19. Quinn
Quinn
I don’t know where he gets off.
I mean, I know Reid is a lawyer. I know he is used to getting his way.
But I have followed all the rules. I walk into the office Monday morning after wedding number three, and I am pissed.
I have a coffee in my hand, a cheese Danish in a paper bag from my favorite coffee shop.
Two seconds after I set my things down on my desk, I am tearing the bag open and taking a giant bite out of the Danish because I am reeling.
Because how dare he?
I followed the rules.
I showed up, was sweet and happy, and it was genuine.
It was all real. I love weddings. And an outdoor, up in the mountains wedding with delicious food and a live band and the most simplistically beautiful vows I have ever heard (and trust me, I have heard a lot of vows).
It was the most perfect wedding. Except for one thing.
Reid.
He was angry when he picked me up. Angry when we got there. Angry when he took his shoes off. Angry when everyone started to dance. So, of course, I danced alone. And even that made him angry.
“So what if my dress was sexy?” I ask my cheese Danish before taking another bite, this time straight into the custard. “God forbid I feel sexy at a wedding. God forbid I wear a dress that makes my B-cup boobs look like Cs.”
I shake my head as I chew.
One more wedding. I just have to make it through one more and I'll be off the hook. Honestly, if there wasn’t money on the line, if I wasn’t relying on him to keep my doors open, I’d be gone right here, right now.
At least…that’s what I tell myself.
But as I pull my phone out and go to my text stream with him, I stop.
Because all I can think about is his smirk.
The way we go back and forth. The way his hands feel on my skin.
The way he kisses me without permission.
The way he flirts then pretends like it never happened… and the way he called me his…
I shake my head to shake the thoughts. And then I send him a text.
Quinn: Hey. I think we should go out on a date.
I wait, and by the time I finish my Danish, he texts me back.
Reid: A date, huh? Miss me already?
Quinn: Hardly.
Reid: Then why are you trying to see me again? It’s not even wedding time.
Quinn: I’m aware. But I think we need to have a little chat before the next wedding. Make sure we are on the same page.
Reid: Sounds invigorating. Wednesday?
Quinn: Perfect.
I set my phone down and reach for my coffee. We need to have a heart to heart before the next wedding about his behavior. Or, in this case, a head-to-head. Because while we haven’t had sex or anything, the lines are blurring. Blurring enough that thinking about him makes my nerves tingle.
Suddenly, the front door chimes, and I switch hats. I don’t have any appointments with clients today, so it must be someone new.
“Hello,” I call out with a smile as I round the corner.
But I stop as soon as I see the woman. She is in her forties, if I had to guess, based on little things like her style and her hands, and the skin on her neck.
But based on the wearisome look in her expression, her frown lines that seem to weigh her entire face down, and the hollow look in her deep blue eyes, she looks almost fifty.
“Hi…” she stutters out. “I…need help.”
“Okay,” I usher her over to the couch and hand her both a bottle of water and a box of tissues. Then I ask the first and most important question when people, well, women I should say, come to me looking this distraught. “Are you in danger?”
“No…no, it’s nothing like that. I’m just…
I’m just…I’ve hit a wall,” she says, and I sit down next to her.
Now that I know she is at the end of her line and not being threatened, I can relax a little.
And I do know the signs of women who are in danger and need help or security.
“Am I interrupting anything?” she suddenly asks.
“Do I need to make an appointment? I don’t really know how this works. ”
“Lucky for you, I’m free all day today. You came in at exactly the right time,” I smile and the woman nods but she’s still rigid. She’s still frowning. “Why don’t we start with your name?” I ask.
“Ashley,” she answers.
“Hi Ashley. I’m Quinn. Now tell me about this wall,” I say.
“I’ve been married for seventeen years. Since before we could drink. Not that we didn’t. We snuck beers at parties and things. Like you do,” she says, and she does crack a smile, but there’s no joy in it.
“As everyone probably did,” I smile too.
“And things…things were good. I just…I don’t know when things got…not good,” she says.
I nod, tugging a tissue from the box and handing it to her gingerly.
“I don’t think it’s abnormal for the timeline to be blurry,” I console her. “Life gets busy. People change. People grow. Do you have kids?” I ask.
“No,” she shakes her head. “We tried, we just…it didn’t happen. My fault,” she whispers down at her lap, tearing the tissue into little pieces.
“Not your fault,” I tell her soberly. “Have you talked about counseling?” I ask.
She shakes her head. “I mean. I’ve mentioned it, but it never developed into a conversation.”
I nod again, and she looks over at me.
“Shouldn’t you be…taking notes or something? So you can go over them when I leave to calculate if my marriage is fucked up enough to qualify for help?”
She’s bitter, but I still smile. “I don’t operate that way,” I say.
“This isn’t a scholarship program. It’s more like…
people come to me needing help. People who can’t afford counseling, but need it to save their marriages.
And after getting to know them, I match them to the therapist in my book that I think will be the best fit.
No notes needed. I just listen. Full attention. Good intentions.”
“I’m sorry,” she sniffles. “I’m being a bitch. I know. It’s a side effect of being?—”
“Between a rock and a hard place,” I finish Ashley’s sentence for her, and there’s another grimace.
“He filed for divorce without even telling me he wanted one,” she goes on, reaching for another tissue to turn into confetti. I’m going to have to break out the Shark for this one.
“So you didn’t see it coming,” I say softly, but Ashley snorts.
“Nope. I mean yes. I mean…we have communication barriers, Michael and I. I’m bad at saying how I feel and he’s bad at asking what I need. And don’t get me started on sex…”
“You don’t have to talk about anything you don’t want to, Ashley,” I tell her.
“He never wants it. I almost questioned if he was getting it from somewhere else, but that would imply he had an interest in the activity. His excuse is that his job is very demanding. I think he’s just…lazy.”
I nod. There is nothing here that I haven’t heard before. But that said, I’ve seen marriages like this saved.
“Here’s what I think,” I tell her warmly.
“I think people go through things that make them forget why they love someone. It’s so easy in the chaos of life when we are tired and the days are mundane to focus on the things we don’t love about a person.
The way they chew food. Their hobbies. Snoring.
Hygienic habits. Phrases. You get the picture.
And we forget all the good we see in them at the beginning.
Which is a shame because in the beginning we want nothing more than to see the good. We want love. We have hope in it.”
“He thinks I’m cheating on him,” she says flatly.
“Are you?” I ask.
“Of course not. I would never,” she says.
“Then what made him come to that conclusion?” I ask.
She bites her lip. “He makes a lot of money. Enough to afford the parts of Manhattan everyone wants to live in. He inherited our home, so if we get divorced, it’s his, not mine.
And I don’t have a job. Not outside of small hobbies I have that bring in only enough to pay for wine and coffee and the occasional vacation,” she says.
“In short. He believes he gives me everything. And if I’m not happy with him, I must be happy with someone else,” she says.
I turn on the couch to fully face her, my expression showing every ounce of empathy for her situation.
“Why aren’t you happy?” I ask her, and Ashley’s hollow eyes shift with something stormy.
“Because Mike doesn’t look at me like he used to,” she says absently. “He doesn’t look at me at all.”
I give her a moment before going on. I truly don’t have anyone else coming in today, and this couple, this woman, has a hold of my heartstrings in a way that reminds me why I do this. Her sadness, her desperation.
“Ashley,” I say gently after she’s had a second to collect herself. “I know you probably don’t believe this, but I am certain we can save your marriage.”
I know it’s a bold statement. But I also don’t believe they are as far gone as she does. “We just have to convince Mike that therapy is worth trying.”
Ashley’s snorts. “Yeah. Good luck with that,” she says, blowing her nose loudly.
“Is it the cost?” I ask with a furrowed brow. Because it suddenly occurred to me, they have money. Though it seems to be more or less controlled by him. But still.
“No,” she shakes her head. “Money doesn’t matter.”
“Then what is it?” I ask. “What’s holding him back?”
“He served me papers,” she says, and my lips part. “He already has a lawyer.”
With that, my jaw unhinges entirely. And along with it goes my professional composure.
“Are you fucking kidding me?” I demand, and Ashley isn’t fazed.
“Nope,” she answers. “And from what I’ve heard, he’s one of the best in the state of New York.”
“Bullshit,” I say, getting up and heading over to a cabinet. Ashley watches me curiously as I open it up and pull out a bottle of wine.
Do I normally drink with my clients? No, but this is a first for me. And for whatever reason, it has me fuming.
“This, is for you,” I say, handing her a tall pour of merlot.
“Thank you,” she says with a tone of disbelief. Probably because she wasn’t expecting me to act this way. Honestly, I’m a bit surprised by my behavior too.
Maybe because with every word of Michael’s that she repeats, I hear it play back in my head, but in Reid’s voice.
“Alright, Ashley,” I say, sitting back down on the couch with her, wineglass in hand. “I am going to suggest something to you that I have never suggested to any client ever,” I say.
“Okay…” she answers carefully.
“I want you to lawyer up,” I tell her.
Ashley blinks. “You mean…go through with this divorce?”
“No,” I shake a finger. “I still think we can save this marriage. But I’m also not na?ve, and I don’t want you to be either. Which is why I want you to protect yourself legally in the event that Mike is irrational and tries to screw you over.”
Ashley sighs, melting into the couch. “I don’t know any lawyers,” she says, but I just smile.
“That’s okay,” I tell her. “Because I do. And he’s the best.”
I get up and grab my purse. Then I pull out a business card and hand it to her.
“Grant Bowen,” she reads. “Have you used him before?”
“Not technically, no,” I answer.
“Then how do you know he’s the best?” She asks, still staring at the card.
My smile widens. “Because he’s, my dad.”