36. Reid
Reid
It’s amazing how life can go from almost dreamlike to an absolute shit show in a matter of hours. And by amazing, I mean it blows.
I get back to work on Monday, ready for a meeting with Michael Overholt.
Between the weddings and the pause we put on things while he went to therapy to figure things out (aka…
played nice so that he could ultimately get the vacation home in the divorce with no hidden fees), I haven’t spoken to Michael much since.
Other than the occasional check-in text where I ask how things are progressing and him saying well; we haven’t talked at all.
So obviously, as I arrive at today’s meeting, I am running on fully charged batteries, ready to tackle the case.
However, within thirty seconds of our meeting, I find that we are very much not on the same page.
“What do you mean the therapy is working?” I ask.
“I mean…it’s just been amazing, honestly,” he says and I swear to God the man might as well be wearing rose-colored glasses. A tactic used from the other side to blur vision. A tactic so that she can get what she wants.
“Michael,” I say, stopping my pacing long enough to sit down in front of him and lock my eyes in the hopes he will see past the glitter Ashley and her lawyer and that therapist tossed into his face.
“You didn’t go to therapy to fix your marriage,” I tell him, putting the word fix in air quotes.
“You went to therapy so that you could keep your vacation home. The one that is rightfully yours. The only asset that we can keep from being split in two by the judge.”
“I know, but…” he trails off, his eyes sparkling again. “This therapist, August. She’s good. I mean, really good.”
“They always are,” I huff, leaning back in my chair.
I told myself I wasn’t going to drink at 9am today.
I didn’t think I had a reason to. I also didn’t think that my client, this client specifically, would be pulling a U-turn on what I thought was a sure thing.
It’s taking a lot of restraint to keep from reaching for the bottle right now.
To dull my nerves enough that I don’t strangle this gaslit man.
“Michael. I need your focus. I need you to see the objective clearly with me,” I tell him.
“But that’s the thing,” he says, leaning forward.
And I swear to God the man looks like a kid who just got back from Disneyland for the first time and wants to tell me all about it.
“I am seeing it clearly. For the first time in…years…I am seeing the marriage clearly. I am seeing where we went wrong and where we could be better, and the abundance of love that still exists, and I just…” he shakes his head, at a loss for words.
And it’s in that moment I know I’ve lost him.
I take in a deep breath and let it out in a frustrated sigh.
“So that’s it, huh?” I ask. “Everything you told me, everything that was building up inside of you, percolating to the point that you were willing to drop tens of thousands of dollars on a great lawyer is just…gone? Just…poof? Non-existent.”
“You do charge a lot…” he says, scratching his chin for a moment. Then the smile returns. “But yeah. I am sure that everything we have been through, everything we have yet to go through, is reconcilable,” Michael tells me.
And with that, I shove up from my chair, facing the window with my back to him for a moment. I lace my hands behind my head and bite my lips, choosing my words.
“Listen,” I say, still looking out the window. “It’s not that I want to see your marriage end. I don’t enjoy watching marriages end, contrary to what a lot of people say…”
“They do say that about you…” he chuckles objectively.
“It’s that more often than not I see it happen.
And when it happens, it’s explosive. The collateral damage is irreversible.
You,” I turn around to point a finger at him.
“Are the damage, Mike. You are the one who is going to get hurt when it all falls apart. Therapy is just…a band-aid for most people. It works for some, but it’s more like…
a way to buy time. Time that you can’t get back.
Time when you should be freeing yourself from the pain and everything you’ve lost in your relationship. ”
I stop, unsure how else to explain it. To explain what I’ve seen and what I’ve been through. And it hits me that more than anything, I am talking about myself. And I guess, despite the way I feel about love right now, based on current events, it doesn’t negate the facts in general.
“I see a lot of my former self in you, Mike,” I tell him. And it’s not a sales tactic. It’s not gaslighting or manipulation. It’s true. “And I see a lot of similarities between Ashley and…” I stop. I never say her name anymore. I refuse.
“Someone who broke your heart?” he asks carefully, and that alone is enough to yank out some of the stitches. Stitches that still hurt because they are covered in scar tissue.
My silence and the chewing of the inside of my cheek answer his question for me.
“Maybe that’s the difference then,” he says. “Maybe I am like you. Maybe I’ve been hurt, and that’s what fueled me walking into your office in the first place. But I’m not so sure she…whoever she is…is like Ashley. Because Ashley was hurt too. By me. And both of us want to repair that damage.”
Again, I don’t say anything. I am ready for this conversation to be over. This case will be a shredder. It’s a loss I can handle, even though it is festering under my skin.
“I’m just grateful. Grateful that Ashley fought so hard for us. Hard enough to seek out the agency that connected us with the perfect couple’s therapist. Grateful that you fought for me too, even though the fight has changed and I no longer need your services.”
I stop dead at that, and my eyes lock on him hard.
“What did you say?” I ask.
“I’m grateful,” he reiterates, and I shake my head.
“Not that. Did you say agency?” I ask.
“Yes,” he nods.
“What agency?” I grit out.
“It’s a nonprofit that helps connect married couples on the brink of divorce to therapists for–”
“We Still Do,” I say, and he stops.
“Yes. That’s the one. They’re amazing. And our therapist has been–”
“You gotta be fucking kidding me,” I snap, and he stops.
“What is it? Have you heard of them?” he asks, and I chortle with a smileless laugh.
“Oh, I’ve heard of them,” I say.
“It was them and their therapists that changed our path. The connection between Ashley’s lawyer and Quinn Delaney was all pretty fateful as well,” he goes on, and for the second time, I feel jarred.
“What do you mean?” I ask.
“I mean…Ashley went to the agency, to Quinn, before getting a lawyer. Because of my insistence that we were going to go through with a divorce, Quinn advised she lawyer up still. To be safe. Of course, Ashley didn’t know any divorce lawyers, so Quinn recommended Grant Bowen.”
“And Quinn knows Grant Bowen how…” I ask. But even as the question trails from my mouth, I realize I know the answer.
Grant Bowen is…
“He’s Quinn’s father,” Michael says, and my stomach turns sour.
The nausea is so overpowering that my vision blurs around the edges and I think I might actually be sick.
“I think it’s safe to say this case is closed, Michael. So if you have no further concerns for me, I have another meeting,” I tell him, fighting the ball of bile in my throat.
“Of course,” he nods, getting up from the chair and extending a hand to me. “Thank you again.”
I nod curtly and wait until he is out of my office, door closed, before I pull out my phone. I hover over Quinn’s contact information, bite my lip, growl out a swear word, and throw my phone at the wall.
Because what the fuck?
What in the actual fuck?!
My mind races in a thousand circles as I try to make sense of it all. Meanwhile dots are connecting, dots I should have seen a pattern to, dots that are laughing in my face.
Realizing that I am heated enough that I will most likely trash my entire office if I don’t get the fuck out of here, I grab my phone off the floor, my bag and my jacket and make my way out of the building.
No one stops me. No one speaks to me. No one even dares to look at me.
Smart people here at Remington Attorneys.
Once I am outside, I stomp towards the valet.
They see me coming and immediately spring into action.
I stand off to the side as I wait. Again, I consider calling her.
I want to ask her what the hell is going on.
I want to demand answers. But I’ve never been one to scream at women, and that’s all I want to do right now. Scream.
Suddenly, I feel someone standing next to me.
“Good morning,” Grant Bowen’s tone is far too chipper for me right now. My mood scalds even more when I realize why.
“I’m not in the mood,” I grit out, refusing to look at him.
“I’m not here to rub anything in your face,” he says casually. “I’m just waiting for my car and figured I’d say hello.”
I snort. This guy.
Then my lips curl into a smirk. An ill intended one. Because, if I had to guess, this man is in the dark as much as I was. At least about part of this whole thing…
“I guess I owe you congratulations,” I tell him, and while he’s still smiling, his eyes narrow in slight confusion.
“Congratulations?” he asks.
“For tearing apart the case. I’m sure you knew all along that if your client could persuade my client into therapy, everything would fall apart,” I state.
“I guess that depends on your definition of falling apart,” he says.
But I hold my smirk. “And how…favorable…for you. Your daughter’s agency saving your case.”
“I do like a happy ending,” he admits.
“So do I,” I say. Then I click my tongue. “So it’s unfortunate for me that I’m going to have to stop seeing your daughter.”
His attention snaps to me.
“What are you talking about?”
I am staring in the direction of the garage, not meeting his eyes as I go on. “Your daughter. Quinn.”
“You…you’ve been seeing Quinn?” he asks, his tone a mixture of confusion and rising anger. As it should be, honestly.
“For a while now. Who do you think accompanied her to all those weddings?” I ask.
“But don’t worry. That’s over now. The weddings are over.
The ruse is over. And as far as the funding I was contractually providing for her agency, well.
I’m afraid to say that’s over two. So…congrats.
To both of you,” I say as my car rolls up beside me.
And with that, I leave.