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“About the divorce?” He clarifies it so calmly. Like we’re discussing plans for lunch.
“The fuck else do you think I’m talking about?”
“Oh.”
That’s all he says. No, he doesn’t even say it. He breathes the sound out, and then he clams up. Doesn’t move. Doesn’t say a word. Doesn’t even blink.
“So? When?” I ask. “What was the plan here, Lake?”
He crosses his arms over his chest.
“I don’t understand what your problem is,” he says.
“My problem?” I repeat slowly.
Unbelievable.
“My problem is you trying to divorce me behind my back,” I snap.
I’m too pissed to approach this calmly and rationally, and I know it’s a mistake while I’m at it, but I can’t seem to take a step back and stop.
“That’s not strictly true,” he says.
“How is it not strictly true?”
“Technically, I can’t divorce you behind your back. You’re saying it like you’ll check the records in twenty years and suddenly find out you’re not married anymore. You’ll have to sign the papers at some point, and those will be right in front of your face. So no. Strictly speaking, I’m not divorcing you behind your back.”
“Seriously?” I ask. “That’s what you have to say about this?”
He shrugs, but there’s a flash of defiance in his eyes.
“I don’t… I don’t know what you want me to say,” he says. “I don’t get why you’re so pissed off.”
“You don’t—” I start to say. “You don’t know? Really? You can’t use that big brain of yours and figure out why this situation might make me a little bit frustrated?”
“Did you want to be the one to file the papers? Is that it?” he asks, and I really can’t tell if he’s being serious with that shit or not right now.
“No. Interestingly enough I don’t give a single shit about who files the fucking papers,” I say.
“Then what’s your fucking problem?” he asks very slowly.
I stare at him, my insides twisting and turning.
“Well, clearly there isn’t one,” I say as calmly as I can, which isn’t really calmly at all. “You know what? You’re right. I’m obviously pissed off for no reason at all, and everything about this is just fine. I guess we’ll get that divorce then. Irreconcilable differences, apparently. And that difference is that you want a divorce.”
He stands very still. The only movement I can detect is his throat when he gulps.
“You can’t tell me you don’t want this,” he says. “This was always the plan. The whole reason we did this was for the trust fund. It’s a business deal. You said it yourself.”
“It stopped being a business deal the moment I fucking kissed you!” I snap.
His breathing has become very quick, chest rising and falling rapidly.
“What do you want, then?” he asks. “You… What? You don’t want to get a divorce? Is that what you’re saying?”
Fuck it.
“Yeah. Maybe I am.”
