“He doesn’t want a divorce.”
“Well, too damn bad. I refuse to stay married to a man who doesn’t love me. And if I may just point out, it’s really messed up that you’re commiserating with my soon to be ex.”
“At least he calls, unlike you, and don’t be unfair, Sis. He’s still family.”
Yeah, like that weird third cousin that lives in the hills in a trailer and grows ‘oregano’ out back. You know they’re there, but you just can’t bring yourself to deny the connection, out of loyalty.
“Mama, I gotta go. Love you.”
***
“If you’d sign here, Mrs Blake.”
I’m sitting in the conference room of the lawyer’s office—his lawyer—my lawyer beside me, Vincent and his lawyer across the huge glass expanse. I’d already signed the papers weeks ago and sent them to him, but thanks to him ‘misplacing’ the documents we’ve agreed to meet here and get things done.
Not a good I idea, I realize now as my pen hovers over the papers, my hand frozen and refusing to put ink to paper. When I’d signed before it had been hard, but after two glasses of wine and a tequila shooter I’d managed to get things done.
If I’d cried a little and eaten half a gallon of ice cream, that’s my business and nobody else’s.
“Mrs Blake?”
My lawyer’s voice invades the silent pity party in my head, and I nod once, forcing myself to scrawl my name across the line with a flourish I don’t feel.
You want the truth? Part of me, the really tragic part, had kind of hoped that Vincent would come storming at me with guns blazing, insisting that I stop my shit and come back home where I belong. I’d spent the better part of last night lying in bed, fantasizing about how he’d rip those papers up, haul me over his shoulder, and carry me off.
He hasn’t, though, and I feel my heart die a quick death when he glances at me for a brief moment before quickly scrawling his bold signature and flicking the papers away.
His eyes hold no emotion save for the trace of boredom as he glances at his watch before rising.
“I’ll have your things delivered to your apartment this afternoon.”
“Good bye, Vincent.”
It’s all I have the strength to say as he turns on his heel and walks to the door. He pauses, his hand gripping the knob, and turns to me with a slow smile that sets my heart beating erratically, and then walks away without so much as another word.
Chapter Thirty Four
“You’re standing up for me, right?”
“Of course,” I answer, adding the last touches to my last piece with a feeling of accomplishment that I haven’t felt in ages.
In two months I’ve done what I never thought possible. I’ve completed the work Vern had been hounding me about, and now, with this last painting, I’ve managed to fulfil the promise I made all those months ago.
I’ve finished Vincent’s landscapes. One for every month of the six I’d originally agreed on.
“Sis, are you listening to me?”
“Yes, Parker, I heard every word. You want me at your wedding, wearing a suit and a top hat. Have I told you yet how truly stoked I am that you guys are finally getting married?” I ask in an overly cheery voice.
Truth is, I feel like shit as the wedding gets closer. It’s totally bitchy, but I’m green with envy that Parker has managed to get his happily ever after while I’m divorced and considering adopting the stray cat that keeps screeching from the alley beneath my window.
It totally makes sense since I’d started leaning out in the wee hours and am now invested in an ongoing conversation about life and the evils of love.
Sometimes I swear Marty—that’s what I’ve named the flea ball—understands what I’m saying, and once I could have sworn he even answered me.
To be fair, I think he’d been telling me to ‘fuck off and get a life’, but seeing as that’s the only real conversation I’ve had in the two weeks since I’d offloaded my stuff on Vern, I’m just grateful I have someone who understands me.
“I have something to tell you, something that you may not like,” he says after a beat of silence that has my hackles rising.
Parker only ever hesitates to tell me stuff if he knows it’s gonna upset me. Like four days ago when he’d called to tell me that the police had stopped looking for Eric.
I’m super glad I’d decided to keep Henson, the bodyguard I’d hired months ago and like so much I can’t think of firing. We play a cutthroat game of poker every Thursday afternoon when I get back from kickboxing classes.
Keep your mouth shut, I’m really low on friends and Henson only judges me for my addiction to Jerry Springer.