72. Rico
Rico
“You motherfucker.”
The door slams open like a scene from a low-budget action flick, Marco kicking it with unneeded force, sending it bouncing off the wall. As much as I'd love to point out that this is the most I've been called "asshole," "fucker," "prick," and "mother fucker" in my life, now isn't the time.
Dr. Dingleberry—not his real name, but let’s be honest, it fits—practically levitates from his chair, clutching his chest like a geriatric on his third bypass.
For fuck’s sake, don’t die, old man. You’re actually somewhat useful.
And considering I haven’t fled the premises screaming, I’d say progress is being made.
If he drops dead right now, I feel like that sets me back a few decades emotionally.
Which is a fun thought I will unpack never.
“I’m calling the police!” Dingleberry screeches, scrambling toward his desk to grab—sweet Jesus—a landline. A corded phone. What is this, 1996? Should I expect him to whip out a fax machine and page his secretary while he’s at it?
Before I can tell him to relax, Marco marches over like the unhinged lunatic he is and rips the phone cord straight out of the wall.
Dramatic. Even for him.
“You could call them,” Marco muses, twirling the severed cord like he’s deciding whether to strangle someone with it, “but it won’t do you any good.
Because, fun fact, they’re all in my pocket.
And I’m feeling real generous today, so I’d rather not make you disappear.
” He jerks his chin toward me, eyes burning with a hellfire kind of rage.
“I’m here to kick his ass. You can watch.
Maybe take some notes. He’ll need coddling when I’m done. ”
Dingleberry nods. Fucking traitor. After all our hours of discussing my childhood trauma, he folds like a cheap suit at the first sign of actual violence.
Before I can even react, Marco storms across the room, and the next thing I know—boom. His fist connects.
I feel the break before I hear it.
The crunch of bone. The snap of cartilage. The sharp explosion of pain that shoots straight to my skull, radiating outward until my entire existence is just pure, unfiltered agony.
And then comes the blood.
Warm. Thick. Metallic.
It rushes down my face in a hot river, dripping onto my shirt.
“Mother fucker.” I pinch my nose, voice muffled from the sheer carnage that is my face.
Marco, the sadistic prick, tosses a monogrammed handkerchief at me.
An actual fucking handkerchief. With his initials embroidered on it.
What. A. Pussy.
“What kind of man carries these?” I mumble, pressing the fabric to my nose while trying not to drown in my blood.
“A classy one.” He dusts off his shirt, looking thoroughly pleased with himself. “So. This is therapy, huh?” His gaze flicks around the office, unimpressed. “I was expecting more… moaning. Maybe some scented candles. Where are the condoms?”
I don’t dignify that with a response.
Instead, I glare at him through blurred vision, assessing the situation while wondering how much blood loss it takes before you actually pass out.
Marco tilts his head. “Tell me something.”
I brace myself. Nothing good follows when Marco tilts his head.
“Is this where you were the week you told Allie you were in therapy?”
I exhale through my mouth because my fucking nose is out of commission, then nod.
A small, insignificant nod. The kind that shouldn’t be readable.
Marco reads it.
The grin that spreads across his face is the kind that gets men stabbed in alleyways.
“Well then,” he drawls. “I stand by my statement. You are, in fact, a motherfucker.”
“First,” I mutter, adjusting the pressure on my probably shattered nose, “I don’t fuck mothers, so your statement is illogical.
” Though, if I had impregnated my wife, I sure as hell would’ve still been fucking her until the day she popped out my kid.
And probably after if she let me. But I sure fucked up that opportunity.
Marco scowls. “I didn’t come here for your semantics, you dumbass.”
“Then why are you here?” I shift in my seat, ignoring the way Dingleberry is silently watching this like it’s a National Geographic special on feral male dominance. “If you knew I was actually in therapy, why the grand entrance? Why not, I don’t know, wait?”
“Oh, sorry,” Marco says. “Were you about to come?”
Dingleberry makes a noise that is—and I cannot stress this enough—not okay.
I roll my eyes, instantly regretting it when pain rockets through my skull.
“Jesus, Marco.” I tilt my head back, trying to keep my nose from leaking all over my only clean shirt. “Did you really have to break my nose?”
“Yes.” He leans against the desk, arms crossed like an asshole mafia overlord. “Because this is your own damn fault.”
“How is any of this my fault?”
Marco’s expression darkens. “Because, dumbass, you let the best thing that’s ever happened to you walk away.”
That hits me harder than his fist did.
But I don’t let it show.
Instead, I exhale slowly, fingers tightening around the monogrammed handkerchief because, honestly, fuck Marco.
I narrow my eyes. Or they’re swelling shut. Hard to tell at this point. Everything feels like it's been run through a meat grinder, and I wouldn’t be shocked if my face has taken on the distinct shape of Marco’s knuckles.
"Is there a reason you're here interrupting my actual therapy?" My voice comes out nasal, stuffed with blood-soaked cotton.
Marco crosses his arms, staring down at me like a disapproving principal about to deliver a suspension. "Yeah, because you told your wife you went to therapy”—he throws in aggressive air quotes, complete with a dramatic hand flourish—"and not this… well, therapy.”
I grit my teeth. “I was in therapy.”
“Not the kind where you’re fucking another woman!” He roars, and I swear to God, if my nose wasn’t already broken, I’d break it myself just to stop the throbbing that spikes at his volume.
Marco turns to Dr. Dingleberry, who looks about three seconds from pressing a panic button, and jabs a finger in his direction.
“Did he tell you he made his wife think he cheated on her? That the last time he said he was in therapy, he was actually screwing someone else?” Then, with a grimace, Marco gives the doctor a once-over, his lips curling in visible distaste.
“No offense, but I really, really hope you aren’t what he used to see for therapy, because if so, I’m traumatized for life. ”
Fucking hell.
“Marco. Stop.” I spit a mouthful of blood into his monogrammed handkerchief.
He holds up his hands. “I just want to make sure you’re being honest.” Then, to my actual therapist, he asks, "So? Did he tell you?”
“Yes,” Dingleberry says, nodding cautiously like he's just realized he’s sitting between two highly capricious chemical compounds.
Marco stops mid-rant. Blinks. “Oh.” A beat passes. “Well, that makes this easier, then.”
Before I can even hope that’s the end, he reaches into his coat and pulls out a thick yellow envelope. The kind that should have been eradicated with the 90s but, much like my cousin’s flair for dramatics, has refused to fucking die.
“Here.” He slaps it against my chest, not giving a shit that my blood is actively dripping onto it.
“Consider yourself served.” Then, because he’s a walking migraine, he sighs dramatically.
“Gotta say I was hoping to interrupt something more interesting, though.” He pouts.
Actually pouts. “Oh well. At least my suspicion that you weren’t a cheating asshole was correct.
Still got it.” He fist bumps the air like the fucking tool he is.
I stare at the envelope in my hands. The legal weight of it feels heavier than the actual contents.
“She wants a divorce?” My voice is hoarse, barely audible. I don’t recognize it. Don’t recognize the feeling curling in my chest either.
Marco bends forward, hands on his knees, like he’s addressing a child and not a fully grown man currently bleeding into one of his designer accessories.
"What did you expect, jackass?" His brows shoot up, his voice adopting that slow, mocking tone I hate. "You told her you didn’t love her. You told her you cheated on her. Did you really think she was gonna meet you at home for dinner, maybe rub your shoulders and call it a day? No, dumbass. She packed her shit and got the fuck out. Away from you. Because the message you sent was crystal clear.”
I swallow hard, but it doesn’t go down right. Instead, it feels like I’ve swallowed glass.
I’d thought she’d come around. That I could explain that I said it to hurt her, not because it was true. That I didn’t cheat, that I do—fuck, I can’t even say it. Not out loud.
But I know. I know now.
I love her.
There. I admitted it. Even if it’s just in my own fucking head, while my cousin, my therapist, and my bleeding, miserable existence all stare at me like I’m a lost cause.
It took three hundred dollars an hour, three times a week, for me to come to that conclusion. Nine hundred dollars just to admit what should have been fucking obvious.
And now?
Now, I’m sitting here, nose broken, soul bleeding, holding divorce papers from the woman I love.
She stole everything from me, including my fucking heart.
No. Especially my heart.
And I was too stupid to realize it before she walked away.
Marco straightens, dusting off his fucking coat like this has been a mild inconvenience for him. "Well, my job here is done.” He gestures lazily between me and my therapist. “Glue that shit back together. I’m sick of his pity party.”
The door swings shut behind him with a finality that makes my chest ache.
I stare down at the divorce papers.
And for the first time in my life, I feel something close to fear.
Because if I don’t fix this—if I don’t get her back—
I will never recover.