“You think I’m pretty?” I asked in mock shock, holding my fingers primly in front of my mouth.
“Sarcasm doesn’t become you. You can’t kick me out, because I’ve lived here for over fifteen years. That’s the long and short of it.”
“That may be thelongof it, but I know where theshortof it is,” I said, with a pointed look at his towel. On the inside, however, I was fuming. I tamped down my boiling rage. “I’m assuming you’ve been talking with your lawyer?”
“Yes, and she is very good at what she does.”
My heart pounded ninety to nothing, but I forced a smile to my face. “That’s fine, but you arenotsleeping with me. Unless you would like me to become your official alarm clock.”
He blanched ever so slightly.
I took that as a small victory and retreated to my craft room. I closed the french doors and the curtains so I could pace unseen for a few minutes. Of course it couldn’t be as simple as kicking him out. The cheap bastard probably didn’t want to have to pay for another apartment.
But that was not a “me” problem.
I had managed to get his attention with the cookie sheet yesterday. I could think of other ways to make life as uncomfortable as possible for him, couldn’t I?
Just like that, I knew the first step in Operation Get Mitch Out of My House.
I took out my phone and scrolled through my contacts. My finger hesitated over a familiar name. I had to make the call.
“Hello, Mom?”
“Vivian, to what do I owe the pleasure of speaking to you again so soon?”
Now I had my mother on the line, but the words I needed to say got caught in my throat.
“Vivian?”
“Mom, I need your help.”
Silence stretched between us, and I was afraid she would laugh in my face. Instead, she finally replied, “All right. What kind of help?”
When I asked about a lawyer, she didn’t hesitate to give me a ranked list of possibilities from before she moved to Florida. She also admonished me to start calling as soon as possible. If Mitch decided to be spiteful, he could consult with each and every lawyer around just to limit my options.
When I told her about Operation Get Mitch Out of My House, she paused for the longest time.
“I’ll be there tomorrow.”
Mitch waltzed into the kitchen while Dylan’s and my lunches were already in progress. I’d picked up a couple of sandwiches on the way home from church. Two sandwiches.
“Where’s mine?” asked Mitch.
He wasn’t even angry yet, just lost and confused. I had the urge to get up and immediately make him a salad, maybe offer him the uneaten half of my sandwich.
Nope, that’s old Vivian’s game. New Vivian is going to let him sweat it.
“Well, Dad, I don’t think Mom should have to fix meals for you if you want to divorce her.” Dylan’s voice came out eerily calm and oddly adult. I studied him in wonder.
Mitch crossed his arms over his chest. “Whose side are you on?”
Ah, there was the anger and the bluster.
“No one’s,” Dylan said as he placed his sandwich wrapper in the trash can. “Just stating the obvious.”
“Pretty clear to me that you’re on your mother’s side.”
Dylan paused in the kitchen. Father and son stared each other down. Dylan stood a couple of inches taller than his father. They looked like mirror images of each other except for Mitch being thirty-one years older.
