A humorous laugh escapes me, and I shake my head, slamming the front door behind me as I step around her things. “Yeah, you too, I see. Figured you’d be gone by now.”
“I, um…well, I was leaving today.” Her eyes catch mine, hope glimmering in them faintly. “Unless…?”
“Do you need help with your bags? I’d be happy to put them in the hall for you,” I tell her, walking past her to the kitchen and ignoring the pleading tone of her voice. I open the fridge to find it almost bare; makes sense considering I’m the one who does the shopping around here. I’m not really hungry anyway, having just shared a big breakfast with Amelia at her apartment before she went to school.
“Where’ve you been?” Gretchen asks, breaking the silence as I shut the fridge door hard enough to make the bottles in the door rattle.
I turn on her, ready to tear into her. Instead of finding her looking at me with hope, I find her with her arms crossed in front of her and her eyes narrowed. This is the Gretchen I’ve been living with this last year. “Excuse me?” I demand.
“I called Alan’s. You weren’t there, and you didn’t answer your cell when I called.” She pauses briefly, her eyes burning into mine with an unspoken accusation.
I stare at her for a minute, completely dumbstruck. “I didn’t answer any of your calls because I have nothing to say to you at this time. As for where I was…that’s really none of your concern anymore, now is it?”
Her eyes widen, and I think I see realization dawn in them before she speaks. “You were with someone,” she assumes, jumping to conclusions that aren’t wrong.
There are several reasons I’m not quite ready to tell Gretchen about Amelia. I mean, I would love to rub her nose in the fact that I’ve never felt this way about anyone in my life, because I know that would get under her Botox-riddled skin, but I can’t. Not until Amelia and I have figured out what exactly our relationship is—if that’s even what we’re calling it—and definitely not until after we’ve talked to Alan. He’ll be the first to learn about us.
“Gretchen, you have no idea what you’re talking about,” I reply, sloughing her accurate assumptions off as nonsense without flat-out lying to her.
“I’m still your wife, Owen, and I can tell you’ve been with another woman.”
“My wife?” This time, my laugh isn’t dry. I actually find genuine humor in what she’s said. “You sure have a funny way of honoring your marriage vows.” Shaking my head, I walk past her, my arm brushing hers as I make my way down the hall. “Don’t let the door hit you in the ass on your way out…I know how much the implants cost me. I’ll be meeting with my lawyer this afternoon to get started on the divorce proceedings. Expect to be handing over the keys to the Porsche, and perhaps start gearing up to use public transit.” It makes me smile when I notice her cringe at the mere suggestion of public transportation.
“Owen, be reasonable,” she starts to plead, clearly getting ready to make some sort of deal. “Surely we can work something out.”
Turning around and taking a couple of backward steps away, I shrug. “The pre-nup was pretty straightforward,” I tell her. “Not my problem. Goodbye, Gretchen. Leave the keys to the condo on the counter. I’ll be having the locks changed today.”
With an exasperated huff, Gretchen tosses her keys on the kitchen counter and picks up her bags. “This isn’t over, Owen.”
“Maybe not yet,” I agree. “But I’ll see what I can do to speed up the process.”
As strange as it seems, the sound of her slamming the door behind her is music to my ears. After stripping out of my clothes and grabbing a suit and tie from my closet, I freeze before tossing everything on the king-sized bed that I once shared with Gretchen. While I don’t think she was stupid enough to bring men back to our home, I can’t be sure. And, even if she hadn’t, I still didn’t want to sleep in it—alone or with Amelia—knowing Gretchen had once occupied it. I pull on my suit quickly and grab my phone off my dresser, flipping through my contacts and finding the one person I knew would love to help me out.
“Cavanaugh Interior Design. Julia Cavanaugh-Bennett, speaking.”
“Jules,” I greet happily, balancing my phone between my ear and shoulder while I knot my tie.
“Hey, big bro,” she responds. “How was your Thanksgiving? You sound good, like maybe it was just what you needed.”
Unable to contain my smile, I nod; my sister has always been able to read a person’s mood regardless of whether or not they’re in the same room. “It was good, and, you’re right, just what I needed.”