40. Garrett
GARRETT
The drive home from the stadium is a quiet one. Colt’s injury, while minor, will take him out of the lineup for a few weeks to ensure his hamstring is fully healed before he returns. I know it’s part of the game, but seeing it happen right there in the stadium was something else.
I’m spoiling for a fight the second Emerson and I walk through the door to my house, her heels clicking across the floor while she answers a stream of nonstop messages.
“Is that still for the acquisition?” I ask, trying to keep my tone in check as I prop my hip against the counter.
“Yes. I had to move my trip up to the middle of next week.”
“And then what?”
“I’ll be there for several weeks. It depends on what everything looks like when I get there.”
“So that’s it.”
“What’s it?” she asks slowly, her eyes narrowing as she stares at me.
“You’re leaving for Tennessee and we’re not going to talk about us?”
“It moves the timeline up a little but—”
“We said six months.”
“Okay, so wait to file the paperwork until it’s exactly six months. I don’t know what you want me to say.”
“I want you to say you care and it’s a mistake to go through with it,” I roar, throwing my arms wide as my chest heaves. I want her to tell me I matter—that we matter.
“Our marriage is fake, Garrett. This was never real. I like you, but we knew we couldn’t sustain this long-term. My job is my life—”
“And you can look me in the eye and tell me that you were happier before Vegas?”
“It’s complicated, Garrett, but this was never supposed to last. This was always going to be temporary, and why the hell are you getting mad at me? You asked me to not divorce you the second we got back to Illinois so you could fix your reputation”—she pauses—“and you did.”
“So, you got nothing out of this?”
“Of course I did. But this”—she waves her hands between us—“this is what happens, Garrett. Relationships fall apart and I don’t have the time or energy to fight with someone.
I don’t want to have to apologize when I miss dinner or an event because I chose work over a person.
I don’t want to feel guilty, and I don’t want to have to answer to anyone. ”
“That’s really how you feel?”
“Things have been amazing, but the problem is always going to be me, don’t you see that?” she cries, her cheeks turning pink as she crosses her arms over her chest. “I can’t give you what you want, Garrett. This only worked between us because I knew it had an expiration date.”
“Bullshit,” I snap, her defensiveness replaced with fury.
“You don’t get to act like you know everything about me.”
“Not everything but a lot. You don’t want to stay married to me? Fine. We’ll get divorced and then you can date me. Actually date me.”
“And how’s that going to look—”
“I don’t give a fuck about how it looks to the media or people living in some high-rise in the city. I care about you. Emerson, I want you.”
“I care about you too, but I can’t give you what you want, Garrett.”
“Can’t or won’t?”
“It’s the same thing.”
“It’s fucking not and you know it,” I goad. “I’ll have Roan draw up the paperwork before your trip so I can be one less thing you have to worry about.”
“You don’t get to make me be the bad guy,” she cries. “We had an agreement.”
“We did. I just thought we had something real too.” With a parting glance over my shoulder, I add, “My mistake.”
And then I head down to my studio and pour my heart into the one thing that’s never let me down.
EMERSON
I stare at Garrett’s retreating form, my eyes stinging with angry tears that I blink away before they dare to fall.
Who the fuck does he think he is?
This is the only life I’ve known, and he can’t expect me to change overnight just because he decided to blindside me on the heels of me already being stressed about Tennessee.
With shaking hands, I pull my phone from my pocket and type out a text to Tom as I climb the stairs and head to the bedroom I shared with Garrett.
My heart squeezes in my chest.
I’m hurt and embarrassed and confused.
But I’m also angry as hell because there’s a million better ways he could have chosen to have that conversation.
And he can fuck all the way off if he thinks I’m going to stay here after that.
EMERSON: Can I take your car to Chicago?
Three little dots appear and then disappear before my phone starts ringing. If it were anyone else I’d send them to voicemail, but I can’t do it to Tom and not even because I need a favor.
You just don’t do it.
“Hey,” I manage as I pull my designer overnight bag from the closet and drop it onto the bed. My closet in Chicago is still full of things I can wear, but my favorite sweatshirt is here and so are a handful of other things I throw inside on autopilot.
“What happened?”
“Just a change of plans.”
“Emerson.”
“Oakey, I can’t, okay?” The words are a whispered plea. “Please just let it go tonight.”
“Did he hurt you?”
The silent rage that I can feel coming down the line has me shaking my head even though he can’t see me. “No.”
At least not physically.
“I don’t tell you girls enough, but I love you and I swear on the love I have for my wife that I’ll go to prison to keep you safe.”
That has me chuckling as I zip up the bag and take one last look around the room. “I love you too and you’d look terrible in orange.”
“Emerson.”
“I know. And it’s just that we didn’t take into account how things would change in six months. We’re,”—I swallow down the lump in my throat—“adjusting.”
“I don’t like it.” Me either. “Are you sure you want to leave?”
“He doesn’t want me here, Oakey.”
“When has that ever stopped you? If you want him, you need to fight for him.”
“I don’t know what I need. I just know I can’t be here tonight.”
“The car is ready for you.”
“I’ll be over to your house in a second but before I forget—did you talk to Des about Sundown Realty? I need a contact out there.”
“Yeah, I’m working on it.”
“Okay, get me something as soon as you can.”
“I’ll meet you outside.”
Disconnecting the call, I slide my phone into the pocket of my bag and descend into the kitchen. It’s still quiet, so I slip on my shoes and grab my purse. I’m nearly to the door when the light catches on my key ring.
There’s no way I’m giving my rings back before the divorce papers are signed, but my key is different. Inhaling a shaky breath, I pull it from the key ring and set it on the counter, the metal clanging against the granite.
It’s done.
Swiping a stray tear from my cheek, I move across the room and out the door, already mourning my life, my marriage, and the place I finally felt at home.
With my husband.
My fake husband.
And maybe that’s the part I need to remember—none of this was real—and sadly that’s something I know all too well.