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I set my leather bag, which I now figured for ruined, on the table. I studied the tabletop while Brandon, who had taken a seat on the couch, watched nervously.
“I’m going to take a hot shower,” I announced abruptly, suddenly desperate to get out of my wet, chafing clothes.
“Alone?”
Brandon’s sly half smile drenched the room with charisma. I glared. The smile disappeared.
“Yes,” I said curtly. “I’ll be out when I’m out.”
Maybe it was the opportunity to delay the inevitably awful conversation waiting for me, but my shower felt like I was readying myself for battle. I took my time about it, reshaving my legs and underarms, letting my conditioner sit for an extra five minutes, scrubbing down every inch of my body twice with the jasmine-scented soap I saved for special occasions. When I got out, I tweezed my eyebrows and spent another thirty minutes putting on just the right amount of makeup and blow-drying my hair into a riot of waves. I put on my favorite black sweater and gray corduroys that fit me like a second skin. Comfortable, but dark enough to fit my mood. Severe, but not necessarily polished.
When I came out, Brandon was still on the couch, facing the nonworking fireplace with his boots kicked off and his coat and hat removed. In his plain t-shirt and jeans, he looked more like a student than I did. He also looked like he was freezing.
“You look nice,” Brandon said. Despite the compliment, all traces of flirtation were gone. “I, um, like your hair like that.”
“Thanks. I’m going to make a pot of tea if you want any.” My tone was similarly devoid of kindness that should have matched my offer.
“Sure,” he said cautiously. “Whatever you’re having is fine.”
I did my best to ignore him as I went to the kitchen. I took out the small tray Jane and I kept above the refrigerator and loaded it up with two mugs, honey, spoons, and a small pitcher of milk. By the time the kettle whistled, all I had to do was pour it over the tea leaves in the pot and let it steep as I carried everything over to the coffee table.
“Thanks, Skylar. This is really nice.”
Continuing to ignore Brandon, I doctored my usual cup, taking extra time about it. Brandon followed my model, but it was clear by his awkward movements—the clash of his spoon against the porcelain mug, the way he dripped both honey and milk onto the tray—that he wasn’t used to fixing his own beverages. Typical, I thought ungraciously. I made no move to help, just sat back in my college-issued armchair, trying to ignore the fact that compared to Brandon’s plush furniture, mine was like sitting on a collection of lumpy rocks.
Brandon pulled a wad of crumpled, damp papers from his back pocket and dropped them on the coffee table with a solid whack. We both stared at them for a moment before he sat back too. Our sips echoed through the room. Although I was determined not to break the standoff, my impatience got the best of me after a few minutes had passed.
“What’s that?” I asked.
“My divorce agreement. Or it was until this morning. Now she won’t sign.”
The accusation wasn’t explicitly there, but I felt it anyway. Something had been ruined the second that woman had walked in on Brandon and me.
“What—”
“We’re separated,” Brandon cut me off. “We’ve been legally separated for over three years, since I originally filed.” He glanced over his mug with a raised eyebrow, as if daring me to contradict him. “I’ll show you the original if you want, Red—I mean, Skylar. The court dates are all online.”
“Maybe,” I replied woodenly.
We took a few more loud sips of tea, each waiting for the other to speak. Once again, I was the first to break.
“Three years is a long time to be just separated,” I remarked.
He knew what I meant: why aren’t you divorced yet?
Brandon sighed. “She contested. We never had a prenup…I know, I know, but we were kids when we got married. I wasn’t worth much, and I was an idiot. And now, she wants half. It’s not that I mind paying her off, but I’d either have to dissolve a bunch of my assets, which would mean a lot of people losing their jobs, or I’d have to make her an executive board member of Ventures, which I’m absolutely not going to do.” He ran a hand through his hair, causing one side to stick out. “Thank God the company isn’t public yet. Then it would be a real fuckin’ mess.”
I bit my lip, considering the thick stack of papers. “Because a three-year divorce isn’t a mess.”
Brandon looked up wryly. “It’s never been tidy, that’s for sure.”
I sighed. “So what happened? Why did you file for divorce?”
He stared down at his mug, still almost completely full—he wasn’t much of a tea drinker. Ana made him coffee every morning.
“Miranda’s father owned the fund where I got my first job. The story I told you before is true…but that’s not all I was doing back then.” Brandon looked up, his expression regretful. “You’re probably not going to like this other story, Skylar.”
I twisted my lips to the side. “Well, I don’t likeyouvery much right now anyway, so you might as well spill. It can’t get much worse.”
