Chapter Seventeen
Sam
Doug gave me about a month. I've got a little less than two weeks left to figure out what I want to do with the Pilsen property.
That number has gotten harder to ignore every morning.
In theory it is so simple, just waiting on a signature from a man I haven't spoken to in three years.
Just call the number that's sitting open on my phone.
I could call him. That was never the problem.
The problem is I know exactly how the conversation goes if I do it my way.
I start with the company. He says something that pisses me off. I bring up everything he left me holding. Eventually we get to Elise, because with him I always get to Elise. I still don't get the fucking signature. I set the phone on my desk and lean back in the chair.
The envelope is in the drawer beside my knee.
I almost opened it days ago but I couldn't do it.
Autumn told me she'd found a way through this.
Now on principle I feel like a complete dick even considering using what she came up with after accusing her of interfering because it made me feel vulnerable.
I open the drawer. The envelope is exactly where I left it. This time, I take it out. For a minute I sit there with it in my hands, my thumb resting against the sealed flap, and then I open it. There are three pages inside. No note. No explanation. The first page starts with a title.
PILSEN. DISSOLUTION SEQUENCE AND SCRIPT.
There's a date underneath. I stare at it long enough to remember exactly where we were when she handed me the envelope. I asked why she went looking.
"And you went looking."
"I did."
"At me."
Then she asked me to let her be useful, and I told her I didn't need her help. Told her I didn't need her interfering in my life. I start reading.
The first section is WHAT THIS IS.
She lays out the old filing, the judgment and the signature that never happened. There's no legal bullshit I have to read three times to understand. She strips everything down to the only part that matters if I want the company gone and the bank moving again.
The legal piece is almost finished. What's missing is a reason for him to cooperate instead of letting the whole thing sit there because he can.
The next heading is WHO YOU CALL, AND IN WHAT ORDER.
Him. Directly. Not his attorney. Not mine. Not a letter from one office to another.
There's a paragraph underneath explaining why. If I start with a lawyer, he gets one. One missing signature becomes two sets of billing hours and another six months of both of us paying people to stay angry for us.
I almost laugh. Mostly because she's right. Then I reach the next section.
If he says no: counsel. Then it becomes a filing, and filings are public.
Underneath it, in smaller type:
You will not need to say that part out loud. He has a second location opening in September and eleven thousand people watching him do it. He already knows.
I read it again. She found the second restaurant.
She found the opening, the social following, probably every article written about the place since he announced it.
She found the thing he would least want attached to his name while he's trying to get another restaurant open.
And then she built the conversation so I wouldn't have to use any of it. I turn the page.
WHAT HE GETS.
A clean ending. The company dissolved. The judgment dealt with. Nothing still sitting there under either of our names when his new place opens. That's the offer.
No threat. No apology required. No chance for me to spend twenty minutes explaining exactly what I think of him before he has a reason to say yes. I rub my hand over my mouth and keep reading. The rest is the call.
Autumn gives me an opening that doesn't start with we need to talk, followed by a note explaining that nobody in human history has heard those four words and expected something good.
I actually laugh. After that come the branches. If he gets defensive, go here. If he says he wants his lawyer to look at it, let him. If he says he thought the company was already dissolved, do not argue about whose fault it was.
Then:
You will want to. Come back to the signature.
I stop. Read it again.
You will want to. Come back to the signature.
"She knew," I say into the empty office.
Because I would. I've had versions of that argument in my head for three years.
I know exactly where I'd take it if he gave me half an opening.
I'd remind him who stopped answering calls.
I'd remind him who left me to deal with the debt.
And eventually I'd get to Elise. An hour later, I'd hang up knowing exactly how sorry he is or isn't and still have his name attached to mine.
Autumn knew that. The next branch is worse.
If he apologizes, do not spend it on making him sorrier. You want a signature, not an apology. Take the signature.
My hand stills on the page. There are things I've wanted to hear from him for three years.
Not because I want him back in my life, but because some part of me still thinks there's a combination of words that could make what happened add up differently.
There isn't. That hasn't stopped me from wanting them.
The last note is about silence. If he gets upset, let him. Don't rush to fill it. Give him enough room to get himself back to the conversation. When I reach the end, I go back to the beginning. The second time through, I notice the parts that aren't there. Elise's name never appears.
There's nothing about betrayal. Nothing about whether either of us deserves forgiveness. Nothing about what happened to the restaurant we had or the marriage I lost at the same time. Autumn took three years of shit and reduced it to one thing I can actually finish.
Get the signature.
I read the section about the September opening again.
She gave me the leverage. Then told me I wouldn't need to use it.
I know how to find pressure. I know how to push until somebody moves.
If I'd found what she found, I would've made sure he knew I had it.
Autumn wrote the threat down so I'd know it existed, then kept it out of my mouth.
She gave him a way to say yes without making him defend himself first. I sit there with the pages spread across my desk.
Marisol told me what Autumn did for her.
The costume work, the contact, the photos she sent without making a production out of any of it.
Same thing. She saw a problem. Found the part that could move.
Moved it. Then kept going. This is what people pay her to do.
I didn't ask her and I sure as shit didn't pay her.
She did it anyway, brought me the finished answer and asked me to let her help.
I told her no and chopped her at the knees.
For weeks I've been thinking about the things Autumn asked me for and everything I couldn't give her. Now I'm looking at what she gave me without being asked. That thought can take me somewhere I don't need to go tonight. I go back to the script instead.
You will want to. Come back to the signature.
I pull my phone closer. His number is still on the screen. Three years. That's how long I've managed not to hear his voice. My thumb hovers over the call button. Then I look at the page.
You open with this.
I press it. He answers on the fourth ring.
"Hello?"
For half a second, nothing comes out of me. Then he says my name.
"Sam?"
My grip tightens around the phone. His voice hasn't changed enough. Three years, and my body still recognizes it before I do. I look down at the page.
"I'm calling about the company."
Silence.
"The company?"
"The old LLC. It was never fully dissolved."
"I thought that was handled."
My mouth opens. I can already hear what wants to come out.
You thought.
You thought a lot of shit was handled when you walked away. My eyes drop to the page.
Do not argue about whose fault it was. You will want to. Come back to the signature.
I close my mouth.
"There's still a signature missing," I say. "That's why I'm calling."
Another pause.
"What do you need from me?"
The question is so fucking simple I almost laugh.
"A signature. I'll send you the dissolution paperwork."
He exhales. I can picture him doing it even though I haven't seen him in years.
"Sam, I really thought that was done."
Every muscle across my shoulders tightens. I know what he thought. I know what I had to deal with after he stopped paying attention. I know what it cost me. I know what else he took while he was busy not looking. My finger presses into the edge of Autumn's page. Come back to the signature.
"I need it finished now."
My voice sounds calmer than I feel. He's quiet again.
Then, "Okay. I'll have my lawyer look at it."
The next line is already there.
"That's fine. Have him look. I'll send everything today."
He doesn't answer immediately. My heart is beating hard enough that I can feel it in my jaw. Then he says my name again.
"Sam."
I close my eyes. Here we go.
"I know I should've called you a long time ago."
My hand curls against the desk. Three years.
Three fucking years, and it's still not enough.
Not even close. But it is enough to make every question I've refused to ask line up at once.
Why her? How long? Did you ever give a shit about me?
Was any of it real? Did she love you? Did you love her? The page sits under my hand.
If he apologizes, do not spend it on making him sorrier. You want a signature, not an apology.
He keeps talking.
"I handled everything wrong."
I could make him keep going. One question and he'd either give me what I've wanted for years or prove there was never anything worth waiting for. Neither one gets Pilsen open. I look at Autumn's page.
"I'm not calling about that."
The line goes quiet. I don't feel better after saying it. Maybe I'm not supposed to.
"I'm calling about the company," I continue. "I'll send the paperwork. Have your lawyer look at it and get back to me."
"Sam, I'm trying to say I'm sorry."
My hand tightens again. Every part of me that has been waiting three years leans toward it. I let the silence sit. Then I say, "I heard you." That's all.
Not it's okay.
Not I forgive you.
Not tell me more.
Just that.
He breathes out on the other end.
"Send it."
"I will."
"And Sam?"
"What?"
"I'll sign it."
Nothing in me knows what to do with how easy that sounds. Three years attached to a dead company. Months of trying to get Pilsen moving. Doug counting down days. One call. Not even a good call. Just the right one.
"Okay," I say.
Then I hang up. For a while, I stay exactly where I am.
The phone is still in my hand. Autumn's pages are spread across the desk beneath it.
I don't feel lighter. I'm still angry. He's still the man who slept with my wife and left me holding pieces of a life I didn't know had already ended.
None of that changed. But the company is moving toward dead.
That changed. I gather Autumn's pages and straighten their edges against the desk.
My first thought is to call her. It comes fast enough that my hand is already moving toward the phone before I stop.
She would understand what this took. That's probably why I want to tell her.
But she already did her part. She found the way through and put it in my hands.
She doesn't owe me the part where I feel better because I finally used it.
I set the phone back down. Then I open my laptop and start sending the paperwork.