Trouble in Paradise Part II
It is court hearing day. You stand falsely accused of reciprocal infidelity, and pinning it down on AI hallucinations makes for a laughable alibi at best.
A few months go by, and the verdict is finally out: family law has you in a chokehold as you struggle to understand why the victim in this story must make financial reparations for being the sole breadwinner for over a decade. The thought of seeing your hard-earned life savings spent on Birkin bags and/or other materialistic belongings makes your blood boil.
For a moment of brief disconnection, you daydream about all the things you could've carelessly spent your money on. The juxtaposition of living beyond your means, risking your retirement plans, and leading a plain, frugal life—only for your bank account to be drained anyway—made you regret not pulling the trigger on that Datejust you wanted five years ago.
You are broke and broken. Your best friend offers to come to your place, and you welcome the idea with open arms.
The doorbell rings: it's your bestie, Tom. You confide in him, but you notice Tom has been acting strange. He was all ears, but you couldn't ascertain whether the lingering stare was one of attentive or suggestive nature. Tom realizes that making a move on you at a time like this would've come out predatory, and that was not how he wanted to come out, not to you, at least.
Tom puts the move on you on the back burner but decides to open up about his sexual orientation and admits that he always had feelings for you. You did not see it coming, so you sift through your memories for any brushed-off telltale signs, and suddenly, you are back in the dorm you shared in 2015. You wonder aloud if that one time was really "morning wood" or if he had a hard-on for you. Tom does not respond...
You are too overwhelmed to continue this conversation, so you excuse yourself and head to the washroom. You consult your generative friend—that fucked you over the first time—for guidance on how to navigate the situation best. The response you got was a bag of mixed signals. "Fuck. I'm not doing this to myself again," you understandably tell yourself.
You get back to the living and go, "Eh, fuck off, Tom, I don't like you like that."