Bigger Rock

by Lauren Blakely

  A thirty-something man with a diamond earring and a striped purple shirt strides out to greet us. He shakes hands gregariously, ushers us into his bare-bones office with a metal desk, and walks us through the process with a cheerful demeanor.

  “And that’s all you need to do,” he says, flashing a smile. “It’ll be $199 for the preparation of the paperwork, and then you’d need to file it at the courthouse yourself, and the filing fee is $269. You can do that on Monday. We’ll give you instructions.”

  Natalie shakes her head. “We need the full-service package. We’re flying back now.”

  He snaps his fingers, awareness dawning. “Right, right. We talked about that on the phone this morning. You’re the New Yorkers.” He claps his big hands together. “We’ll need to kick this up a notch and do it all for you. We’ll prep the joint annulment, file it, and pay the court fees.” He makes a swooping gesture with his hand. “Then, we pick up the annulment decree signed by the judge.” Now, he mimes signing a paper. “And all that is only $799. You can pay a deposit and make payments, or pay it all now. What sounds good to you?”

  “Payments,” Natalie says at the same time as I declare, “Pay it all now.”

  The dude’s eyes widen, and he holds up his hands as if to say keep me out of this.

  “I’d rather make payments,” Natalie says in a quiet but firm voice.

  “I got this.” I grab my credit card from my wallet.

  She grits her teeth then speaks in a low hiss to me, “I think we can both pay the cost of the annulment, Wyatt.”

  “No need. I’ll take care of it.”

  “I want to split the fee.” Each word from her is a bite. “And if we keep fighting about this, it’s going to make my headache return.”

  Ditto, so I’m not going to belabor this point. Nor I am going to give in to her “let’s go Dutch on a divorce” stance. “We just need to get it done, Nat. Stop arguing, and we can deal with it later.”

  She crosses her arms as I hand the guy my card and tell him, “The whole shebang.”

  He takes the payment, tells us where to sign on the dotted line, and says he’ll keep us posted. “Congratulations on getting un-married,” he says with a smile and a wave.

  As we leave, Natalie gives me a stare. “What was that all about? Why do you get to pay for it?”

  “Because it was my mistake.”

  “Ah. Right. Of course.” She lingers on those words then shoots me a steely stare. “So back in the hotel, I might have tricked you? But now it’s your mistake?” I start to answer, but she gives me no room to speak as she moves closer, getting in my face. “Maybe I wanted to pay to undo it, too. You’re not the only one who made a mistake.”

  “That’s not what I meant,” I say as I open the door for her.

  “Well, what did you mean?”

  “Look,” I say as I follow her into the car and the driver pulls out, “I’m sorry. I’m sorry things got crazy last night. I’m sorry I suggested we get married. I’m sorry the whole night was a mess. I’m sorry for everything. The least I can do is pay for it, though.”

  She closes her eyes like this pains her. “Now, I’m really sorry.” Her voice is quiet, defeated.

  I’ve no clue how we went from having the night of our lives to bickering like an old married couple. Oh, right. We got married. That’s how. We did something unbearably stupid. But at least we can unravel that big mistake. “Look, the sooner this is over the better, right?”

  “Absolutely.”

  “And it’ll be over soon. Like the guy said.” As the car rolls along the highway, I try to lighten the mood. “Hey, I guess the saying really is true. What happens in Vegas, stays in Vegas. We’ll go back to New York with a clean slate. It’ll be just like last night never happened.”

  “It sure will,” she says through tight lips as she turns to stare out the window for the rest of the ride.

  We don’t say much on the flight home. Or on the drive into Manhattan. When we reach her apartment, I clear my throat.

  But what am I supposed to say? Thanks for the lovely memories of a beautiful night I’ll never forget?

  I can't say that, though. Things are strained between us, but it’s for the best because we can’t be together.

  Instead, I use my best professional voice. “See you at the office.”

  She gives a cursory wave good-bye, and I head home and sleep off the rest of my bad decisions until Monday morning comes and I have to face her again.

  17

  By now it should be apparent that I don’t always make the best choices with women. Not sure why. Maybe I have a sign on my forehead that says, “Crazy? Consider me. I pair well with insane women. Like a good wine and cheese.”

  I don’t blame the women because I’m a man who takes responsibility for his shit. I know I’m the one with the problem, and it started with Roxy. She caught my eye during my senior-year astronomy elective. We moved in together after college, and she worked late hours in public relations at a big New York firm. I burned the midnight oil, too, trying to earn my stripes as a master carpenter. Roxy was great, totally supportive, and everything a young guy working his way up in Manhattan could want—fun, supportive, and upbeat, as well as wild in the sack. But that’s not the point. The point is she’s the one who urged me to strike out on my own and build my carpentry business. She even provided some tips and guidance on incorporating.

  Can you tell where this is going?

  Yeah, so can I.

  She was instrumental in encouraging me to start my shop, but after she spread her legs for the banker, I encouraged her to spread her wings from my life and get the fuck out of my apartment.

  She packed up and shacked up with him. Too bad that wasn’t the last of her. A month later, she tried to dig her claws into my business, claiming in her legal motion that she provided the “intellectual capital” to help me get started. That her late nights plotting and planning with me meant she deserved a piece of WH Carpentry & Construction. All that cheerleading had to have earned her something, she claimed.

  She wanted a percentage of the revenue in perpetuity, and she was ready to fight me for it.

  It was a mess, and my buddy Chase put me in touch with his cousin, who’s a total shark of a lawyer. He helped me out, and I owe them both big time.

  I wish I could see this kind of thing coming. I wish I knew when I was going to get involved with someone who’d try to kick me in the balls of my business. I’ve wondered if I am too trusting, but honestly, I don’t think that’s the issue. I’m not a fall-first-ask-questions-later kind of guy.

  Take Katrina. I was careful with her, waited till our website contract ended. I changed the passwords just as a precautionary measure before I asked her out. She seemed liked a sweetheart, and even my sister liked her. And, hell, it isn’t easy getting the Josie Hammer seal of approval.

  Suffice to say, we were all shocked when Katrina went off the rails.

  Josie declared it was just my particular brand of bad luck. Besides, everyone has that one friend who dates the crazies. Guess I fill that quota for all my buds. But it’s not like there’s a litmus test for crazy. That’s yet another reason why I need to stay far away from the temptation Natalie brings to work.

  Although my assistant looks perfectly delectable on Monday morning, sitting at her desk doing paperwork, I don’t let my mind linger on her bare legs or her long neck. Nor do I cop a peek at those absolutely fantastic tits that she loves having bitten. And I certainly don’t spend another second picturing her hitching her legs over my ass and digging her nails into my flesh.

  My mind is clean as a whistle, because I cashed out ahead this weekend in Vegas, getting that annulment filed in the nick of time. I hope it means my bad luck streak is ending, and I’m safe and secure on the other side of trouble. Judging from the bright smile plastered on Natalie’s face, she’s perfectly content to be moving on, too. Like it didn’t even happen.

  “Good news. We got a call for an estima
te on a kitchen redo on Park Avenue,” she says then rattles off the details and tells me I’m needed there at four.

  I fiddle with a box of paperclips on her desk. “Great. Will you do the schematics?”

  “Of course. That’s my job.”

  As I grab my tools and make my way out, I say good-bye, and she gives a quick wave. I do a double take when I see her left hand. Her fingers are bare. Her ring is gone.

  Mine’s still on, and I’m honestly not sure why I didn’t take it off when I returned, or even notice I was still wearing it.

  A momentary pang of sadness settles briefly into my chest, but that’s pointless so I shove the feeling away and focus on work for the next several hours.

  Later that day, Natalie joins me at the appointment, her laptop case in hand. She’s professional to a T, answers the client’s questions, and makes me look like a rock star.

  On the way out of the building, I thank her then ask how she’s doing today. “Everything good with you?”

  She taps her wrist. “Everything’s great, but I need to run. Karate class. Bye.”

  In a minute, she fades from my sight, turning north onto Park and blending into the sea of New Yorkers. Still ringless.

  Back at my apartment, I toy with the band. I run my thumb and forefinger over the metal, but I don’t yet take it off.

  As I whip up an omelet for dinner, I wonder how Natalie prefers her eggs, whether she’d like my omelets. As I sit down and dig in, I slide the ring off and spin it absently in circles on the kitchen table.

  When I’m done eating, I pop an Oreo in my mouth and click open my e-reader to my latest book of fascinating facts. As I read, I let the ring fall from one finger to the next, back and forth, back and forth. I set down my e-reader and wander into my bedroom, picking up the cardboard-framed photo of the two of us on the top of the rollercoaster. But looking at it makes me long for what I can’t have, so I set it down.

  Later, I hold the wedding band under the bathroom light then drop it in the medicine cabinet, wondering what Natalie did with hers.

  But it doesn’t matter, because a week later when I call Easy Out Divorce, the garrulous guy tells me, “It’s all in process. The paperwork was filed. You’ll be a free man in no time.”

  “Great,” I say.

  And it is great. It’s truly great how quickly you can undo a massive mistake. I tell Natalie when I stop by the office on the way home from the new job we booked last week.

  Her cool smile, along with a quick “great news,” is her only answer. She gathers her purse, shoves it on her shoulder, and takes off.

  That’s how we continue for the next two weeks. We go out on estimates; we plan new projects. I build; she manages. We book a few new jobs, including one for a friend of Lila’s. Her name is Violet, and she tells us she was so inspired by Lila’s new kitchen that she wants a similar look and feel. I give Natalie a big thumbs-up when she shows me the contract for that gig, since it’ll put us back on the expansion path.

  “We’ll start on it in a few more weeks. We have an opening then to fit this in,” Natalie says in a professional voice. “And Lila seemed happy to connect us with Violet. She said when she came to my self-defense class again how awful she felt about the Vegas job falling through.”

  “She went to one of your classes?”

  Natalie nods. “Yes. Funny thing. I was so used to seeing her in the context of working with you, and then all of a sudden there she was. She said she wants to learn self-defense.”

  “That’s pretty cool.”

  “She’s a quick learner. And I’m thrilled she told a friend about you. This pretty much gets us back on track after the Vegas debacle.”

  At first I’m not sure which debacle she’s referring to—the marriage or the job cancellation—but then I realize she means the business. And that’s fine with me, since we’re showing how well we work together as soon-to-be annulees. We’re all professional, all cool, unruffled feathers. As if we’re proving with every goddamn interaction how completely unaffected we are by that night in Vegas.

  Why should we act otherwise? After all, we went into that evening planning to make the most of it, and we did what we intended. We enjoyed the full Vegas experience, and we left it all behind when the sun came up.

  Tonight, I’m going to keep forgetting about it since I’m off to a Yankees game. First, I stop by Sunshine Bakery, where Josie is closing up. She sweeps the floor as I enter and beams when she sees me.

  I smile, too. “You didn’t forget, did you?”

  She laughs and shakes her head. “You only told me five times.”

  I hold up a finger. “Once. I told you once. Because I told Chase I’d tell you once. It’s embarrassing enough.”

  “You must really owe him big time, then.”

  “He’s collecting from years ago.”

  Josie sets the broom against the wall and heads behind the counter. She grabs a small yellow bakery box. A heart sticker is affixed on the box to keep it closed. She thrusts it at me. “One strawberry shortcake cupcake for Chase Summers.”

  “Can’t believe I’m bringing a fucking cupcake all the way to the Bronx for that bastard.” I sniff the box. “Please tell me there’s a seven-layer bar in here for me as a reward?”

  “No such luck.” She points to the heart sticker. “It’s only for him.”

  I read her writing: The manliest cupcake in the world. Not :) But glad you enjoy it, and glad you missed it. Come visit soon! It’s been too long!

  “I swear, Josie. It was all he talked about when we made plans. Are you bringing me a cupcake? Are you bringing me a cupcake? I was like, Dude, get your own. But he’s had daytime shifts all week, so hasn’t been able to make it. And I had to take pity on him seeing as how, well, you know . . .” I make a rolling gesture with my hand.

  “He saved lives in war-torn Africa for the last year,” Josie supplies. “The man deserves a cupcake. Be sure to tell Doctor McHottie to stop by to get another one.”

  I shoot her a look. “Don’t call him that.”

  Her eyes widen in a who me expression. “That’s what you used to call him.”

  I shake my head. “Trust me. I never called him that.”

  “Then who did?”

  “All. The. Ladies.”

  She gestures to herself. “I’m a lady.”

  “And he’s a dog.”

  She laughs. “Sounds like a compliment, then, since you like dogs.”

  I consider that briefly. “Got me on that one,” I say, then make my way to the door. But I stop halfway and rap my knuckles on a yellow table as I consider whether I’m missing a chance to pry. I mean, check in on Natalie. “Hey, Josie,” I say, all nonchalant.

  “Yeah?”

  “Everything good with Natalie?”

  Josie tilts her head to the side. “Of course. Why do you ask?”

  I shrug. “No reason. Just making sure.”

  Josie stares at me, and I know I’ve said too much. This is my sister, and she reads emotions as if they’re tattooed on your forehead. “Did something go wrong in Vegas?”

  I scoff. “No. God no,” I say, giving a champion-level denial. Then, worry strikes. “Why? Did she mention anything?”

  “No. I just was curious. She’s been a little quieter lately, though. Did you say something stupid to her?”

  About a million stupid things.

  “No more than usual,” I say with a cheesy grin, breathing a sigh of relief.

  “Seriously, though. Were you a good guy?” she says, her big green eyes pinning me. Challenging me. Making me ask myself the same question. Does marrying Natalie on a whim and annulling it let me stay in the good guy camp? Running through the time in Vegas with Natalie, I decide I was a good guy. Maybe not a bright guy. Maybe not a cautious guy. But at least I treated her well, and I’ve been a good boss since we returned.

  “I was very good. So good I deserve a seven-layer bar,” I say, batting my eyes.

  She laughs and grabs a ba
r from behind the counter. “You know I always give you one.”

  “You’re the best sister in the entire world, world, world,” I call out, making my voice echo, as if I’m talking in a microphone.

  “I know, I know, I know. Give Chase a hug for me.”

  “Never. That will never happen.”

  18

  At Yankee Stadium, I find my college buddy in the third row by the first baseline, tapping away on his phone. “Yo. All the women swiping left on you?” I clap him on the back. “It’s rough being everyone’s last choice in Tinder.”

  “Don’t you know it, man,” he says, then knocks fists with me. “Good to see you.”

  “You, too.” I eye his skin, a golden-brown hue now. “Guess a year working outside will do this to you.”

  He holds out one arm. “Like my tan? I really am the golden boy now,” he says, then winks and grabs for the cupcake box. “C’mon. I missed my sweets when I was gone.”

  Chase just returned from a year working with Doctors Without Borders. He served shortly after he finished his residency in ER medicine, and now he’s back in New York, working at a trauma hospital.

  “No cupcakes in Africa?”

  “Shockingly, no,” he says, as he reads the sticker, smiles, and opens the box. He pops a chunk of the strawberry treat in his mouth. He rolls his eyes in pleasure and points. “This is the meaning of life. Right here. This cupcake.”

  “Josie is pretty much a goddess of baked goods.”

  “She is,” he says, adoration thick in his tone. “And this just makes my whole day better. Trust me, it was a shit afternoon. Well, for other people.”

  “Let me guess. You had five stabbings,” I say, as a recap of last night’s game-winning homer plays on the Jumbotron.

  He runs a hand through his—you guessed it—golden-brown hair and laughs deeply. “Four, actually. Along with three gunshots and a mustard jar inside a body cavity,” he says, then tells me exactly where the jar was found while he devours the pink frosting.

  I cringe. “Dude, how can you eat while you tell that story?”