“Like what?”
“I mean, I haven’t memorized his vocabulary, but you can have a conversation with him and he speaks in full sentences.”
She hummed. “I have my doubts, Jack.”
My wheels turned.
“Your divorce was final in what?”
“January four years ago.”
“But you guys had been separated since I think… November maybe?” She continued working the details around. “If the last time you were together was November that would make him pretty close to four already—hmm.” She made a frustrated noise. “He doesn’t seem quite that old.”
Miranda threw the flowers out the window and left me a few days after that Thanksgiving. It was when we separated but itwasn’tour last time together. Our last time was a memory I revisited almost daily. Didn’t really want to share it with my sister though.
She went on and on, verbally processing through different timelines and theories. Driving me crazy, honestly.
“Sis. Stop.”
“What?”
I sighed. “Our last time together wasn’t that November.”
Then
I drained the last beer while I sat on the front porch. It was Friday night, biting cold. Felt good for some reason. I came to dread nights off. I was never much of a drinker, but the last couple months, something about beer hit just right.
I told myself I liked the taste. But if I was being honest, I liked the numbing effects. Pretending life wasn’t so bad for a couple hours was kind of nice.
Just when I was about to go inside, a car pulled into the driveway. Miranda’s Corolla. I hadn’t seen her in weeks. Our sole communication had been through an attorney. It made no sense for her to be here. The divorce would be final in meredays.
The flutter in my chest was stupidity. Excitement was completely inappropriate. But I smoothed my hair and walked to the porch steps. A foolish surge of hope rippled through my body.
I’d left the porch lights off when I came out. I cleared my throat so she wouldn’t be startled. “What are you doing here?”
She didn’t look up as she climbed. “I forgot a box of my stuff in the spare room.”
The nearest streetlamp was across the way, providing just enough light to see her. Miranda was like an angel ascending the steps. Her soft, blonde hair tied into a sloppy bun at the top of her head, with tiny wisps brushing the skin of her neck. Despite the early cold of January, she was coatless and only wore skinny jeans and a long sleeve shirt with a scooped neckline. It waswellfitted, allowing for a generous tease of her body in multiple places.
The goddess in front of me was still my wife.
I cleared my throat again for entirely different reasons. “What stuff?”
“Old crap. Like letters, papers, and junk. I can’t find my social security card, old letters from Tag, and a few other things. You mind?”
I motioned toward the front door. “Go right ahead.”
She proceeded into the spare bedroom and jerked open the closet doors. Only two boxes there. Neither held the desired items. I followed her around as she searched every closet in the house. I couldn’t keep my eyes off her. That shirt was…and she knew it. The longer we searched, the more convinced I was she came dressed like that on purpose. Like she wanted to torment me. Like she wanted me to haul her off to the bedroom.
“We’ll have to search the attic.” She stormed into the hallway and reached for the ladder string she couldn’t reach. She looked at me, arching an eyebrow, arm stretched upward.
“It’s not up there.”
“How do you know?”
“Because you can’t get up there without my help. And I haven’t opened this attic door in…”
“Just open it!” She stamped her foot in frustration, her blonde brows furrowing.
