Chapter 21
I dig my thumbs and forefingers into the corners of my eyelids.
If I can press hard enough, perhaps what the woman on the other end of the phone is telling me will change.
But no matter how many times I ask if she’s sure, the three things she says remain the same: the Las Vegas courthouse has no record of our annulment.
Easy Out Divorce never filed it. Easy Out Divorce closed up shop and took our money.
“Great. I’ll need it for another annulment,” I say then slam the receiver down. Benefit of office phones? You can still get angry with them in a way you can’t with cells. Awesome.
When I turn around, Natalie is standing in the doorway. Her eyes are wide with worry. “What did you just say?” Each word is stilted.
“They never filed. We were scammed.” I sink into the dingy office chair, dragging a hand through my hair.
She grips the doorframe. “What do we do next?”
“I really don’t know,” I say, tension thick in my veins because everything had been going well again, and now it turns out what happened in Vegas didn’t fucking stay in Vegas. It followed us. This marriage is like an infection that won’t go away. Looks like my streak continues.
Her eyes swing toward the wall clock. “You better go, Wyatt. You don’t want to be late for the job. Let’s grab the cabinet doors and get you out of here. I’ll take care of this today. I promise. I’ll figure it out.”
“Okay,” I say with a sigh, and I’m glad she’s on top of the work schedule because I already forgot where I was headed this morning.
She helps me gather the wood materials I need, hands them to me, then grabs my tool belt from the chair where I left it last night. Her eyes register that my hands are full, and before I even know it, hers are around my hips and she’s buckling the tool belt in place.
“There,” she declares then walks me to the truck in the parking garage I use next to our office.
“Hector’s coming today to help you out. Just focus on work. Seriously, I’ve got this,” she says, wrapping her soft hand around my arm like the Frisky Mittens she is. I blink away the thought. Can’t think of her like that.
She hands me something wrapped in brown paper.
“What’s this?”
“Just a way of saying thanks for last night. I made you a sandwich for your lunch. Extra sriracha. And an Oreo is in there, too. Your favorite,” she says, with a sweet little smile, a gesture that tells me she wants me to like this.
I do like it. “Thank you,” I say, and as I get into the truck and drive off, it hits me how wifely that whole exchange was. Fastening the tool belt. Seeing me to the vehicle. Handing me a lunch she made.
Just like she’s Mrs. Hammer.
And she is.
But as I click on the blinker to turn onto 10th Avenue, an idea lands in my head out of nowhere.
She’s never made me a sandwich before. What if she spread arsenic in the sriracha?
What if this is all her secret ploy as Mrs. Hammer to take over my business?
She’s the one who tracked down the annulment company.
What if she knew it was a bogus service?
What if she’s tricking me so she can have everything of mine when I’m sleeping with the fishes thanks to this sandwich?
A cab slams its horn, blaring in my ears, and I slam on the brakes.
Holy shit. I nearly ran a red light. My pulse skitters out of control as I wait at the intersection.
Get it together, Hammer. No one is trying to kill you. You’re being paranoid. You need to chill out.
I take several deep breaths, clear my mind, and focus on driving. After I park and head to the client’s building, I toss the sandwich in the trash can on the corner.
Better safe than six feet under.
A few minutes later, from the fourth-floor window of today’s job, I spot an unhoused guy rooting around in the trash can, grabbing it.
Great. Now his dirt nap will be on my hands.
* * *
Natalie: What do I do now???
Charlotte: I called a friend who’s a lawyer. She walked me through it. It’s honestly not a big deal. There are basically two routes. The first is you could go redo the paperwork for Nevada and file by mail, but there’s a chance a judge might want to see you in person for a hearing.
Natalie: What’s the second?
Charlotte: The other option, and this is probably your safest bet just to make sure everything is done properly, is to get a divorce in NY.
Natalie: Ugh, I don’t want to be divorced. I wanted to not be married.
Charlotte: I get it, but this seems like a decent solution. It’s easy, too. In your case, you’d do what’s called an uncontested divorce. And those are different than the long, protracted NY divorces we all hear about.
Natalie: Why can’t we just get the marriage annulled in NY?
Charlotte: Well, let’s see if you qualify. Were either one of you married to someone else?
Natalie: Um. No.
Charlotte: So no bigamy case can be made, then. Check that off. Were either of you unable to have sexual intercourse at the time of the marriage?
Natalie: Very funny. We were the opposite. Apparently that’s all we were able to do.
Charlotte: I thought so :) And were either of you incurably insane for five or more years?
Natalie: Um, no, though the night was a bit of a blur.
Charlotte: Doesn’t quite add up to five years, I’m afraid. So, as you can see, New York is a wee bit complicated when it comes to granting annulments. Weirdly, divorce is easier in NY. At least, an uncontested divorce is. I vote for that.
Natalie: Great. Now I’ll be a divorced woman. It’ll be this black mark.
Charlotte: They don’t brand divorced people, Nat. Or make you get a tattoo.
Natalie: I know there’s no shame in divorcing for real. But this isn’t a real divorce. It’s dumbass divorce, born from vodka, hormones, and stupidity.
Charlotte: You were just having fun.
Natalie: In my case, fun = foolishness.
Charlotte: Stop beating yourself up. Just do what you need to do.
Natalie: I will . . . I’m just so . . . I can’t focus . . . My videos suck . . . This whole situation is getting me down.
Charlotte: Why?
Natalie: You know why
Charlotte: Because of how you feel?
Natalie: I HATE FEELINGS. MAKE THEM STOP.
Charlotte: Poof. Done.
Natalie: I love you. Thank you. I’m better now.
Charlotte: Come over later, and we’ll cuddle. For now, I’m emailing you all the details of what to do next.
* * *
At four o’clock, I cross the sidewalk to my truck, loading the tools in the cab.
A dude with a scraggly beard and a filthy jacket wanders past me.
He stops, turns around, and gives me a thumbs-up.
“Hey, man, don’t know why you threw out that sandwich this morning, but I’m glad you did. It was awesome.”
My face is blank for a few seconds, then it dawns on me. He survived the turkey ambush. Which means not only did I not become an accessory to murder, Natalie didn’t try to off me with a ciabatta.
Of course she didn’t. You jumped to conclusions. You assumed the worst. You lumped her in with all the others. You should have known better.
When I return to the office, she’s placing the pages she just printed on her desk. I set down the tools, walk over to her, and park my hands on her shoulders.
She blinks, surprised I’m so close.
Chase’s advice resonates.
Do the opposite.