by Jana Aston
Which makes me think. I should look at this paperwork a bit closer, shouldn’t I? I bet he filed it that very first day. I mean, I know he did, don’t I? He tossed it on my kitchen counter and said we needed to talk about it. Except that we didn’t talk about it and then he took it with him and we never even discussed what the ‘it’ was.
But it doesn’t take a genius to figure it out. Of course he’d have filed annulment paperwork. He’s a freaking lawyer, he probably filed it himself that Sunday afternoon after I ran out of my apartment without my bra on. He probably went home, fired up his laptop and completed the paperwork, and why wouldn’t he? I was a crazy girl who tricked him into a drunken marriage and then ran off once I slept with him.
Honestly, I’m not sure why he’s put up with me this long. I’m good in bed, but I’m not that good. I don’t know any tricks or anything. I can’t deepthroat, like not even a little. Don’t get me wrong, no one’s ever complained, and I think I’ve perfected a nice hand-mouth combination that might give the illusion that I’m taking on more than I am. But there’s no ‘fuck my mouth, sir’ offers happening, I can promise you that.
I’m a terrible cook and I already admitted I have no interest in picking up his dry cleaning. I’d have kept that fact to myself if I’d realized he wore nothing but suits and freaking pressed shirts on the daily. Not that I’ve changed my mind about picking up dry cleaning, but I’d have at least kept up the illusion that I might pick up his dry cleaning for a little longer.
But still, he seems to like me. Maybe he doesn’t love me, but who could blame him? We haven’t even hit our two-week anniversary yet. I slide the papers out of the envelope and read them, line for line. It’s really boring and filled with the words ‘defendant’ and ‘plaintiff’ over and over again. I know it’s just legal jargon but it’s sad.
When I look a little closer I notice something else. Rossi Law Firm on South 4th Street is listed on the paperwork. But it also lists Gwen Jones, Esq. And a Nevada bar number for Gwen Jones. And here on the final page it states Gwen Jones, Esq, attorney for the plaintiff Vincent Thomas Rossi.
I’m positive I’m red with humiliation or possibly rage. Tell Gwen to hold, I need to talk to her.
That fucking fucker. He had his ex prepare the paperwork? I wasn’t even worth seven hundred dollars of his time to complete the paperwork himself? He had his ex do it for him? His ex who works for him? At his law firm?
Did they laugh about it? About me? Did he stroll into her office that Monday morning and regale her with stories of his weekend of regret? About the silly girl who couldn’t stop throwing herself at him all weekend? Did they talk about lawyerly things as he told her he’d accidentally married a girl who plans weddings for a living due to a whirlwind of booze and lust?
Kismet is dead. Not even a bathtub full of Cheez-Its could make this better.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
“Did you get everything you needed or did you want me to grab a slice of pizza for you?”
I scowl at Mark, because that was not a genuine offer. It was an offer laced with sarcasm and judgment over my lunch choices. I’ve got a bowl of pasta and an entire turkey dinner with mashed potatoes and gravy, green beans and stuffing. And a cupcake. Fine, it’s two cupcakes but I’m in crisis and I fit it all on one tray so I don’t know what he’s nagging me about. One tray equals one lunch, everyone knows that. I shoot him a nasty glare as I pick up my tray and navigate the employee cafeteria, looking for a good seat. We’re having a late lunch because our department meeting droned on forever, unlike my marriage, which only droned on for twelve days.
On the bright side, I’m already on the fourth stage of grief which is depression and carbohydrates. I think I might be a grieving overachiever, which is sorta sad, but I’m going to add it to my list of strengths anyway because I should still get credit for it.
Which reminds me of something else I should do.
“We should look Gwen up on the internet,” I announce once I’ve located a suitable table for eating and griping. That table is a booth along the far wall of the employee dining room because booths are ideal for private bitching sessions. And unbuttoning your pants for optimal caloric intake.
Lydia ate lunch an hour ago, which is a blessing because I cannot fake being happy right now and I still haven’t told her I’m married. Which is just as well, because I’m almost unmarried so why even bring it up at all?
Acceptance. It’s the fifth stage of grief. I’m going to pretend I haven’t hit it, because I’m not skipping the carbohydrate stage. Fuck that.
“Sure.” Mark slides into the booth across from me. “That sounds right.”
“Are you any good at math?” I ask while I open the internet browser on my phone. “How many boxes of Cheez-Its do you think I’d need to fill a bathtub, with me inside the tub?”
“I’m not answering that.”
“I was thinking twenty boxes, but then I wondered if that would be enough to be satisfying or if it would only barely cover the bottom of the tub. What do you think?”
Mark sighs as he twists the cap off of a bottle of water, as if he’s resigning himself to having a conversation about the volume of crackers required to fill a bathtub. “I think it’d take a hundred boxes or more.”
“God, that’s like three hundred dollars in crackers. Do you think I can claim that expense on my annulment?”
“I don’t think you can claim anything on an annulment. For starters you’re referring to an annulment like it’s a tax return, which it’s not. If you’re asking if you can request that Vince pay for a hundred boxes of Cheez-Its as some kind of financial settlement for your marriage, the answer is no. That’s not how an annulment works.”
“This day just keeps getting worse and worse,” I groan as I type ‘Rossi Law Firm’ into my internet search. It’s a really nice website and a really large law firm based on the number of attorneys on staff. If I was a supportive wife and not a bitter soon-to-be ex-wife I’d be really impressed. I click on the tab labeled ‘attorneys’ and there she is, Gwen Jones. There’s a picture of her. She’s blonde, went to law school at UCLA and I hate her. Those are the first things I notice. She’s a partner, which is super annoying and earns her another point in the ‘I hate her’ column. She specializes in family law and in her free time she sits on the board of directors for Girl Troopers of southern Las Vegas.
Who the hell can compete with that?
Not me. The full extent of my volunteer efforts is returning shopping carts to the shopping cart corral after I’ve put my groceries in the car and really, I don’t think that counts.
“See, this is the kind of woman he should be with.” I hold the phone up for Mark to scan. “Not a party-planning crazy girl like myself. A lawyer should have a serious wife.”
“Okay, simmer down. Don’t go all Elle Woods in Legally Blonde on me. You are jumping to some really wild conclusions here, even for you.”
“Maybe.” I twirl a bite of spaghetti around my fork and stuff it in my mouth. Then I type ‘Gwen Jones, ESQ’ into my Google search and click on images. And there it is, a picture of Vince and Gwen together. It was taken at a red-carpet charity event. There’s a super cute backdrop for the photo and I wonder who planned that event because I would love to know who did their graphics. I pass the phone over to Mark again. “I was right about them being together though. There they are.” I slump in the booth and drag my fork through the mashed potatoes.
“Three years ago,” Mark says, looking at the photo. “That event was three years ago.” He rolls his eyes in my face as he sets the phone down on the table.
“I don’t care how long ago it was, he shouldn’t have had his ex-girlfriend file the paperwork for the annulment. It’s… rude.” I finally decide on ‘rude’ as the best way to sum up ‘inconsiderate,’ ‘boorish,’ ‘ignorant’ and ‘insulting.’ Then I make a face at Mark, daring him to disagree.
“This is not the work wife I didn’t ask to fake-marry.” Mark shakes
his head with a sad look of disappointment on his face.
“See!” I throw my hands in the air as if this proves everything. “I am a husband predator! I prey on innocent men and trick them into marriage!”
“No, I meant since when do you just sit back and passively let anything happen? You didn’t do it with me. You told me we were friends on your second day of work. After I made that joke about raccoons, you simply said, ‘Mark, we’re friends now.’”
“Oh, yeah.” I grin. “Raccoons are really funny though. Plus they’ve got those silly little masks that make it look like they’re gonna rob a bank.” I motion in the air as if I’ve got tiny raccoon paws.
Mark stares at me, nonplussed.
“Did you know that raccoon moms raise their children on their own?” I nod solemnly while Mark continues to stare at me while he chews. “People should be more understanding when a raccoon is digging through the trash or trying to get a slice of pizza. Single mom-ing isn’t easy.”
“The point is,” Mark continues, “you didn’t ask me to be your friend, you told me. Which is really obnoxious now that I think about it, but it’s part of your charm. And then you did it again when you made me your work husband.”
I nod. I am both obnoxious and charming. And possibly near the high end of the aggressive scale.
“When the Harrison-Nichols wedding was nearly called off over a dispute about where to seat the groom’s fraternity brothers, you didn’t just give in. You created a new seating chart and managed to set up the bride’s cousin with one of those frat boys.”
That’s true. I did do that. They were super compatible on paper. By on paper I mean I reviewed the Instagram accounts of each guest not bringing a date and then paired them up on the seating chart based on my objective opinion about who was most likely to couple up. It’s only been three weeks, but according to my stalking via Instagram things are looking really good for the bride’s cousin and the fraternity brother I paired her up with.
“When the Bronsons requested—one day before their vow renewal—that it snow inside a Las Vegas ballroom, did you tell them no? No, you did not, Payton Tanner. You found a snow machine in Las Vegas on a Friday afternoon and had it set up in the ballroom before you left work that night. Because you are not a quitter.”
That’s true too.
“And when fate placed you in Vince’s office, you married him. Just like you said you would.”
“Okay, whoa.” I hold up a hand in the universal ‘hold the heck on’ gesture. “I was mostly kidding about that. I mean sure, I was open to marrying him the first time I saw him because of the kismet, you know? And because of the sexual attraction. But I meant if it worked out, like if we met and dated and I didn’t drive him crazy and he didn’t annoy me and if the sex was half as good as I envisioned it being. I didn’t mean I was going to trick him into marrying me on our first date.”
“Exactly.”
“Exactly what? What point did you just prove?”
“That you’re not a husband predator and you’re not a quitter.”
That’s true, I suppose. I didn’t set out to trick him into marrying me. It’s not my fault that he didn’t pick option A and let me get a tiger tattooed onto my ass. No one forced him into becoming the tattoo police.
“Maybe not, but how do I know if kismet is just fucking with me?”
“Pffft. As if kismet would dare. As if fate stands a chance against Payton on a mission.”
Hmm, that’s valid.
“I’m so confused, Mark. Loving Vince is a lot like shopping at Target.”
“Sure.” Mark nods, his face devoid of judgment because he’s an excellent work spouse. “How so exactly?”
“Well, I had no idea I needed him until I saw him. You know? I was just merrily living my life without Vince and I thought I was happy. I thought I had everything I needed. But then poof, there he was and I was like, I need this guy. I cannot live without this guy. So I put him in my cart and married him and now I will absolutely die if he drops me off at the return desk and I have to spend the rest of my life walking around the store trying to find a better Vince than the Vince I already had.”
Mark simply blinks at me from across the table and I think it’s because that analogy was so profound he can’t find the words to reply, but it’s fine, because I have a plan.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
“I need you to find someone for me,” I announce as I sail into Canon’s office and help myself to one of the guest chairs facing his desk.
“Vince is in Reno consulting on a case.”
“I know where Vince is,” I reply, not bothering to hide my exasperation. “I need to know where Carol is.”
“Who the hell is Carol?” Canon stops typing and looks up from his monitor. He leans back in his chair and steeples his fingers together and I have the distinct impression I’ve caught his interest. Mostly because he’s a nosey motherfucker.
“My life coach.”
“Your life coach.” Canon nods slowly and raises an eyebrow and I get the impression I’ve just made his day. “Do go on.”
“Yes. My life coach. I need to find her ASAP because I need life advice.”
“Have you tried calling her?”
“I lost her number.” I toss my hands up in the air as if it could happen to anyone.
“How did you lose a number you’ve dialed from your phone? It stays in there forever. Outgoing calls. You want me to hack your phone again and look it up for you?” He leans back over his keyboard as if he’s going to do just that.
“No! Don’t do that!” I wave my hand in a stop gesture. God, Canon is a pain in the ass. A pain in the ass with fantastic stalking skills, I remind myself. “I never schedule appointments by phone, so I don’t have her number.”
“Sure. You schedule via email then?”
“Okay.” I heave a sigh because I can’t really see any way around this. “The thing is…” I begin but Canon interrupts.
“I cannot wait to hear the thing.” He’s smiling and I know he’s going to enjoy this far too much, but I’m desperate, so I level a look at him implying he should shut up if he wants to hear the thing. He grins like an asshole and leans back in his chair.
“The thing is, Carol wasn’t exactly my life coach.”
“Elaborate.”
“I was just sorta life coach-sampling.” I pick at a non-existent piece of lint on my knee and avoid looking at Canon. When I can’t take the silence anymore I risk a glance in his direction.
“Tell me everything. I need a full visual picture.”
“Uggh, you’re so annoying.”
“Spill or I don’t help.”
I begrudgingly explain the entirety of fate providing me with a couple of sample life coaching sessions while Canon interrupts to ask questions. When I’m done and when he’s finished laughing, he tells me I have potential in surveillance if I ever want to make a career change to the security field. Which is nice. I’m adding surveillance skills to my list of strengths because really, it’s not a bad skill to have and it’s good to know I have diversification abilities.
“So you want to find Carol because you’re in search of life advice you can’t gain from eavesdropping?”
“Sampling. I was sampling.”
“Right. Sampling.”
“But I’m ready to upgrade to a real appointment because I need her to help me identify my strengths. Like a comprehensive list, not just an overview.”
“Why is that exactly?”
“So I can present it to Vince.”
“Sure. Is this some kind of fetish thing? Some kind of kinky roleplaying involving paperwork and spanking? Actually, don’t answer that. It’s more information than I want to know.”
“Can you find Carol or not?”
“You want me to find a life coach named Carol, no last name, no phone number, email or office address?”
“I was hoping you could.”
“Of course I can, Jesus.” Canon rolls his eyes a
nd taps at his keyboard while muttering about people misusing his skill set. “Tell me what kinds of things were talked about during the sessions.”
“The usual. Career goals, decision-making skills, the usual.”
“I have hits on two life coaches in Las Vegas named Carol.” Canon tilts his monitor so I can see the images he’s pulled up. Neither are my life coach. After a series of false tries, finally Canon turns the monitor and it’s her. It’s Carol!
“That’s her!” I bounce in my seat in excitement. “Can you find a phone number or email?”
“Carol is not a life coach, Payton,” Canon responds as he turns the monitor back.
“Yes, she is! She’s really good!”
“What other kinds of things were talked about at these supposed life coaching sessions?”
“I don’t know, I didn’t catch everything. Sampling is more of an overview appointment.”
“Stuff like sales goals? Performance rewards? Commissions?”
“Maybe? I kinda tuned that stuff out because I was mainly interested in the personal growth. I think Meghan was saving to buy a timeshare though. I don’t know.”
“Carol sells essential oils, Payton. She’s not a life coach. She’s an essential oil team leader. Meghan is one of her commissioned sales reps.”
What?
Canon flips the screen around again and there’s Carol. Apparently I can get an appointment with her if I’m willing to buy a hundred-and-sixty-dollar starter kit.
“Carol isn’t a life coach?”
“No.”
“I almost joined a cult?”
“I think ‘cult’ might be a real big leap. You might have been headed towards obtaining a diffuser and a second job, but I think that’s the extent of it.”
