Her brows rise, a thin slash of disbelief. “Full service, huh?”
“Anything your heart desires, milady.” I throw in a wink, just to be insufferable.
“Can you drive to Moraine, knock some sense into my soon-to-be ex-husband, and get him to sign the separation agreement and affidavit agreeing to entry of divorce so I can finally move on with my goddamn life?” Her voice cracks with fury. “Because that—that—would be great.”
I blink. That is… not what I was expecting.
“He’s refusing?”
“Oh, he’s more than refusing. He called me screaming, losing his shit, said he couldn’t believe I hired an attorney without talking to him first. Which, sure, whatever. Expected.”
Hm. Expected outcomes do not result in copy room hideouts.
“But, he’s not why you’re hiding in the copy room, is he?”
She’s quiet for a second, her face re-buried in her arms, head shaking ‘no.’
Then, she returns her emotionally spent and broken gaze to mine. “My father.”
I still. She’s never said much about her parents, except the throwaway mention of her plan to visit them this week.
“What about your father?”
She blows out a humorless laugh. “Not three minutes after I got off the phone with Chase, he called. Out of the blue. Haven’t heard from him in months. And he didn’t ask if I was okay. Didn’t care. He called to tell me it’s time to stop my ‘little tantrum,’ repent—yes,repent—and return home to the ‘safety of my marriage.’”
“Safety?”
“Yep,” she says, popping the ‘p.’ “Because apparently a man who punches holes in walls issafe.” She scrubs a hand over herface, fury sparking hotter. “And when I tried to explain, he cut me off. Kept talking over me like nothing I could possibly say mattered. Told me Chase had already confessed his heartbreak and his failures, that he’s in counseling now, that I’m the one destroying a covenant. Dad’s solution? Go home. Cook dinner. Pray more. Pretend my life is fine.”
Well, this explains why she decided not to visit her parents this week.
“That’s…” I shake my head. “That’s messed up.”
“Believe me, I know. He spits out Bible verses, cherry-picks them to justify being cold and distant, and calls it leadership. Like he knows better or best or whatever because he’s a man with a swinging dick between his legs, so us women better listen! We better obey! He’s been doing it to my mom for forty years.” Her laugh is sharp, her voice rising with each word. “And now he thinks I shouldthankhimfor teaching me the same lesson.”
She slaps the floor on either side of her—no longer speaking, now she’s shouting. “No! No, I will not listen and I will not obey and… JUST. NO!”
She’s unraveling in front of me: tears forming, hands flailing. Her knees uncurl from her chest and she drops them into a crossed-pretzel position on the floor, gesturing wildly as she continues the rant, cataloguing every grotesque detail of the conversation with her father. Anger pours off her like steam, filling the room, saturating the air.
I let her go until I realize she’s spiraling into the kind of rage that leaves you worse than when you started.
She pauses to take a breath, and that’s my cue— “Do you want to get out of here?” I cut in.
She freezes, mid-rant, hands suspended in the air. “What?”
“Do you. Want to. Get out. Of here.”
“Like… the copy room?”
“Well, yes. But also the building. The campus. Go dosomething exponentially more fun than folding yourself into misery on the floor.”
“We can’t just leave.”
I make a big show of glancing around. “You’re right. We’d get in so much trouble leaving the office when literally no one else is on campus. Absolutely criminal.”
Her eyes narrow, the faintest flicker of a smirk slipping through her anger.
“So, you coming or not?” I hold out my hand.
