Page 1 of Resisting the Fall

Maven

A visit to the New York County Courthouse was not how I’d planned to spend my Monday morning. Especially when it involved the Matrimonial Support Bureau’s office. From the name, one might assume the place to be filled with soon-to-be blushing brides and their doting grooms. It wasn’t. That pleasure went to the County Clerk’s Office where they pass out marriage licenses like Halloween enthusiasts pass out candy to eager trick-or-treaters. To say “I do” in the state of New York, all you need is a valid ID and a check for thirty-five dollars.

To get out of said marriage requires a much more difficult process: months of waiting, more paperwork than could possibly be relevant, legal fees, and frequent visits to, you guessed it, the Matrimonial Support Bureau. After my last visit here, over six years ago, I’d expected to never step foot in this place again. But here I was, listening for my number to be called while simultaneously hyperfocusing on my social media feed to stave off unwanted memories.

Not that I was bitter. I wasn’t. Or at least not exceptionally so. I absolutely loved my life. Would I possibly offer a few suggestions to the state of New York regarding the ease of obtaining a marriage license? Sure.

For instance, an hour spent in this waiting room where once-in-love couples now avoid eye contact or whisper-shout about an ongoing argument might be a helpful prerequisite for getting hitched. There could even be pamphlets available outlining all that’s required for the unhitching.

Not that the experience would have stopped Ben and me from marrying. Everyone believes they’ll be the couple that makes it. Until they’re not. But I could have been better prepared for what was to come when the two of us fell into the harrowing statistic of failed marriages.

The speaker crackled. “Sixty-three at window four.”

I double-checked my ticket and, in my relief, barely resisted holding it up like I’d won a raffle.

The agent behind window four was still typing on his computer when I approached. With his man bun, tattooed arms, and thick leather bracelets, I wondered if this was his day job. His vibe was definitely that of a musician. Not the sort of musician I was, but the rough-and-gritty type that performed in crowded underground bars. We all had to get by somehow.

I slid my ticket into the recessed slot at the bottom of the counter-to-ceiling glass that separated the government employees from the rest of us. “I’m number sixty-three.”

Without shifting his eyes from his monitor, he grabbed my ticket and discarded it, still clicking away at his keyboard. “How can I help you?”

I placed the notarized request in the slot. “I need an official copy of a divorce decree.”

His gaze shifted to the paper, then to me. “Room 103B.”

I tucked a strand of blond hair behind my ear and tilted my head toward the circular vent where his voice was coming from, confident I’d misheard him. “Sorry, what was that?”

“Record requests are made in room 103B.” He pushed my form back toward me and pointed to the exit. “Take the elevator to the basement. It’ll be the first door on your right.”

I glanced at the roomful of people awaiting their turn. Just like I had done for well over an hour. “I was told this is where I make a request.”

The man finally dropped his hands from his keyboard and faced me. “Unfortunately, you were told incorrectly.”

New Yorkers weren’t known for being overly helpful, but I’d found a few gems in the years I’d lived here. Maybe Man Bun was one of those gems. I was certainly desperate enough to find out. I threw him my sweetest smile. “Here’s the thing: I really don’t have time to wait in another line. I’m supposed to be leaving for Prague in less than a month, and I just received a letter from the Department of State saying that my passport renewal application is on hold because there’s a discrepancy between the name on it and the name on my Social Security card. Apparently, my Social is still in my married name, which is why I need a copy of my divorce decree. I have an appointment with a passport agent in two and a half hours, so if there’s any way you could help, I would be so grateful.”

He pointed to the exit again. “Take the elevator to the basement. Room 103B.”

Before I could so much as utter a word of protest, he clicked a button and the speaker crackled to life, followed by the automated voice: “Sixty-six at window four.”

I stared at the man whose attention had already returned to his monitor, trying to piece together a coherent stream of thoughts that wouldn’t be peppered with the inappropriate words ping-ponging through my brain. There were a lot of them to sift through.

My phone buzzed in my hand, and I glanced at the screen.

Jean-Paul.

Shoot.

In a split-second decision, I knocked on the glass between Man Bun and myself, and when he met my unimpressed stare, I offered him an enthusiastic thumbs down. New Yorkers expected the middle finger or a few choice words thrown their way, but they never quite knew what to do with the thumbs down. I watched Man Bun just long enough to see his brow furrow in confusion before I turned my back on him and headed toward the door, answering the call.

“Hey, Jean-Paul!” My voice was overly cheery, and I hoped he wouldn’t pick up on it.

“Maven.” He gave a light clearing of his throat, as though attempting to lessen the thickness of his French accent. Or possibly his frustration at me. “I just got your email. Any word about the passport?”

“I’m at the courthouse now and have an appointment with a passport agent at one.” At least I hoped I’d make it. “The person I spoke with on the phone said if I bring the divorce decree with me, they should be able to approve the application on their end, no problem, and I’ll have my new passport in my hand by the end of next week.”

Jean-Paul released a quick puff of air that vibrated the speaker of my phone. “I hope so, because it’s not a good look for either of us otherwise. You are the first chair. I vouched for you, Maven. For your dependability.”

My stomach tightened into a knot. “Had I known I’d have trouble with my passport renewal⁠—”