The Divorce Attorney

by Melanie Munton

  “This is just something I’m doing for me, Gretch. I need to finally get this.”

  She nods like she understands, though I’m not sure she does. I have a healthy enough amount of confidence coursing through my veins in my everyday life. I just got tied up in a guy that for whatever reason, got under my skin in all the wrong ways.

  But for as long as I’ve known Gretchen, she’s always had an impenetrable bubble of self-possession surrounding her. I’ve never seen her doubt herself, never seen anyone else make her question her decisions or lifestyle. I think the day a guy makes her stumble even a little is the day I can go out into the blistering sun without it setting my Irish skin on fire.

  “Whatever you say, babe,” she says, shrugging. “You’ve got class today, right? And work again tonight?”

  Grateful for the subject change, I get back to washing my dishes. “Yeah. I should get off around ten. You got plans after work?”

  She sits down at the kitchen table where she pulls up her tablet to read the morning’s news, as is her standard routine. “I might go out for drinks with some people from the office.”

  She got a job at an advertising agency right out of college that she seems to really like. But I’ve noticed that every time her boss is brought up, she tenses and clams up. Not sure what that means yet, so I’ve been paying extra close attention.

  “Oh, yeah? Who’s all going to be there?”

  “Lots of people from what I understand. We’re sort of celebrating landing a big new account.”

  “Your boss, too?”

  Her mug freezes halfway to her mouth, a dead giveaway. “Uh, I’m not sure. Maybe.”

  “Everything going okay there? With him?”

  Her eyes tentatively meet mine before lowering back to her device. “What do you mean?”

  I’m glad the water from the faucet is running right now so she can’t hear my snicker. Gotcha, Gretch. “You haven’t said much about him. Just wondering if you still like the job.”

  “Yeah, no, the job is great.” Her voice noticeably brightens, though it’s clearly forced. “It just takes time to get comfortable with the new surroundings, you know? And for them to get comfortable with the new girl. But I love what I do.”

  If there’s one glaring weakness Gretchen has, it’s that she struggles with opening up and talking about her feelings. She can listen to my problems and offer advice, but she rarely shares her own issues. It undoubtedly has everything to do with her military father who was more drill sergeant than dad at home when she was growing up. I’ve met the man a few times, and I swear on my life he’s never once smiled in all of his sixty years. I’m sure that lovey-dovey heart-to-hearts weren’t exactly encouraged in that household. Her brother even went into the military and now works for the Coast Guard here in Charleston. I’m sure he hasn’t fared much better in the emotional communication department.

  “There’s been a little resistance from my boss, but it’s nothing I can’t handle.” She looks up and winks at me, her regular bravado firmly back in place. “He’s probably just feeling threatened because I know the shit out of advertising.”

  I grin as I rinse the suds off a wooden spoon. “Just try not to emasculate him too often.”

  She laughs. “I make no promises.” Only a few seconds tick by before she switches gears. “So, what’s up with Counselor Carved-From-Marble, by the way? Are you going out with him on Friday, or what?”

  And I’ve been doing so well at not thinking about him. It’s been almost—I glance back at the time on the microwave—a whole hour since Carter was on my mind!

  “I think so,” I answer. “I mean, I told him I would. I just doubt it will go anywhere.”

  “Hey, what did I tell you last night?” she interjects. “Don’t overthink it. You just got out of something heavy. Don’t add more weight to your load. And you admitted last night that you tend to look for feelings that aren’t actually there. So, don’t blow this up into something bigger than it actually is.”

  I pause my scrubbing. “And what is it?”

  I’m almost afraid to hear the answer, unsure if I’ll like it one way or another.

  She raises her mug at me in a cheers gesture. “Fun. That’s all it needs to be, babe. You deserve it after giving four years of your life to the Tool-Who-Shall-Not-Be-Named.”

  “Fun, right.” Back to my scrubbing. “Because it’s not like I need to jump right back into another relationship. And with the first guy who asks me out.”

  “Exactly.”

  “And it’s not like I actually want to be in a relationship with a guy his age.” The words sound wrong as they leave my mouth. “Let alone get serious. We’re in completely different places in our lives. He’s got shit figured out—”

  “Uh, Sloane?”

  “—and he’s probably ready for the whole wife and kids thing. And I just got a freaking divorce, so there’s no way I’m hopping back on the matrimony train anytime soon—”

  “Yo, Sloane—”

  “—and besides, it’s just rebound sex, like you said. When I rebound for real it’ll be with a guy who’s more my speed—”

  “Sloane!”

  My head snaps up. “What?”

  She sniffs. “Is something burning?”

  Soapy water goes flying through the hair as I jerk my hands out of the sink water. “Shit, my cinnamon rolls! I forgot to set the timer!”

  The two of us spend the next hour clearing the smoke from her loft after putting out a tiny fire in the oven—sadly, not the biggest one I’ve ever had to fight in a kitchen—and chucking the black-as-death, burnt cinnamon rolls into the outside dumpster.

  What a fucking metaphor for my life.

  Lately, everything has been feeling like it’s going up into flames before getting tossed on top of a trash heap.

  Maybe Friday will finally be the turning point I’ve needed.

  Or maybe I could just join the nunnery, where none of this would matter.

  Now, there’s a plan.

  “Edward Tylor is considered to be the “father” of anthropology,” I explain to my Thursday night Intro to Anthro class. “By the turn of the twentieth century, he was the field’s foremost figure.”

  I click through the PowerPoint slides as I go through a rundown of Tylor’s contributions to the field. The lecture hall is mostly full tonight, my undergrads studiously typing away on their computers despite the drab nature of the lecture. When I was going through my anthropology core classes, I ironically found the history of the discipline to be the most boring.

  There’s about fifteen minutes left in the class when it happens.

  “But Lewis Henry Morgan is considered to be the first great American anthro—” I stop mid-sentence, drawing the attention of all my students.

  The lecture hall’s door opens, and like a melodramatic 80s movie montage, in he walks.

  Carter Van freaking Gordon.

  The hall’s seating is auditorium style, providing him with the perfect view of me from his perch atop the stairs. It feels like he’s looming over me. In fact, with his relaxed stance—hands placed casually in the pockets of his slacks—and chiseled jawline, he reminds me of a virile king sitting upon his throne, surveying his subjects milling about the courtyard below.

  When his gaze slams into mine, I feel trapped in it. Like the king has snared the woman he wants to haul off to his bedchamber and introduce to the royal family jewels.

  How can a man be so…magnetic?

  With one glance, he’s stripped me of my professional attire and made it feel as if I were back in my ridiculous barmaid uniform. My breasts feel heavy, my nipples puckering against my lace bra, which is completely covered by my sensible chiffon blouse. But Carter makes it feel like my cleavage is once again exposed to his lecherous gaze. With every heave of my chest, I feel as if I’m on display, as if I’m dressed for temptation rather than for teaching.

  He makes me feel that way.

  I suspect I could be dressed in a
puffy snow suit and I would still feel naked under his heated inspection.

  All that’s missing from this clichéd, modern version of a Rhett-Scarlett scenario is a delicate fan with which to cool off my not-so-ladylike libido.

  Or to fan the flames of it.

  I clear my throat and attempt to concentrate back on my slides. “I beg your pardon, the first great American anthropologist. Lewis Henry Morgan is largely responsible for the earliest kinship research of the Iroquois and Chippewa Native American tribes…”

  It takes boundless energy to maintain my focus on my students and the information they need to know. But of course, my control inevitably slips, my attention slithering back up to the only non-student in the room.

  Carter has taken an empty seat in the very back row. He sits with one elbow leaning on the armrest, his chin propped up by his index and middle finger. His long legs are stretched out in front of him, as far as the limited space between rows will allow.

  His attention is rapt on me.

  I fumble my words again.

  His chin dips as he listens to me, his gaze darkening.

  I get lost in all that hazel for a moment and have to backtrack when I pronounce something wrong. Christ, I sound like a freshman in Public Speaking 101. I transfer the projector remote to my other hand so I can wipe away my palm’s moisture on my black slacks.

  Then Carter fucking winks.

  That arrogant smartass.

  He knows exactly how his unexpected presence is throwing me off my game.

  Regardless, I want to use this opportunity to show him that I am more mature than the average twenty-three-year-old. Mostly. I want him to see that I can be professional, despite my behavior during the divorce settlement. The straight-leg black slacks, sleeveless chiffon top, and black pumps I’m wearing certainly send the message that I’m not just a poor grad student working for measly tips at a kitschy tourist bar. Don’t they?

  Teaching this class and having the respect of these undergrads shows him that I at least have some of my shit together.

  I want him to see me as an adult and not a child.

  Not that he’s ever treated me that way. I just don’t want that to change the more he gets to know me.

  By the time I wrap up my lecture and excuse my students, reminding them of the quiz for next class, I’ve learned that Carter is downright merciless. He refused to take his eyes off me for even a second after walking through that door. Although he didn’t have to stare at me the whole time for me to feel his presence in the room. When he enters a space, the world might as well tip on its axis for the way he manipulates the energy around him.

  Even my female undergrads can sense it as they exit the lecture hall. Heads turn in his direction. I even spot a few sly smiles lobbed his way as I’m throwing all my things into my messenger bag.

  Back off, ladies. This one’s mine, and I’m as young as he’s going to go.

  Um…whoa, horsie.

  What’s up with this sudden possessiveness? That’s so not me. And Carter is in no way my anything.

  Once the last student has exited the hall and the heavy door closes behind him, Carter rises from his seat and starts to slowly saunter down the stairs toward me. Lackadaisically. Unhurried. I’m beginning to think that’s his signature style.

  I glimpse a pair of red suspenders underneath his navy suit and about start drooling. No bowtie tonight. In fact, no tie at all. The top two buttons of his light blue shirt are undone, exposing a small section of his tan skin with the barest hint of chest hair peeking out.

  What’s a non-porno way to ask him to take off his jacket so I can fantasize about those suspenders?

  “As a lawyer, you must be very familiar with the laws against stalking.”

  He’s almost reached the bottom of the stairs when he chuckles. “To be considered stalking, the law states that a person’s behavior would have to cause a reasonable person to fear for his or her safety or cause substantial emotional distress.”

  His feet step off the last stair, and we’re on equal ground. The same level.

  But are we really?

  “Do you feel as if your safety has been compromised, darlin’?” he pushes. “Do you feel like you’re in danger?”

  Of spontaneously orgasming? Yes.

  “No.” I turn to fully face him, my hand sassily moving to my hip. “But I don’t think I can be considered a reasonable person when I’m around you.”

  There’s that gleam in his eyes again, making them appear almost glassy. He’s either excited or he’s stoned off his ass.

  He takes another step toward me. “And why is that?”

  No bullshit, right? No speaking in riddles? Apparently, that’s what we’ve both silently agreed to.

  “Because it seems you’re the only person other than myself who can control my body and mind. How can I be considered reasonable if I’m not in control of my own faculties?”

  Oh, that excitement just ramped up to…blatant hunger.

  Another step toward me. “And have I caused you any emotional distress?”

  “Stress, yes. Distress, no.”

  He slowly nods in understanding as he keeps moving in my direction. And doesn’t stop until he’s about six inches away from me.

  His intoxicating vitality might just kill me.

  His body is the perfect personification of capability and strength. When he’s this close to me, it’s as if he wraps all that brawny potency around me like a cloak. When I think of the phrase all that is right with man, Carter’s face will forever be burnished onto my brain.

  “You know what I hear works well for stress?” he whispers, his mouth only a hairsbreadth away from mine.

  Oh, sweet Jesus, kiss me.

  I never knew I could need something so bad. To the level that I’m getting the shakes, like a junkie. How can you crave something you’ve never had? How can a thirst need to be quenched from something you’ve never savored before? I guess it’s like when you’re starving in the desert for a week and stumble across the first food source. I don’t have to know what it is that I’m about to eat to know that I need it in order to survive.

  Carter is my sustenance.

  I’ve wandered the desert for four years with Grant. I’ve been starving for passion. I’ve thirsted for desire. I want heat that burns but doesn’t blister. I want my life to look like a lush oasis rather than a sea of dry sand dunes.

  I’m sick of withering away.

  “What’s that?” I breathe.

  He angles his head, and I prepare for the feeling of his mouth against mine. As much as one can prepare for the kind of meteor impact that ultimately changes all life on Earth.

  My eyes slide shut.

  “Ice cream.”

  They snap back open.

  “Wait, what?”

  Our mouths are still so close together, I feel his smile more than I see it.

  His hand lowers to find mine. “Let’s go get some.”

  Now I know what a deflated balloon feels like.

  I’m walking through Waterfront Park with Carter by my side, ice cream cones in our hands. Bustling Concord Street is on our right, the Cooper River on our left, but I might as well be on a deserted highway in the middle of Kansas for all the attention I’m paying to the scenery around us. He’s claimed every millisecond of my attention ever since he dragged me out of my classroom earlier.

  It’s any wonder I haven’t mauled him like a hungry lioness by now.

  Our conversation has been nothing but completely platonic, yet I still feel ravenous for him. How does that even work?

  “So, you started out in corporate law?” I ask just before discreetly licking a drop of melted butterscotch off my knuckle. “Why’d you switch to divorce law?”

  He laughs mirthlessly as his tongue takes a swipe over his own scoop. I want to be that scoop.

  I shake my head. Jesus, pull your shit together.

  “I understand it for one, being divorced myself.”

 
My eyes cut to him, though I try to not make a big deal out of that confession. “Huh.”

  “What?” Then he grins knowingly. “Ah, I get it. You’ve been wondering why a guy my age isn’t married.”

  I shrug. “I didn’t say anything.”

  He hums in the back of his throat as if calling bullshit. “Let me guess, you’d narrowed it down to one of three things. That I was either a eunuch, divorced, or a confirmed bachelor slut.”

  “Or gay.” I inhale another mouthful of ice cream so he can’t see my smile.

  He parrots my words back from the other night. “Sorry to disappoint.”

  “So, what happened?”

  He gives me a meaningful side glance, which I return. “Come on, you were in that room on Monday, Carter. You’ve read through our case. You know more of the tawdry details of my marriage than most of my friends do. I like a level playing field.”

  “Fair point,” he concedes with a sigh.

  Devouring the last bite of his cone, he throws his napkin into a nearby trashcan. “I was married for four years. No kids, but I wanted them. She wanted to wait until we’d been married for at least a few years. My career in corporate law was really taking off at that point. I was getting a lot of big cases, which required a lot of my time. She knew what to expect going into the marriage, but I guess it never really hit her until we were in the thick of it.”

  Our feet pad along the concrete of the sidewalk as I listen to the telling of his past. He’s staring straight ahead with his hands clasped behind his back, as if refusing to be affected by this story.

  The sky is a deep indigo color, the evening nestling somewhere between twilight and midnight. The streetlamps we pass illuminate our path. The Spanish moss that dangles off the many oak trees in the park drape the scene in a sultry curtain of mysterious enchantment. The foliage of this city still bewitches me like it does the everyday tourist. I’ll never fall out of love with it.

  “It wasn’t hard to predict the outcome,” Carter continues. “We grew apart, little by little every day. Although I didn’t realize how much until it was too late. She never talked to me about how miserable she was. And admittedly, I was too wrapped up in my work at the time to pay attention the way I should have. But she was never a very open person. She was the type to expect me to read her mind and when I couldn’t, she shut down and closed in on herself. Obviously, keeping one’s emotions private is never conducive to a marriage.”