“Oh, please. We hadn’t had sex in months, and you’d stopped cooking.”
“Ah. So silly of me. Those things absolutely describe a ruined marriage. Far be it for me to desire an emotional connection with the man I vowed to spend the rest of my life with.”
“Stop being dramatic and open the door. We have to talk.”
“Dramatic? You think this is dramatic?” I took a step back from the screened door and, for a fleeting moment, thought about the satisfaction I’d get from kicking the door out and watching as he fell down the stairs and onto his bony ass.
How could I have wasted so many years of my life on him?
“This is me on a regular Friday afternoon. You want to see dramatic? Keep dragging your feet about why you’re here. My lawyer is a fucking shark who would love to rip you to shreds.”
“Open the damn door, Summer. This freaking heat is brutal.”
“Not a chance. Now say what you have to say, and leave.”
I heard the recliner behind me adjust, and I held my breath, hoping Dad would stay put and not make this situation worse. I was sure he could hear every word and knew a dressing down was in my immediate future.
“Fine. Whatever. Your loss.”
“Yes, I’m dramatically waiting for the end of this conversation.”
He scoffed, the sound somehow amplified over my heavy breathing and racing pulse. “You only recently changed your mailing address, and a very official letter showed up several weeks ago.”
No. Oh, please. No. He wouldn’t. He couldn’t.
“Being the dutiful husband I was, I opened the letter and took it to my lawyers immediately.”
“Opening my mail is a federal offense,” I said, clenching my fists and digging my nails into my palms while trying to keep my voice from dropping three octaves.
“So is keeping such a large amount of money a secret from me. But don’t worry, that’s all amended in this paperwork.” He removed a folded manilla envelope from his back pocket and tossed it on the ground before gesturing to it with his head. “Since whoever she was to you died before we filed for divorce, half of that inheritance is mine.”
“Trey—”
“Don’t bother with whatever you’re going to say. That money is half mine, and I intend to make sure Mindy and I have a nice sized down payment for a new place. You can’t exactly expect me to stay in our little shithole of a house, not after I saw the number of zeros on that paperwork.”
My shoulders wilted, and my knees quaked like a fault line had suddenly erupted beneath the tile floor in Dad’s front hall. The small part of me that dared dream of carving out a little slice of life all to myself died like the brown flowers on the back porch. Instead, my vision swam, deluged with images of long, drawn-out court battles, dwindling savings, and stomach ulcers.
“How dare—”
“Enough, Summer. I mean, really? How dare I, what? Take what is rightfully mine? Find comfort in another when youcouldn’t be bothered to even make eye contact with me? Tell me. How dare I, what?”
“I can’t understand how vindictive you are. How hateful this is, Trey. Was I so awful? Was our marriage so pitiful it only took a single rough patch for you to openly cheat on me?”
Ihatedhow pathetic I sounded—how utterlydestroyedmy body felt as the weight of my failed marriage fell upon my shoulders. I’d had no intention of returning to Hilton Head, perfectly content to keep most of my belongings in storage until Dad recovered and I could find a modest little place close to the water with blue curtains and sage walls.
Now, the mistakes of my marriage bogged me down as the scrap of freedom I thought I’d found slipped between my fingertips like the water from the leaky showerhead in the upstairs bathroom that had plagued me since I’d moved in with Dad.
“You ask me those questions, and yet you refuse to ask yourself the most important one.”
Trey grabbed the screen door handle and tugged it, but the lock didn’t budge.
“And what is that, Trey?” I asked, my voice barely above a whisper because my heart wasn’t strong enough to handle more hurt. My chest felt heavy, and with each breath I took, it felt like shards of glass burrowed deeper into my damaged soul.
“When was the last time you were truly happy, Summer? A year ago? Two? Five? How long were you prepared to go through the motions with me? Another decade? All I did was speed the process along.”
I opened and closed my mouth like a fish struggling to breathe on land, letting his words sink in. The truth hurt—but no matter how unhappy we were, what he did was inexcusable, and I steadied my breathing, letting his pathetic justification fuel my words.
“Instead of having an open conversation or seeking counseling, you decided the best course of action was to stick your prick—”
