Page 68 of Wreckage and Rain

She goes back to her office in a huff. I can't find it in myself to care. I'm barely hanging on as it is.

My father hasn't asked me a personal question in five weeks.

The firm hasn't asked me a personal question in five weeks.

I have been performing at work at a level I have never had to perform it before, and the performance is keeping me upright, and underneath the performance is a man whose hands shake when he sets his coffee down.

I am rereading the same paragraph for the third time when reception calls.

"Mr. Bennet, there is a gentleman here for you."

"Send him in."

"He says it's a personal delivery. He'd like to come up."

"Send him up."

I don't get out of my chair.

I hear the elevator open at the other end of the floor. Footsteps. Cheryl from reception apologizing softly to the man as she walks him through the floor. The conference rooms have glass walls and the floor is open-plan and Cheyenne is in her office across from my door and she looks up because everyone looks up when a stranger walks the floor.

The man stops at the open door of my office.

"Colt Bennet?"

"Yes."

"You have been served."

He sets the envelope on my desk.

He leaves.

The floor is silent. Cheyenne's eyes are on me through the open door. Somewhere on the other side of the floor a phone rings unanswered.

The envelope is manila. It is heavier than it should be. It has the seal of the Charleston County Family Court on it.

I open it.

I read.

It is a complaint for divorce. Petitioner Summer Eloise King, formerly Summer Eloise Bennet, against respondent Colt David Bennet. Irreconcilable differences. Adultery as constructive grounds. Filed yesterday. Signed by an attorney in Charleston named Patrick Hammond.

She did this.

She actually did this.

The realization comes in two pieces.

The first truth hits hard and clean.

She did it.

My wife hired a lawyer. She filed for divorce. She paid a stranger to walk into my office and place the end of our marriage on my desk.

Summer isn’t coming back.

The second truth comes slower.