“I don’t know,” I answer, then close her door. I’m prepared for her to demand a better response, but when I open my door and slide in, she doesn’t say anything.
I drive Natalie to a place where she can scream until her throat hurts.
“Hey, Lisa.” I wave at the woman behind the desk. “This is Natalie.”
Natalie waves and Lisa smiles. She turns back to me. “What do you need, Aidan?”
I make prayer hands and hope I look pathetic enough. “The recording studio for, like, twenty minutes.”
Lisa gives me a look. “Come on,” I plead.
Lisa sighs but points behind herself with one thumb. “Studio B. Twenty minutes.”
Grabbing Natalie’s hand, I waste no time getting back there. There are flips and switches everywhere, but we won’t need any of those. The room is divided nearly in half by a glass wall and a door. I lead Natalie through the door and into the studio.
“Here,” I say, patting the top of a stool the way Natalie did for me in her kitchen earlier. She sits tentatively, looking at me with uncertainty.
“I can’t do this,” she half-whispers.
“Nobody will hear you.”
“Just you.”
“I’ll leave.” Without waiting for her to tell me, I turn around and walk out, closing the door behind me. Glancing back through the glass wall, our eyes meet, and I read her lips.Thank you.
I smile tightly and turn around, leaving the room altogether and going to wait in the hallway.
The preacher’s daughter is nothing like I thought she would be.
1
Natalie
Sign it.
Such a simple task. Pick up the pen and sign your name on the line. A few strokes and my name will join his.
Paper bound us, and paper will cement our ending.
Three years ago, on our paper anniversary, Henry handed me a roll of toilet paper. On it, he’d writtenI love the shit out of youin brown Sharpie.
“Mrs. Shay? Do you need a moment?” The attorney we chose has a voice like gravel and kind eyes. That had surprised me. Before him I thought all divorce attorneys were callous, hardened to the emotion spilling out in front of them. My parents’ attorneys had dull, lifeless eyes. I assumed years of client theatrics had immunized them to personal anguish.
A deep breath fills my chest, passing slowly through my lips on its way out. I look up into eyes crinkled at the corners. Mr. Rosenstein, our attorney, is dressed in a starched white shirt, navy suit, and plaid bow tie. He may work in New York City, but his outfit says genteel Southerner.
Clearing my throat, I manage to push words past the lump that has formed. “I’m okay. Thank you.”
I pick up the pen, its coldness a sharp contrast to my heated palm. My thumb extends, covering the end, and I both hear and feel the click. The sound is thunderous, somehow louder in volume than any of our fights.
How did it come to this?
It’s a silly question. I know just how it happened. Epic showdownsdecreased in ferocity until the air between us held only silence. Hearts that beat red faded into anunassuming, neutral shade. Eventually we became spectators in the demise of our marriage.
The pen scratches across the paper, my hand making the familiar loops. I dot myiand cross myt,imagining it as a headline.
Natalie Shay has just signed her divorce papers.
* * *
