Chapter Fifteen #3
I stand up, sniff back my tears, and give Luke one last look. “I’m not sure whether to thank you or spit on you.”
He nods. “I get it. Good luck, Kenna.”
Before going back to the office, I visit the bathroom. Luckily, I have my purse with me, and I re-apply the makeup I cried away. I stare at myself in the mirror. “What did you get yourself into?”
I should leave. Take Luke’s advice and get out now. File for divorce. Hell, get out of town, if that’s what it takes. But I can’t get myself to walk out the front door. I have to see Cyrus. He’s my husband. The man I pledged my life to.
Breathing deeply, I pick up breakfast and head to the elevator.
With every floor the elevator ascends, my heart pounds even faster.
I’m not even sure what I’m going to do when I get up there.
By the time the doors open on floor twenty-six, I’m positive there’s been a misunderstanding.
Luke isn’t who he says he is. For all I know, he’s a scorned divorcé who’s pissed at Cyrus for not getting him what he wanted.
Walking past my desk, I’ve all but convinced myself.
Because, honestly, what sort of wife has zero clue that her husband has gambled away a hundred thousand dollars?
It’s ridiculous. Unconscionable. I mean, what’s more plausible?
That Cyrus has done this under my nose all this time?
Or that a random stranger is trying to exact some sort of revenge against his lawyer?
With a cautious smile on my face, I approach Cyrus’s office. His door is cracked. Not shut. Not open. Cracked. And I hear his voice.
I scold myself when I stop and listen, but I still don’t move away.
“Yeah, you heard me. Ten thousand on the Knicks.”
…
“No, I’m not going to Venmo you the money right now. I’m good for it.”
…
“Are you forgetting what I did for you last year? You owe me.”
…
“Jesus Christ, Dan, do your former lawyer a solid here.”
…
“You’re a loser. I should have let your ex bleed you dry.”
…
“Yeah, well fuck you too.”
The phone slams against the receiver not once, but five times.
My head swirls. Luke was right. About all of it.
I march into Cyrus’s office, drop the breakfast bag on his desk, and look him square in the eyes, surprised at this unconventional head-on approach I’m taking with him. “I met someone interesting at the bagel shop.”
“Get out, Kenna. I’m busy.”
I slap Luke’s business card down in front of him.
He looks from it to me. “What the fuck is this?”
“This is your bookie. The one you owe a hundred grand to.”
He points to the door. “Get out.”
“Not until you admit it.”
“Kenna, I mean it. Get the hell out.”
I cross my arms, taking a stand. “Do you or do you not owe this guy a hundred thousand dollars?”
“Until you’re making five hundred dollars an hour, you don’t have the right to ask me that.”
“So that’s a yes.”
He stands abruptly, seething, and Luke’s warning about how men in Cyrus’s position may do things they normally wouldn’t do swirls through my head. I step back, suddenly fearful of my husband.
“Leave!” he shouts.
“I guess we’ll talk about this at home then.”
“No, I mean get the fuck out of my office and keep walking. You’re fired.
You’ve never been good for anything anyway.
You’re a shitty receptionist. And you and your messy brat have never been anything but a drain on me.
I don’t know what the hell I was thinking taking you in.
” He waves his arm. “Go get your shit and get out of my apartment.”
“It’s our apartment. Maybe you should be the one to leave.”
“Oh yeah?” He scoffs. “Whose name is on the lease?”
“Are you being serious?”
“I want you gone by the time I get home.”
“Where will I go? I have no money because you never give me any.”
“Thank God for small favors. Now get the hell out. You’ll be hearing from my lawyer—oh, wait, I’m the lawyer. I guess that means you’ll be hearing from me. Consider this a warning that you’re about to be served with divorce papers. And good fucking riddance.”
I’m crying now. Big snotty sobs. And I’m utterly torn between reminding him how good we used to be together and begging him to reconsider, and taking the out he’s giving me.
“Do I need to call security and have you escorted the fuck out?”
Jesus—who is this man? Okay, so he hasn’t exactly been Prince Charming lately, but he never curses at me. Or when he does, he immediately apologizes.
He picks up the phone to make good on his threat.
Inside my head, I pull on my big girl panties and turn my sadness and fear into pure anger. “I’m leaving,” I say, swiping my hand across his desk and sending his hot coffee right onto his crisp white button-up shirt.
“Fuck!” he jumps out of his chair and raises his hand as if he’s going to take a swing at me.
I duck and race to the door, turning to say one last thing. “I hope you get everything you deserve.”
An hour later, I’m putting four suitcases and three trash bags holding our belongings into a cab, knowing the fare will overdraw my account. I give the cabbie the address of Amelia’s daycare and wonder just what I’m going to do once my next paycheck runs out. If I ever get it at all.