Chapter 33
I do my best to hide the rampant fear that races through me as we stop at Lila’s on the way to the courthouse.
I have half a mind to avoid Lila and Natalie, but after the trouble we had with this job before, I can’t be a no-show.
Besides, I might need Lila’s money now more than ever.
I couldn’t be happier that Natalie and I are filing in three hours. I wish I could speed up the process.
The clock ticks loudly in my ear with every passing second as we review the plans for the kitchen remodel.
I’m focused as we talk, narrowing in on the job, not on the woman I just screwed who’s going to try to screw me.
I won’t let her. I texted Chase that I need to talk to his cousin again, and I’m sure as soon as my buddy finishes removing a hairbrush from an eardrum or a thimble from a belly button, he’ll ring me.
“We should have it done in a few weeks,” I say crisply. Tension winds in me so goddamn tight I might snap any second.
“I’m so thrilled this worked out,” Lila says, and drops a hand on Natalie’s shoulder.
“And this woman deserves all the credit. Getting to know her during the self-defense class helped me realize that I wanted this remodel to happen, and how we could make it work. I was scared, but she encouraged me.”
My eyes widen to the size of the ocean. “Did she, now?”
Lila nods. “She has your back.”
“I bet she does,” I say, and the picture comes into even clearer focus. Natalie must have worked her ass off to get this job for us, maybe to try to claim she’s running my business, too.
Fuckity, fuckity, fuckity. What a sneaky little pussycat she is. Slinking into everything. Jumping into every goddamn bag.
“Oh, Natalie. Don’t let me forget to show you the closet,” Lila says with a bright smile.
Natalie sets a hand on my arm. “Lila was raving about the closet here during a self-defense class last week, and I’ve been dying to see it.”
As Lila scurries her to the closet, all I can think is I’m an hour closer to ending this fucking union with the woman I just fucked.
* * *
The mustached clerk with wire-rimmed glasses takes the papers, staples them together, and stamps them with the date.
“These will be filed today, and we’ll notify you in a few weeks when the annulment has been granted,” he says, without raising his face. His one-note voice should grate on my ears, but it sounds like sweet music because I’m one step closer to slicing this woman out of my life.
Natalie bounces on her toes. “Thank you so much,” she says, and no one, not even Mr. Clean himself, could wipe the grin off her face. She’s so happy to be splitting up, and it’s irksome. Suspicious. Another piece of evidence against her.
I tap my fingers against the worn wood of the clerk’s counter. “How long does this take?” I ask Bored Man.
“A few weeks,” he drones.
“But on average is a few weeks one week, two weeks, three weeks, four?”
Slowly, like it costs him something to lift his chin, he looks up. “A few weeks,” he repeats, which loosely translates to shut the fuck up.
“But what is that generally speaking?”
He gives me a you’ve-got-to-be-kidding-me stare. “It’s more than a day and less than many days.”
I sigh, but like a dog with a bone, I won’t let up. “Can you ballpark, please?”
Natalie grips my bicep. “Wyatt,” she says, gently, “he said a few weeks.”
“But I would like to know what a few weeks means,” I say to her. She swallows and looks away from me. I turn back to the guy, trying honey instead of vinegar. “I would be so grateful if you could give us a rough estimate? Just narrow it down a tiny bit more, pretty please?”
I fold my hands together, as if in prayer, hoping he gets that I’m pleading, and that he’ll show mercy.
He parts his cracked lips once more. “Here’s a rough estimate,” he says, fixing on a simpering smile. “A few weeks.”
He shoves a copy of the papers at us, rings the silver bell at his stand, and calls out “next.”
We walk along the hallway of the courthouse, heading to the exit. “Hey. Want to tell me what that was all about?” Natalie asks.
Dragging a hand through my hair, I mumble, “Just want this whole damn thing over.”
“Well, yeah,” she says, rolling her eyes. “That’s obvious.”
“Don’t try to act like you don’t feel the same,” I spit out as we reach the exit.
I push open the door, holding it for her. Manners still matter even when everything else falls apart.
She walks into the bright sunlight of the Vegas afternoon, placing her hand above her eyes to shield them. “You wanted it,” she says coldly. “You wanted this.”
I frown. “What?”
“You made it clear from the start how much you wanted this, Wyatt,” she says, and now her tone is exasperated. With me. She tosses up her hands. “I thought you’d be happy. I thought this is what you wanted. Why aren’t you happy?”
“You think I should be happy?” I toss back at her, frustration bubbling up, rising to the surface. I’m waiting for her to strike. I need to be ready for her ambush.
“I thought we were going to date?”
“You’d like that, wouldn’t you?” There’s way more vitriol in my tone than I intend.
She backs away from me. Holds up both palms in a clear “don’t touch me.” Stares at me as if I’m someone she doesn’t even know.
Her blue eyes study me before she speaks. In them I see horror reflected at me. She’s horrified at me. “Why are you being so awful?” Her voice breaks. “I did this because you wanted it. You made me pro—”
Then she clasps her hand to her lips.
Her words tickle something in the back of my mind. Faint words, and I strain to hear them. Bits and pieces play in my head, and they feel like mine. Like things I said to her the night we married. As a song played. Our song.
Promise me, promise me, promise me.
What the hell did I ask her to do?
And now it’s my turn to search her face.
Her lip quivers, and her eyes are wet, as if she’s holding back tears.
That ache I felt for days returns, burrows into me, as if the animal that carved that hole is trying to tell me something.
That maybe Natalie’s not the cause of my doubt. Perhaps she’s the end of it.
Rubbing a hand over my neck, I try to figure out what this moment means.
And more importantly, what I believe to be true.
Seeing her earnest eyes and her honest face, I don’t know how she could possibly be planning to screw me over.
I don’t know how she could be stabbing me in the back. This woman—she’s not like that.
Call it a gut instinct.
Call it a feeling.
It’s true.
The question now is can I listen to it? If I was burned before, does that mean I’ll be burned again?
A reel of images flickers in my mind—all our times together, right down to that moo on the plane. Even though that damning voice mail message made me want to run, my heart is telling me I’ve gotten it all wrong. My heart is telling me to stay.
Just because I don’t trust easily doesn’t mean I shouldn’t believe this woman. If there’s anyone I should trust, it’s Natalie. And if I don’t try to fix this now, I’ll lose her. That’s a chance I can’t take, proof or not.
I go out on a limb.
“Nat, I’m sorry,” I say softly, reaching for her. “I’m just a mess right now. But I don’t want this to end,” I say, and it’s a start. It’s the only start I can manage right now.
“I didn’t, either.”
Didn’t.
“But you do now?” I ask, my voice wavering.
“I don’t like the way you just talked to me.”
My heart sinks. Here on the steps of the courthouse, she’s going up, I’m heading down. I reach for her arm, wrap my hand around it. “Is this how it ends?”
My voice barely sounds like my own.
Hers is a whisper, too. “You tell me.”
I want to ask about the voicemail, the call, the lawyer. I want to ask what I promised her. I want to know if I’ve fucked this up beyond repair. Most of all I want to know if there’s a chance of fixing it.
But before I can speak again, she raises a hand.
“I can’t talk to you right now. We can talk later, if you decide you can treat me the way you always have, not the way you just acted.
And I really hope you can do that. But right now, I need a break.
I’ve done something probably foolish. So I’m going to go and see Lila about her closet, because that will take my mind off the email you’re about to receive. ”
She marches down the steps and hails a cab that takes her away from me.