“Really? The boys want me to coach?” Brooks says, taking a seat across the table from me. He stacks my notebooks neatly, then hands them to me to tuck into the leather satchel I now refer to as my divorce bag.
I nod, but bite my tongue because there’s a second part to their plan that he’s going to dislike perhaps as much as I did. He tilts his head and reduces his smile to a straight line.
“They’d like Brandon to coach, too. With you. Which is?—”
“Fucking awesome!” he responds.
I eye him skeptically.
“No, seriously. This is perfect. He’ll get comfortable with me out on the field, because we’re dudes, and sports is like neutral territory. And then he’ll grow comfortable with the idea of us cohabitating, and eventually, we can pretend our relationship was just a natural progression, and then?—”
I hold up a hand, chuckling so hard it takes me a minute to speak.
“I’m sorry, but that was, A, a pretty misogynistic fantasy, assuming just because you both are dudes that sports will save the day. B, Brandon has zero athletic ability. At least, not on your level. He’ll resent you for making him look stupid. And finally, C, there is no way he is ever going to buy the idea that we weren’t hooking up all along.”
Brooks chews at the inside of his cheek but a slight smirk takes hold.
“Hooking up,” he says with a snort laugh.
“Gah!” I wave a hand at him before grabbing my satchel along with my phone and keys. “You’re impossible.”
His hand grazes my ass as I pass, and I swat it but giggle because dammit, I like the dangerous flirting. We’re going to get caught; I’m sure of it. But we haven’t yet. And the rush makes every stolen moment so much hotter.
The boys rush into the room a second later, diving onto the couch and pretending to slide into second base the way they saw Brooks do it a few weeks ago. They’re dying to go to another game. Maybe this weekend, if I can swing it.
“Hey, I have an idea!” Brooks raises his hands up to get the boys’ attention, then glances at me and winks on my way to the door. “How about we build a baseball diamond in the living room out of pillows?”
“Yeah!” The boys start pulling apart the couch as I leave, and it’s hard not to stay. As it is, I’m going to have to be vague about who I left them with. Kind of like Brandon was during our parenting class.
Mediation is about thirty minutes away in one of the county satellite offices. It was the closest thing to a neutral location we could settle on, and mostly smack in the middle between both of our homes. I pull into the parking lot next to Brandon’s Land Rover, and the sight of my six-year-old base-level minivan next to his year-old premium ride speaks volumes. Unfortunately, I’m the only one listening and seeing.
I shrug my bag over my shoulder and beep the fob for my van as I trek across the gravel lot and into the portable building used for traffic court and divorce hearings. The next time I show up here it will be the actual end of us, and truthfully, I can’t wait.
I check in at the makeshift front desk, and the administrator makes a copy of my driver’s license before waving me to the back of the building. I spot Brandon first through the slender window, then his lawyer comes into view, followed by the last-minuteattorney I was able to cobble payment for, together with my parents’ help. It looks as though they’re waiting on the mediator still, so I let myself in and do my best to avoid making eye contact with anyone but my lawyer.
“Thank you for coming,” I say to the man whose name I don’t quite recall. He stands and straightens his tie, then shakes my hand before pulling a chair out for me to sit down. He’s already more chivalrous than my ex. I somehow keep that thought internal, and preen a little for that.
I pull my bag to my lap and flip through the folder I tucked in there before I left, searching for the torn paper I scribbled the attorney’s name on.Jeff Peters!
I pull a notebook out next, then tuck my bag next to my chair just as the mediator enters the room. It’s a woman, which probably shouldn’t mean anything but means a lot to me. Brandon leaps to his feet first, reaching across the table to shake the tall blonde woman’s hand. Brandon may be a professor, but I swear, sometimes he acts more like a salesman.
“Good to meet you,” the woman says, offering a pleasant smile. She doesn’t look overly impressed, however, and that gives me a dose of hope.
“I’m Molly Redmon.” She turns to me and I take her hand.
“Lindsey. Nice to meet you.” I clear my throat when I hear how raspy it sounds.
“You tired?” Brandon says, and I glance at him, wondering why he’s trying to come off friendly.
“I’m fine,” I say. My response is curt, I realize as we all sit, so I tack on, “Thank you for asking.”
It all feels so fake. Every word we say in here. Because it is. I hate this.
“I’ve gotten up to speed on your case, and I commend you both for putting in the work. I hope you got a lot out of the parenting class,” Molly says.
“Oh, absolutely!”
“Meh.”
