Total pages in book: 101
Estimated words: 96284 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 481(@200wpm)___ 385(@250wpm)___ 321(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 96284 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 481(@200wpm)___ 385(@250wpm)___ 321(@300wpm)
“Fuck you,” she spat.
I shook my head and eyed her. Funny how I’d been tense and unsettled on the way over here, and now I felt absolutely nothing.
At the same time, I hated how we’d gotten to this point. She hadn’t chosen her emotional detachment to two of our children, but it was very much real and posed a threat to the future.
She cooled down a bit and looked out the window. “I don’t have anything to say. We were clearly not meant to be.”
Clearly.
“Unfortunately, we do have a lot to talk about,” I replied.
“Why?” She turned dismissive and shrugged. “It’s not like I have to fight you over this place—you never liked it here—and we have a prenup.”
“We have three kids, Sandra. We gotta discuss custody.”
That one caused a reaction. She swallowed hard. Her gaze flickered, and she suddenly radiated anxiousness.
I made sure my expression gave nothing away, and I didn’t say anything at first. I wanted to hear her demands. I wanted to find out if she would include all three or just Casper in what she wanted. She knew she couldn’t do the latter, right? She knew how that would look. I also knew she was in no state to go for more than fifty percent custody. Countless moms out there had their kids most of the time, with the dad present every other weekend. That wouldn’t be us. Ever.
Kathryn came to mind, and I had an idea. While she would always love and support her daughter, she’d proven over and over that she wanted what was best for all of us, most of all the kids.
“If you want, you could talk to your mom,” I said. “See what she has to say. She’s more involved in your recovery at this point.”
A pinch of relief seeped into her eyes, and she nodded slightly. “I’ll do that.” Then she dropped her gaze to her hand. More accurately, her rings. She brushed her fingers over the diamond of her engagement ring. “Are we supposed to fight or start making lists of belongings we’re dividing?”
I’d rather not fight. I didn’t care about the second, ’cause the few items I was bringing with me to wherever I ended up, she had no interest in.
“The last two years have felt like one big fight,” I admitted. “I’d prefer we skip it.”
She chuckled softly and winced. “My God, we’ve been unhappy.” She slowly removed her wedding band and placed it on the table. I watched every move. It was so meaningful in a way, the closing of this…whatever it had been. And it meant I could finally take mine off for the last time too. “I don’t want to drag this out or make a bunch of announcements,” she admitted. The engagement ring ended up on top of the wedding band before she withdrew her hands and leaned back in her seat.
“I’m all for making it as painless as possible.” I slipped off my ring too and placed it in front of me.
Before we’d gotten married, we’d signed a prenup, primarily for her to protect her inheritance. It’d been her dad’s firm request we have one. Today, I was relieved. Not that my wealth could compare to the fortune she would get one day, at least not yet, but it brought me peace to know our finances would be settled faster.
I would need to find a lawyer…
I didn’t know shit about the laws concerning child support and what harm she could cause. To be fair, it would be unlike her. She didn’t wanna drag this out any more than I did; she’d said it herself. So she’d switch from my credit cards and go back to her dad’s. Although, I knew she’d never really stopped using Daddy’s money. He didn’t care about the price tags on her purses and shoes. I did.
Twenty grand for a handbag? I don’t fucking think so.
“So this is it,” Sandra said.
I nodded. “This is it.”
Two days before Thanksgiving, I found myself, not for the first time, crying in my car.
I could stop whenever I wanted to.
I sniffled and wiped fruitlessly at my cheeks, sick—so fucking sick—of doing this. I’d cried more in the last two years than I had all the other goddamn years I’d been alive.
At least it wasn’t bad news weighing me down this time. My body was evidently just letting shit go. I felt like I’d finally caught a break, even though I had my work cut out for me.
I’d made it to the driveway outside our office before I’d cracked. It was late; nobody was working in the house, and our neighbors were hopefully busy eating dinner.
“Jesus Christ, make it stop.” I sobbed into my hands, at a fucking loss. Why now? Why at all? Had I not processed enough? Had I not cried enough?