mark on her neck. A hickey. Fresh, purplish-red, sitting right above her collarbone.

She walked over to his side and stood there. She didn't look down this time. She stared straight at me, her lips set in a stubborn, defiant line.

"I love him," she said.

I looked at her, unimpressed.

"I love him more than you do," she added, her voice small but clear. "Were actually happy together."

"Shut up!" Jason snapped, spinning toward her. "Don't say another word!"

She flinched, then reached out and grabbed his arm, looking up at him with wide, watery eyes. "Thats not what you said ten minutes ago. You said you were going to leave her. You said youd marry me."

He wrenched his arm away, stepping back as if she were radioactive.

She stood there, her arm still hanging in mid-air, her face freezing into a mask of shock.

I looked from her to him. He avoided my eyes, staring at the floorboards, picking at a loose thread on his jeans. She stood there biting her lip, her eyes welling up.

"Do you even know who he is?" I asked her.

"Do you know he has a girlfriend of eight years? That we have a joint savings account for a down payment?"

"I know," she said, lifting her chin.

I blinked.

"He told me. He said youd been together forever." She paused, glancing at him. He remained silent. "But he said the spark died years ago. He said youre suffocating. That you track his every move, that he has to check in every hour, that he can't breathe around you. He said being with me is the only time he feels like himself."

I stood perfectly still.

So, asking if he wanted me to pick up Thai food on the way home was "suffocating."

Waiting up for him to make sure he got home safe from a late shift was "tracking his every move."

Caring about his life was a "burden."

I thought I was being a partner. He thought I was a jailer.

"He said youre too much work," she continued, a hint of triumph creeping into her tone. "Always nagging him to eat better, to sleep more, asking why he didn't text back. He said he couldn't take it anymore."

I looked at Jason. He was a statue of cowardice.

"Is that right?" I asked him.

His lips moved, but no sound came out.

"Jason," I said, my voice dropping to a dangerous whisper.

He finally looked at me. Just for a second. And in that second, I saw it. The resentment. The truth.

Everything she said was true. He had turned my love into a list of grievances to tell a twenty-two-year-old in the dark.

I felt a wave of exhaustion wash over me, starting from my heels and rising to my throat. My legs felt heavy, but I refused to sit. I wouldn't give him the satisfaction of seeing me collapse.

I took a deep breath.

"Fine. Were done."

He snapped his head up. "Nydia"

"Don't say my name."

I pulled my phone out of my pocket and tapped the screen.

"I recorded everything."

He froze. The girl froze.

"Everything you both just said," I said, looking at her. "The part where you admitted you knew about me. The part where he admitted he cheated. Its all on tape."

Her face went pale. "You recorded us? When?"

I didn't answer. I just slid the phone back into my pocket and turned toward the door.

"Wait!" she screamed behind me. "You have to delete that! You can't take that! What are you going to do with it? Are you going to post it? Youll ruin my life!"

I didn't stop. I kept walking.

"Jason!" she shrieked. "Make her delete it! Don't let her leave with that! Do something!"

I heard a scuffle behind me. Footsteps thudded on the hardwood. Before I could reach the handle, she lunged forward and grabbed my arm. Her skin was cold, her nails digging into my bicep.

"Give me the phone!" she yelled.

I shoved her off, stepping back. She lunged again, reaching for my pocket. I held the phone high above my head. She was shorter than me; she jumped, her nails raking across the back of my hand. A sharp, stinging heat flared up where she broke the skin.

"Jason! Help me!"

I shoved her harder this time. She stumbled back, her heels catching on the edge of the rug, and she landed hard on her backside.

She let out a pathetic little yelp, sitting there on the floor, looking up at me with big, tearful eyes.

Jason rushed over, kneeling beside her. "Are you okay?" He checked her shoulders, her head, his touch frantic. "Did you hit anything?"

She leaned into him, sobbing, shaking her head.

I stood there, watching the tableau.

He looked up at me, his face darkening. "Nydia. What the hell? Why did you push her?"

I said nothing.

He helped her up. She clung to him, weeping softly, whispering that she was fine, it was her faultthe classic "damsel" routine that made him hold her even tighter.

"Delete the recording," he said, his voice hardening. "I messed up, I get it. But you don't get to get physical with her."

I wanted to laugh, but the air in my lungs felt like lead.

"Delete it?" I asked.

"Yes," he said. He hesitated, then added, "Ill give you money. Just delete it and walk away."

"How much?"

He blinked, clearly not expecting me to negotiate. He thought for a moment. "Two thousand dollars."

I looked at the woman. She was leaning against him, her tears dried up, watching me with a mix of anxiety and predatory hope.

"Not a chance," I said. "Im keeping it."

His face twisted. "Nydia, don't be a bitch about this."

"Don't make this harder than it has to be. Im trying to be civil."

"Civil?" I repeated. I turned back to the door.

"Jason!" the girl cried. "You can't let her go! If my parents hear that... theyll kill me! You said youd protect me!"

He stood there, his face cycling through a dozen different shades of panic.

My hand was on the doorknob.

"Wait," he called out.

I didn't turn around.

"Nydia, please." His voice went soft, pleading. "Just delete it. This is on me, not her. Shes young, she didn't know any better. Im the one who couldn't keep it in my pants. Blame me, just don't ruin her."

I turned back. They were standing there, hand in hand.

"She didn't know any better?" I asked. "She seemed pretty 'aware' a minute ago when she was telling me how much better she is for you."

He went silent. The girl looked at her shoes.

"Shes a child, but youre a man, right?" I looked at him. "And you still did it."

He wouldn't look at me.

"Jason," she whispered, tugging at his sleeve. "Make her do it. Please. How much time is left?"

He looked at me, his eyes suddenly cold, like a strangers.

"Nydia," he said, his voice dropping an octave. "Delete the recording. If you don't, Ill have to take the phone from you."

I didn't move. He took a step forward.

I reached into my pocket and gripped the phone. "Try it," I said. "It won't matter."

He stopped.

"I set a scheduled upload," I lied. "In two hours, if I don't enter a deactivation code, the audio file gets sent to every one of our mutual friends, your boss, and your mother."

His face went white. The girl looked like she was about to faint.

He pointed a shaking finger at me. "Youre insane."

I said nothing.

The room was silent for a long, heavy beat.

"A hundred thousand," he said suddenly.

I stared at him.

"A hundred thousand dollars," he repeated. "You delete the recording, right now, and Ill transfer it."

I remained silent.

"I don't have it all in cash, but I can get it," he said, his voice rising in pitch. "I have eighty thousand in our 'house fund' account. Ill borrow the rest from my brother tonight. A hundred thousand, and we call it even. You walk away, and this never happened. Deal?"

The girl pulled at his sleeve, looking like she wanted to protest the amount, but she kept her mouth shut.

"A hundred thousand. Transfer it now."

He hesitated, then pulled out his phone, his fingers flying across the screen.

I pulled out mine and opened my banking app.

His hands were shaking so badly he had to scan his face three times for the ID check. He tapped the screen, then looked up at me.

"Sent," he said. "Check it."

I looked down. A notification popped up. Transfer Pending: 0-000,000.00.

"Now," I said. "Write it down."

"Write what?"

"A statement. Stating that this hundred thousand is a voluntary settlement for the dissolution of our relationship. Acknowledge the eight years. Acknowledge the infidelity. Sign it."