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“You need to leave,” I stated, “now.”
He took a few more steps toward me, but I backed up further. I shook my head. “No.”
Trey stopped.
And glared at me.
“Unfuckingbelieveable,” he muttered to me, still holding my eyes with his.
In one, fast swoop, he grabbed all the papers—held them in his hands—and ripped them right down the center.
My jaw fell to the floor. “What are you doing?” I screeched at the top of my lungs.
“That,” he said with a huge scowl, “is what I think of your fucking divorce papers.”
Then, he tore them again.
And again.
“You idiot!” Hands on my hips like I was four years old, I said, “Fine, I’ll just have another copy made.”
Trey held up the torn papers in both hands. “Good,” he shook the ripped up shreds, “and I’ll tear those up, too.”
I felt my heart beat faster than it ever had before. “You’re impossible.”
“And you’re my wife. I’ll never sign these stupid papers.”
He turned around and strode out of my apartment like it was on fire.
After he slammed the door shut, I rushed to the window.
I wanted to see where he was going.
I watched him stomp up to the pool—and toss what was left of the divorce papers into it.
“What the heck?” I gasped and covered my mouth with my hands.
He kept bending over and picking up the pieces that landed on the deck.
I heard him yelling something, but I couldn’t make out what he was saying.
Every time he threw a handful of papers, inevitably, half of them mocked him and floated back to the deck.
The wind was not on his side today.
It was like watching a bad comedy routine—at Trey’s expense.
He’d stepped on some of the papers—and they stuck to the bottom of his foot.
When he lifted it up and yanked the soggy pages off—he lost his balance.
“Oh, no.” I kept my eyes on Trey as he lost his battle with the papers—and gravity.
And fell, ass first, into the pool.
