“Working late again?”
Andrew’s voice startled me out of the photo editing zone I’d been in for the last few hours. I looked up at my new boss’s handsome face, all kindness and concern, and did my best to return the smile he was giving me.
“Can’t help it,” I said. “The early days are the ones that set the tone. I’m not turning in anything less than perfection.”
I knew I wasn’t expected to put in the kind of hours I had been clocking, but I desperately needed the distraction. Not only that, but I wanted to make the best possible impression on my coworkers and thelookingglasssubscribers.
“I’d expect nothing less from the great Emzee Zoric,” he said. “You’ve been a godsend to the magazine. Though I’m sure your brothers aren’t happy with me for poaching you.”
“Nah, they were okay with it. A little shocked, maybe, but they’ve been supportive. They knew I was ready for a challenge.”
He nodded. “Well, don’t push yourself too hard. And let me know when you want to grab a drink after work. All work and no play, right?”
I raised a brow. The last time we’d gotten drinks, the night had ended with Andrew and Ford in fisticuffs. Or I guess, more accurately, the two of them at an Urgent Care.
Andrew must have known exactly what I was thinking. “Completely platonic drinks, colleague to colleague. In fact, we can invite the whole office. And your husband, if he’s ready to forgive me my trespasses. My treat.”
Ah. There it was. I’d been waiting for him to mention Ford. So far, Andrew had been such an incredible boss—and friend—to me. Not only had he given me a job, my dream job, really, but he’d been kind enough not to ask too many questions about why I’d called out of the blue to accept his job offer. Ford’s name hadn’t even come up until now…though I knew he had to be extremely curious about why I’d suddenly changed my mind about moving to New York, and what that move meant for my marriage.
“Actually, he’s still in Chicago,” I said. Better to get the truth out of the way than make up some elaborate lie that I wouldn’t be able to maintain. “We’re sort of…separated.”
“Oh wow. I’m so sorry,” Andrew said sincerely. “I’d wondered.”
I shook my head. “It’s fine. I mean, I’ll be fine. I’d rather not talk about it.”
“Yeah. Of course. Totally respect that.” He stepped back with his hands up, as if to prove that he was happy to literally and figuratively give me space. Honestly, I appreciated it. “Well, let me know if you need anything. I’ll leave you to it.”
“Thanks, Andrew. Have a good night.”
He headed out, turning off most of the office lights on his way, and then I was alone. Leaning back in my chair, I stretched, hoping I could squeeze out just a few more photo edits before I went home.
But first I reached down and gave Munchkin a treat and a scratch behind his ears. He wagged his stubby tail happily.
“That’s my good boy,” I told him, but my voice cracked and my eyes started to sting. Sometimes the weight of everything snuck up on me like that, out of nowhere. The loss heavy in my chest. The memories of my last moments with Ford replaying in my head on repeat.
I hadn’t expected him to sign the divorce papers without a fight, but it had been agony to face him in that hallway and tell him that we were over. I knew it was the right thing to do—knew that he couldn’t repair what he had broken—but it still hurt. Maybe it always would. I wasn’t sure I’d ever truly get over him.
Because it felt like so many bereavements at once. I’d lost not just my husband and my happily ever after, but also the friendship I’d always depended on and the entire basis of it. People talked about the rug being yanked out from under you, but in my case, it turned out the entire floor had been rotten all along. The rug was just another pretty lie.
I saved the image I’d been working on and closed out of my editing program. Then, out of habit, I checked my email for a message that I was starting to think would never come.
The one from my lawyer that would confirm that Ford had signed the divorce papers.
But per usual, there was nothing from the firm. No matter how many hundreds of times I refreshed my inbox, I never got the email I was waiting for.
Instead, I had yet another message from Mrs. Malone. Berating me for the fact that her son still refused to sign and file the paperwork that would end our union. Reminding me that they wouldn’t settle my family’s debt until the divorce was finalized. As if it was my fault.
I sent back a terse reply, telling Ford’s mother the same things I always did. That I’d held up my end of the bargain, and I wanted him to sign those papers just as much as she did, but there wasn’t anything I could do. That I was just as anxious as they were for our agreement to go through, and that I looked forward to the matter being resolved as soon as possible.
Not that she cared that the hold-up wasn’t actually my fault. The Malones weren’t the kind of people who took responsibility for anything, so why would they even consider sitting their son down and having a chat? Though, truth be told, it probably wouldn’t do anything to change Ford’s mind. He was too stubborn. And it was doubtful they had any influence over him.
It was time to take matters into my own hands.
Though the thought of calling Ford to beg him to sign the papers made me sick—or maybe that was nausea from my pregnancy. I was starting to wonder when the supposed pregnancy glow would kick in, because so far, I’d mostly just felt like crap.
I got myself a glass of water from the office kitchen and then pulled Munchkin into my lap, phone in my hand. This was it. I’d been putting off this call long enough.
Assuming Ford answered, I’d be as direct as possible. I’d tell him that I needed him to sign off on the divorce immediately, that things were completely over between us, that he couldn’t undo the hurt he had caused and the distrust I had for him. There was no going back.
