74. Allie
Allie
Two weeks later...
"Did he sign them yet?”
Violet slides a mug of coffee across the table and lowers herself into the chair with a dramatic sigh. Her bump is on full display, glowing and perfect. Meanwhile, I’m over here hoping caffeine will cancel out the sting of divorce limbo.
I take a sip and plaster on a smile that tastes as bitter as the coffee. “I wish. Then we could both move on and pretend this whole arranged-marriage-meets-emotional-silence experiment never happened.”
Violet hums into her cup, eyebrows raised—she’s not buying it.
“What?”
She tips her chin toward my phone.
And right on cue, it lights up. Rico.
“Still?”
“Yup.” I flip the phone over so that if I don’t see it, it doesn’t exist. It works for five-year-olds, why not adults?
The first text message came the morning after Marco handed him the divorce papers. That was two weeks ago. And just for context, it was the second text Rico had ever sent me. Second. In nearly six months of being legally bound by holy matrimony.
Rico: I have an irrational hatred for the color red.
To the point I refuse to look at it. I’d rather set the room on fire than acknowledge it.
Problem is, fire is red, so you can see the flaw there.
There’s this red lantern in my living room now.
Small. Mocking me. I can’t bring myself to throw it out, though.
I didn’t respond. Not because I didn’t want to ask why he suddenly was texting me now after acting like I was part of the wallpaper for months.
But because it didn’t matter. That was the whole point of the divorce—cutting the cord, legally and emotionally. The marriage contract was never built on romance. Obligations? Sure. But affection? Not even in the fine print.
Then, a few hours later, another text buzzed through.
Rico: Ask me why I won’t throw it out.
I didn’t.
I couldn’t.
Violet eyes my overturned phone just as it vibrates again, skittering across the table.
“Still doing the silent treatment?” She asks.
I stare at her. “You mean the man who ignored me for months is now trying to start a conversation, and I’m not immediately throwing myself at the opportunity? Wow. How shocking.”
“So, this is a tit-for-tat thing?”
“No. Also, who says that?”
“Me,” she says unapologetically, sliding my phone toward her. “What’s today’s fact?”
I narrow my eyes as she taps the screen.
“What? I find them fascinating. Like getting a glimpse into some rare, cryptic novel. Besides, don’t you want to know what goes on inside that head of his?”
“No.”
She gasps dramatically. “Oh.”
I regret everything.
I hold out for three full seconds before cracking. “What does it say?”
She holds up the phone, waving it. “Read it. I’m now regretting wanting insight into Rico’s brain.”
I snatch it.
Rico: I memorized the periodic table when I was ten. Not for school. Just because I was bored and had a weird obsession with the elements. So yeah, I can recite all 118 of them in order, but will forget to buy toothpaste when it runs out.
Violet grips my wrist, making me look at her. “He’s trying.”
I scoff.
She tightens her hold. “No, really. I wouldn’t say it if I didn’t believe it.”
“You just want my life to have a happily ever after.”
“I mean, duh. But that’s not why.”
I glare. Hard. But she doesn’t let go of my wrist or the topic.
“Okay, not the entire truth.” Violet corrects herself, stirring her coffee like she didn’t just poke a very raw, very exposed nerve. “But truly, I wouldn’t nudge you if I didn’t think Rico was being genuine.”
I snort. “He’s only trying because it’s the easy out.
Because if we get divorced, he knows he’ll have to go out and find another woman who can tolerate him.
” I blow out a breath, flipping my phone face-down.
“I’m the convenient option. The most logical choice.
And Rico always picks the logical choice, even if he doesn’t actually want me. ”
“You didn’t exactly choose him either,” Violet points out, waddling back from the counter with a bottle of Bailey’s. She wiggles it at me before pouring a generous amount into my coffee with a shrug. “Live vicariously and all that. I can’t drink. You need a drink—sip, sip, baby.”
I take a sip and immediately scrunch my nose. Irish coffee was never my thing, but whatever.
Violet, unfazed, settles back into her seat. “So, if Rico told you he was in love with you—and actually meant it—it wouldn’t matter?”
Nothing matters anymore. Not when it comes to my sham marriage.
I blink at her. “Vi, he cheated on me.”
“Allegedly.”
I shoot her a glare so sharp it could cut diamonds.
“It’s not love, Violet. It’s a strategy.
He’s hedging his bets. Throwing just enough ‘daily fun facts’ my way to keep me dangling while he works out whatever brooding nonsense is happening in that brain of his.
” I blow out a breath and flip my phone screen-down again, as if that’s enough to block the next incoming text from my possibly sociopathic almost-ex.
She crosses her arms. “So you’re telling me he’s doing all this just for convenience?”
“Yes! That’s what this entire marriage has been about!
I was the convenient womb with a pulse. Now he’s realizing finding a new woman who’ll tolerate his communication skills—which are basically on par with a rock—won’t be easy.
So he’s backtracking.” I gesture wildly.
“Sure, maybe he misses me on some deep, emotionally repressed level buried beneath the mountain of avoidance and those tragic sweatpants, but that’s not love. ”
Violet raises a brow. “You do know I write about forced proximity all the time, right?”
“That’s fiction,” I huff.
“Exactly. Fiction where people fall in love after sharing space, beds, and body heat. Sound familiar?”
I groan. “Just because you share a bed doesn’t mean it's love. Sometimes it’s just... logistics. Forced proximity doesn’t mean he chose me. We shared a bed. Things happened. You know. Things that lead to that.” I say while waving at her stomach.
She grins. “You know I write much dirtier words for it, right? Want me to remind you? I’ve got a complete list, courtesy of Sienna’s refusal to curse. Bumping biscuits. Submitting an application for the O-Face Club. Greasing the gears. And my personal favorite—playing hide the cannoli.”
The laugh that bursts out of me is ugly. Somewhere between a cackle and a snort, and Violet fist-pumps the air like she just won something.
“I could use a game of hide the cannoli,” I mutter.
“Well, last I checked, you are married, and he has a cannoli—”
“He’s playing that game plenty with his therapist.”
Violet scrunches her nose. “Ew. Please don’t make me picture Rico ‘playing’ anything.”
I sigh, dragging a hand down my face. “Marco literally served him at his therapist’s office. Three times a week he goes there now, Vi. That’s not an occasional drop-in energy—that’s a punch card situation. Before we got married, he went once.”
"Honestly? I don't think he's seeing that type of therapist three times a week. I don't even think he saw that type of therapist at all—despite what he said."
"Did you not just hear where he was served?"
“It’s the way Marco said it, though.” She fumbles for her phone, groaning dramatically as she leans to the side. “God, this belly. I miss putting on my shoes like a big girl.”
“Focus, Vi. I’m having a marital crisis and you’re over there giving up on footwear.”
She retrieves her phone and scrolls through what appears to be her daily message exchange with Marco. Not Alex. Marco.
“Alex doesn’t care you text his cousin every day?”
“Oh, he definitely cares,” she says with a shrug that belongs to someone far too pregnant to give a damn.
“But Marco was there for me when everything was going sideways. Sure, he annoyed me, but he also helped. Pushed me in the right ways. Honestly? Without him, I don’t know if Alex and I would’ve made it.
Plus, pissing off Alex keeps the spark alive. ”
“Romance, thy name is spite,” I mutter, remembering how pushing Rico’s buttons went for me. Spoiler alert: not great. Some men need the nudge. Others? They explode. In Rico’s case, he detonates, leaves the building, and pretends the fire was just a draft.
“Here,” Violet says, spinning her phone toward me. “Marco’s been referring to Rico’s ‘therapist’ in quotes lately.”
“That’s a suspicious amount of quotation marks.” I say with sarcasm, but she clearly doesn't catch on.
“Exactly. He used to say escort when talking about Rico's therapist. Sometimes he'd call her Madame. But he's saying 'therapist' and not even referencing a her in there either.”
“Madame?” I blink. “Are we talking dominatrix or French art dealer?”
“Don’t ask. I’ve tried digging deeper into Marco logic, and I’m still recovering.” She snatches the phone back when she sees my eyes land on a name in the text thread between her and Marco. "You didn't see that."
“Who’s Kiera?”
“You. Saw. Nothing.” Her pregnant death glare is surprisingly effective. I nod in submission and clutch my coffee like it’ll protect me from her wrath.
“Okay, so bring this full circle before my brain melts.”
“Fine. My theory? He’s not seeing her anymore. And maybe he never was. Maybe he said what he said to hurt you.”
Something Marco had said to me when I told him I wanted a divorce. But, I refuse to let that flicker of hope damage me again.
“Well, mission accomplished,” I deadpan.
“But what if Marco’s right? What if Rico didn’t cheat on you? What if he’s actually seeing an actual therapist and trying to get his shit together?”
I shrug, but it feels hollow. “He told me he was with her that night. Point-blank. Didn’t even flinch. I know Marco thinks it was just a tantrum—Rico lashing out—but if it was true? Then we’re done. End of story. Trust is the minimum, and he burned it with a shrug.”