Reset

“I think it is well beyond time for you to reset your password...” Attorney Charles Strom spoke from across his mahogany desk “…for everything, Ms. Janovsky.” He paused to look at me for what I could assume was dramatic effect, “Mr. Elliott will seek to do this again with any and every account he can, and if you don’t get this taken care of, we might have more to clean up next time.”

“Okay, I got it.” I assured him. What a pain in the ass. Doesn’t he know I am going to have to remember all these passwords before I can change them? He may not have been good for much else, but my ex had a memory like no other. He’d probably have a much easier recall than I do of my seven thousand accounts across the electronic universe. It’d be great if he wasn’t the very scum I was aiming to protect them against and then I could just ask him.

“Better start with the financial accounts- yes?”

“Yes, of course, makes perfect sense.” I nod.

It would have been so much simpler if I hadn’t thrown my phone in the toilet last week in a fit of rage. I haven’t told anyone about that, because it’s embarrassing. Divorce is hard. I am so sick of Sam Elliott I could just lay down and die. Except that would make things too easy for him, so I will just have to continue living – out of spite. I could really kick myself though. I can’t help but think about how my Face ID could have gotten me into my banking apps. I wouldn’t have to recall a thing. And of all the other stored passwords in my now, inaccessible phone.

“After you get those taken care of, better get to the email and the socials. If possible, I would advise that this gets taken care of by end of day, Ms. Janovsky.” I hate when he calls me that.

“Please, attorney Strom, call me Becca?”

“Old habits, old dog, you know?” he responds jovially. He is old. Probably in his 70’s judging by his skin and lack of hair. I guess I will give him a pass, I don’t have to be everything my ex-husband says I am.

“Okay, well, just if you remember please.”

“You got it. Now, onto the division of assets. We need to discuss what is most important to you, so we know what to seek as priority in mediation.”

“Yes, of course.” I barely have the chance to utter before Attorney Strom begins aggressively laying out my entire life on his desk. His bloated, liver-spotted hands spreading papers to each corner, stopping only short of the heavy silver frames that trim the edge nearest me. Frames with images proudly displaying his own life. He needs to get a good view of all the visual aids his paralegal collected from me.

I love the furniture I have curated over the years, and I want to have it all. But for that very reason, we both expect my ex to aim to keep it too. At least we don’t have kids or pets. I know all too well what it like to be the child pawn in the parent’s divorce war. I’ve spent years in therapy over it.

“Better to know what matters the most” he shrugs. I figure we’ve spent a few days looking at pictures of my furniture when he finally piles everything back in the redwell folder labeled with my maiden-last-name first and uses the desk as an aid to stand. I look at my watch. Not days, but 3 hours. Close enough. That’s going to cost a pretty penny.

I walk out into the florescent light of the lobby flanked by his assistant.

“Good evening, Ms. Janovsky” the little woman in the pencil skirt says politely.

“Please let us know if you need anything before the mediation and I am sure we will be in touch before then as well.”

I don’t bother correcting my name. “Yes. Thank you.” I manage as the elevator dings and the doors whiz open behind me.

The evening air is almost refreshing after the stuffy office. The smell of summer is settling in, but it isn’t hot yet, at least. Summer in the city isn’t exactly the best smelling, but you do get the occasional whiff of a flower or tree. I will take what I can get. That seems to be my new mantra.

I am heading for the train to midtown. The sad little flat I have sublet from an old college friend is void of furniture worth looking at. It’s that mass-produced IKEA crap, if I had to guess. Seeing my furniture today gave me a fresh dose of sadness.

I miss our home, even though it was only ever an apartment in the city. We never made it to the suburbs to start the family like we had planned because I can’t have kids.

Maybe if I had, I would be a successful grown-up by now. Not one who toils over her career and struggles with her mental health until her husband leaves her.

I can’t believe Sam chose this for us. To just end things. To make matters worse, he isn’t even being amicable. I am coming back from the attorney today because he had logged into my savings account and transferred money out. The audacity. He acts like I did something awful to him.

The train lurches at stop and go and tries its best to shake me out of my thoughts, but to no avail. I have succeeded at feeling sorry for myself for the entire commute. I drag myself up the stairs to the fifth floor. The crappy lift is broken again. Surprise, surprise. My body feels like lead. I really dread everything about this.

But, it’s time to get it over with. I pull out my bottle of wine and get my papers and laptop together. The plan is to sit in the window nook overlooking the courtyard below me and hammer through it. I wish I was a more responsible person. Responsible people have lists of things and keep their passwords. At least I think they do. I guess, I wouldn’t know.

Old Mrs. Barkley is watering her balcony plants. Maybe I shouldn’t sit in the window nook? Too many distractions. Bank of America is a pain in the ass. I swear… at least I can get in with portions of my social and debit card. After I finish reseting the last bank account app, I put my debit card back in my wallet and zip it up. I pick up the wine bottle and top off my glass. At least I’m not on my meds anymore. I quit those when he left, for better or worse. For better or worse, what a damn joke.

The bottle I just opened is empty. Wow, that was probably a little too fast. Still, I get up and uncork another. “What the hell….” I whisper out loud. I think Sam must’ve broke my give-a-damn. This has become too easy to do.

Ten years ago if someone had told me I’d be a pathetic wine zombie in a shithole, poorly-decorated apartment, feebly attempting to protect my life of data from the handsome high school quarterback, I’d have had literally no way to comprehend it.

Time for Gmail. At least I sign up for enough stupid crap that I know my email address. Nice…this was easier than I thought. Good thing I set up the two-step verification. I guess I should check the email that I have been locked out of for weeks.

As I’m scrolling through my inbox I notice some emails from what looks like a spam email. I wouldn’t think twice about it except there are about a dozen in a row. Out of morbid curiosity or the wine stupor, I open the top one. There are attachments.

I normally know better. These things are textbook to avoid. But before I can stop myself, I’ve opened one. Now, I can’t believe my eyes.

Holy shit. This is a picture of me. It’s me from about three months before Sam served me with the papers. I know because I had just cut my hair. It was shorter than ever and he didn’t like it. Every day since I honestly thought that hair cut was why he left me.

But now I have at least one answer. I’m not alone. My face is being cupped by hands in an embrace. It appears I’ve just kissed this man.

I feel like I’m having an out of body experience. My heart is throbbing in my ears. I don’t even recognize this person. What the hell, Becca!? Whatever this is, it is the reason my handsome husband left me. The reason he locked me out of my accounts and transferred our money out of my reach. But for the life of me I don’t know who I’m pictured with.

Frantically, I slam the laptop closed and begin to pace the length of the kitchen. I need answers but I don’t think I want them. Someone must be sabotaging me with photoshop. Right?

I feel like I might puke. It’d probably be good to get this wine out of me so I can sober up. What have I become? What was I already? The second thought is more frightening.

I can’t bring myself to do it. I crawl to the bed. At least it isn’t far in this tiny place. My thoughts swirl, there is no way I can make sense of them now. I feel like my brain was hacked. I think I will have to start fresh tomorrow. Fresh, like a new password. Untainted. Unplug the machine and plug it back in, like the IT guys always say. I will reset and solve this tomorrow.