The inner ho shakes her head condescendingly. As if I’m the one to be pitied.
Gretchen chuckles knowingly. “Can’t wait to see how this goes.” A few beats of silence pass before she shoots forward in her chair. “Oh, my God, you guys. I’ve got it. We’re the Folly Foursome!”
A round of grumbles is the only response she gets.
I’m staring out Gretchen’s living room window, contemplating when I’ll have the courage to finally return Daddy’s seven missed calls, when the smell hits me.
Something’s burning.
“Shit!”
I run to the microwave where the large plastic bowl I’m using to melt down chocolate is sizzling and popping and probably about to burst into flames. After shoving on thick oven mitts, I whip open the microwave door. Smoke billows out, but at least there isn’t a fire yet. I reach in and grab the bowl to take over to the sink—
“Ahh, what the hell!”
Instead of melting into a smooth, creamy liquid, the barks of white chocolate have somehow transformed into a disgusting, bubbling black blob that’s straight out of an old black and white horror flick. It’s melted through the bottom of the bowl and is now dripping all over the tiled kitchen floor and my feet.
And that shit burns.
I throw the bowl into the sink and turn the faucet on a full cold blast. Smoke has filled the kitchen, engulfing me in a dense fog of burnt plastic.
That’s when the smoke detector goes off.
“Son of a bitch!”
I’m too short to reach the alarm, so I sprint back to the table and slide a chair over. Sure enough, I still can’t reach it even standing on the chair. The damn beeping is louder than hell and making my ears ring.
I frantically search her loft for something long or even an object I could chuck at the ceiling without breaking it. I spot an umbrella propped against the wall by the front door and snag it. I’ve got it clutched tightly in my hands when I climb back onto the chair and use it to hit the detector’s alarm button, which is supposed to turn it off.
Nothing happens.
I keep hitting the button, harder and harder each time, but the blaring doesn’t stop.
“Shut up, you stupid, stupid, stupid detector!” I punctuate each word with a jab of the umbrella.
It still doesn’t work.
And I can’t hold it in anymore. This is my boiling point right here, facing down a smoke detector with a borrowed umbrella, surrounded by smoke and the smell of burnt plastic.
I freaking explode.
“Gaaahhhhhhh!”
Swinging the umbrella like a baseball bat, I throw all my force into beating the damn thing to within an inch of its life.
It detaches from the ceiling and goes sailing through the air just as the front door opens.
Gretchen dodges it at the last second, barely missing getting taken out.
“What the hell is going on?” she shouts. “Is there a fire?”
I launch the umbrella into the living room and burst into tears. “I burned fucking chocolate, Gretch!”
Her face twists with confusion as she approaches me slowly, carefully, as if I’m seconds away from going all Single White Female on her.
“Are you concealing any other weapons?” she asks, and I’m pretty sure she’s only half-kidding.
“Well, my desserts could probably kill someone. But other than that, no.”
I jump off the chair and stomp into the kitchen. When she tentatively enters behind me, I wave down to the destroyed bowl in the sink. “I can’t even melt down chocolate! I don’t know what happened. It just melted right through the damn bowl. It wasn’t even in the microwave for very long. How pathetic is that? I can’t even do what has to be the simplest step of baking on the planet.”
I slide down the kitchen cabinets with my face buried in my hands and open the levies. The uncontrollable sobs I’ve been holding back for two weeks finally burst free. It’s like if the Hoover Dam split right down the middle, and a mountain of water spilled forth. That’s how much comes out of me.
Gretchen lowers herself to sit beside me, bumping her shoulder with mine. “So, you can’t bake for shit. Who cares?”
“I do!” I screech. “Grant always said it was the one thing I could never do. This was supposed to be about conquering failure and proving to myself that he was wrong. I can’t keep trying this hard at something and continue to fail. It’s debilitating.”
“Then stop trying,” she implores. “This isn’t something you have to figure out, babe. Everyone has something they epically suck at, no matter how much effort they put in to it. Mine is geometry, Harper’s is sports, and Quinn’s is keeping plants alive. Desserts are yours. There’s no shame in not being perfect.”
I frown. “It’s not about being perfect. It’s about—”
“Proving you can do something that a douchebag once said you couldn’t,” she finishes for me. “Trust me, I get that. Grant made you feel badly about this. So, you think that if you can fix the problem and reverse the judgment, you’ll restore part of your confidence and self-esteem.”
Is that true?
Is this really about desserts or about getting justice for my hurt feelings? Do I really need this to feel better about myself?
“But here’s the thing,” she continues. “Grant was a jackass no matter what. If it wasn’t desserts, he would have found something else to complain about and you would have been trying to fix that. Don’t let him get to you over something so insignificant.” She shrugs. “You were born this way.”
I choke out a laugh. “Leave it to Lady Gaga to know exactly what to say.”
White light suddenly bursts behind my eyelids and with it, a flashback of the night Carter and I sang karaoke. Hearing him sing a different Lady Gaga song was both torturous and completely magical. He couldn’t carry a tune worth a damn, but he’d had a smile on his face the entire time.
Because he never once took his eyes off of me.
Grant never would have done anything even remotely like that. Not in a million years. Not if he risked looking foolish in any way. But Carter acted exuberant to be up on that stage with me.
And he loves history as much as I do.
And he fed me huckleberry pie, not giving a shit if I gain a pound here or there.
And he faced my father’s ire that day at the café. He accepted it, rather than running from it or meeting it with his own temper.
And that day in Hattie’s kitchen, when I said I couldn’t make desserts to save my life, he’d said…
“Good. That works for me. I have the world’s worst sweet tooth anyway, so I’d prefer that you never make me desserts.”
“Oh, sweet Jesus.”
Gretchen nods in understanding. “You’re in love with him.”
“I really think I might be,” I whisper. “But…Gretch, he’s still my rebound. I’ve only known him a week. I know what I’m feeling, but is it real? Can I trust this?”
She faces me with the most intent expression I’ve ever seen gleaming from those silver eyes of hers. “Let me ask you this. You were with Grant for four years, right?”
I nod. “Yeah.”
“And you guys were married for two?”
Another nod.
“When did you realize it wasn’t true love? That you guys never should have gotten married, and the whole thing was a mistake?”
I wrack my brain and come up shocked with my answer. “Honestly? Probably two months into the marriage, if that. I was still reeling from finding out how much money his family had and then…”
“Thanksgiving happened,” she supplies. “The first time you ever tried to make a dessert for him. And he did nothing but criticize you.”
“I guess that’s when it finally hit home with me. But I just tried to make it work after that, hoping things would change.”
“Then the way I see it, that’s when you officially got your heart back, if he ever even had it to begin with. A rebound is only a rebound if your em
otions are still tied to someone else. If someone still claims a part of your heart and soul, then you can’t be all-in with anyone else. That’s where a rebound comes in. That’s when someone steps in to help you move on from the break-up. Or at least, distract you from it.”
The fog of conflict in my head is starting to clear. “So, what you’re saying is…”
A smile spreads across her face. “You got over Grant a long time ago, babe. Almost two years. That ring on your finger never meant anything. Your married name never meant anything. You were faithful throughout the entire marriage, but the divorce didn’t mark the day things actually ended between you. That happened long before the day you met Carter.”
I feel my eyes lighting up with hope. Along with my heart.
Part of me knew all of this already, deep down. But having someone else confirm it actually makes it real.
“Carter was never your rebound,” she summarizes. “Your heart’s been free for a long time. So, the way you feel about him is completely legit and uncomplicated. There are no other relevant details that should cloud those feelings and get in the way. I told you that night he first came into the bar not to overthink things. Don’t overthink them now.”
She’s right. God, she’s right.
It never has felt complicated with Carter. Not at all. That was all just in my head because I felt like it should have been complicated. I got confused by how easy things were with him. That whole too good to be true thing got in my head and scrambled everything up.
But now I know the full, uncomplicated truth.
Everything is so crystal-clearly right with him.
“I’m going to go get me a divorce attorney.”
I push to my feet and run off to my bedroom to change.
“That better be the last time you ever say that!”
I grin to myself.
No, this one’s definitely going to stick.
“Oh, you’ve got some mail, by the way!”
I barely hear her with my head buried in the closet of her spare bedroom as I sift through clothing options. “I’ll open it later! Kind of in the middle of something here.”
Her voice is suddenly behind me in the bedroom. “You might want to open this one.”
I pull my head out at her serious tone. When I turn and glance down at the white envelope she’s holding out to me, the first thing I notice are the words in the top left corner.
Van Gordon & Associates.
I rip the envelope from her hands and tear it open. It takes me a brief moment to scan the photocopied document and comprehend the enormity of it.
“Oh, my God,” I breathe. “Did he really do this?”
It definitely explains all the missed calls from Daddy.
“What is it?” She crosses the room and reads over my shoulder. “Holy shit. Is this for real?”
“I can’t believe it.”
What does this mean?
You know what it means.
The ho is right again, and I’m not even mad about it.
With a renewed burst of energy, I quickly change and am headed out her door ten minutes later.
“P.S., you owe me a new smoke detector!”
I peek my head back through the front door, meeting her gaze where she leans against my bedroom door frame. “I owe you a lot more than that, Gretch.”
She buffs her nails against her shirt. “Told you you’d thank me.”
I forget about the gatekeeper to the Van Gordon & Associates law office until the moment I step through the front door and lock eyes with her.
The judgmental bulldog. Great.
I start to cautiously approach her desk, but then straighten my posture with confidence. She’s not going to make me feel self-conscious about my age, my outfit, my feelings for her boss, nothing.
“Hi. I’m here to see Mr. Van Gordon, if he’s available.”
Her eyes pin me in place over her half-moon glasses. “Do you have an appointment?”
“No, I don’t.” I clear my throat, fighting for resolve. “I just need to speak with him for a few minutes. Could you please tell him that Sloane Williams is here to see him?”
Her sigh is dismissive. “Young lady, he is a very busy man. You need to schedule an appointment if you want to speak with him because that’s how the real world works. You cannot just waltz into an office and expect to get whatever you want, whenever you want it. Contrary to what your generation seems to think, you are not the only person in the universe. Welcome to being an adult.”
My mouth hangs open.
Oh, this bitch.
Well, if there is one thing my generation knows how to do, it’s scream our opinion for all the world and social media to hear. And lucky her, she just got bumped to the front row for this shit.
“Okay, listen up, old lady. I’m not here to talk business with Carter. I’m here to tell him that I love him. And I’m pretty sure he feels the same way. And yes, I know I was only in here getting divorced three weeks ago. You can snub your nose and judge me all you want for that, but it’s not going to bother me one damn bit. I may not have known what I wanted four years ago, but I do now and it’s that man back there.” I point toward the hallway where Carter’s office is. “I know, shocking that a twenty-three-year-old could actually know what she wants. But I do, and I’m not going to let you or anyone else tell me otherwise.”
I have the ridiculous urge to stick my tongue out at her. But somehow, I don’t think that would improve her opinion of me.
She stares at me stoically with a raised eyebrow for a long damn time.
Then, amazingly, she smiles.
Not evilly either. More like…approvingly.
“I could never respect a woman who was still in love with her ex after he brought a date to his own divorce,” she says. “It’s nice to hear that you’re not.”
My mouth is back to hanging wide open.
Up until this moment, I wasn’t convinced she was even capable of friendliness.
“As for Mr. Van Gordon,” she goes on, “he hasn’t smiled in two weeks. I assume you’re the cause of that, so I assume you’ll fix that.”
I’m finally able to shake some words loose. “I intend to.”
She nods. “Good. Then you may go on back.” Before I can turn away from her, she leans forward and says, “I met my husband when I was nineteen, by the way.”
I stare at her blankly, not understanding.
“He was twenty-nine.” She winks. “Everyone said I was too young to get married, but I knew what I wanted then, too. We’ve been married for forty-two years now. My one piece of advice? Don’t ever listen to anyone else but each other.”
I swallow, emotion clogging my throat.
Okay, so she’s not a bitch.
In fact, I might really like this woman.
“Thank you.”
“Joyce. My name is Joyce. No more old lady.”
I grin. “My name is Sloane. No more young lady.”
She returns my grin, nodding in a spark of new comradery.
Steeling myself, I turn away from her desk and head down the hallway toward Carter’s office. Stopping in front of the third frosted glass door on the right, I take one last deep breath and softly knock.
“Come in,” a muffled deep voice says from the other side of the door, just like the day I met him.
I push open the door to find him sitting back in his chair, dressed much like he was that first day. Light blue button-down, suspenders, bowtie, and black-frame glasses. His shirt sleeves are rolled up his forearms, which are draped along the armrests of his chair.
What’s not the same as that first day is his body language.
He’s not staring at his computer screen or down at the files on his desk. Instead, he’s watching me intently. Like he’s been waiting for me to walk through that door. Like he’s been expecting me.
“Did you get all of that, sir?” a feminine voice rings out.
It takes me a few seconds to realize the voice is comin
g from the speaker on his desk phone.
Without looking away from me, he reaches forward and presses a button on the phone. “Every word. Thank you, Joyce.” Then he hangs up.
Joyce? What the hell?
“You were listening?” I ask, aghast.
He nods slowly but says nothing.
“How much did you hear?”
“Everything. Believe it or not, Joyce is a bit of a prankster around here.”
I reach into my purse and pull out the document that was mailed to me. “Before anything else is said, I need to know what this means.”
His brow furrows with confusion as his gaze rakes over the document I hold up for his inspection. When realization hits him, he scowls and pushes the same button on the phone. “You’re lucky I don’t fire you for releasing confidential documents, Joyce.”
Her answering laughter is cut off when he hangs up again.
“She sent this to me?”
He pinches the bridge of his nose, grunting. “Like I said, she’s a prankster.”
And she clearly must have known more about what was going on between us that I thought. Why would she have mailed it in the first place if not to get me to confront Carter about it?
“This is a quitclaim deed, Carter. By signing this document, you transferred the Murray Boulevard property title into my father’s name without any bill of sale.”
And thanks to a quick Google search to verify that I had all my information correct, I confirmed that such deeds are usually used when transferring property between family members.
Not in a case like this.
“Yes, I seem to remember them covering that in law school.”
That’s all he has to say?
“So, my father now owns the mansion on Murray Boulevard.” It’s a statement, not a question.
He nods slowly. “Yes. There is no mortgage, as the house has been paid off. All he has to cover are the utilities.”
My arm drops to my side. “Why? That was your grandfather’s home. Why would you just give it to my father? Out of guilt?”
His mouth tightens. “I told you that I thought I was bringing things back into balance when I took his company to court and bankrupted it. I thought I was evening some kind of score. But I realized too late that I went too far. Things have been out of alignment for a long time. Nothing will make up for what you and your father lost. But I’m hoping the house might be a step toward making amends.”
The Divorce Attorney Page 17
