Filthy Vows (Filthy Vows #1)(47)

“I told you, he knows.” Easton tried to reach back and pet his head, but Wayland slunk to the passenger side, out of reach.

“It doesn’t matter if he knows. He doesn’t have to get something just because we are getting something. That expectation teaches him to beg.”

“Not getting him something teaches him to beg. You don’t know that, because you never get him anything, and he always begs.”

“Did Aaron text you? I can’t believe that Chelsea found this out before we did. Take Freeman over. Madison Ave is going to be ridiculous.”

“I haven’t heard anything from him.”

“Maybe he’s at the house.”

He was at the house. I stopped in the kitchen and spied him sitting on the back deck, one flip-flopped foot propped up on our hibiscus pot. As I watched, he twisted the cap off of his beer and tossed it in the general direction of the trash can. Easton came beside me and followed my gaze through the window.

“Look,” I whispered, pointing to the papers on the patio table beside Aaron. It was a thick stack, gem-clipped together at the top, with a court seal pressed into the cover page. “Chelsea was right. The divorce is done.”

“Poor guy.”

“He’s just staring at the pool.”

“He’s probably wondering why we can’t afford to fix it.”

“Or why we haven’t stuck some koi out there.” Our pool had been at the top of a renovation list we’d never begun, the broken pump and cracked walls now framing a three-foot pond of algae-thick sludge that occupied the deep end and rose and fell with the rain levels.

“I think you’d have to install an air filter or pump, in order for koi to live.”

“She’s such a bitch. I can’t believe we introduced them. Technically, this is partly our fault. You think he’s crying?”

“He’s not a big cryer. Remember when we watched Armageddon?”

“Not everyone cries in that movie. I think he cried at their wedding. When she was walking down the aisle?”

“Those could have been tears of remorse.”

“Or allergies.”

“Or your onion breath.” I gripped his arm. “Wait, something’s happening.” Aaron’s head turned slowly to one side, his strong profile visible.

“Elle?” Aaron said my name clearly, at a normal volume, and I stiffened.

“Yes?”

“You know, the doggie door is open. I can hear everything you guys are saying.”

Easton glared at me and I shot the look right back at him. “I didn’t open it!” I whispered.

“You should have checked,” he hissed.

“Yeah, I can hear that too. The acoustics out here are incredible. It’s like being in a concrete bowl.”

At least he didn’t sound like he was crying. I pushed by Easton and pulled open the door, giving him a cautious smile. “Hey there.”

“God, you guys have convoluted conversations. Your concern for me was overshadowed by like nine other things.”

“We were getting back around to you,” Easton said, following me out onto the porch and pulling the door shut behind him.

“Well, I’m fine.” Aaron took a sip of the beer, his gaze returning to the pool.

“You don’t have to be fine,” I moved the other chair into the shaded part of the porch and sat in it. “It’s okay to be upset.”

“Honestly, I’m just exhausted right now. I’m just glad it’s over. C’est la vie.”

I watched as he took another sip of beer, his handsome features blank and unemotional. He did look exhausted. I thought of him in the limo, the way he’d closed his eyes and rested his head back on the seat. What had he said? That he was tired. Tired and heartbroken.

Three and a half weeks later, and he certainly hadn’t gotten any rest.

Easton picked up the stack of papers. “This looks thick.”

“That’s what she said.” He gave a weak smile, then lifted his shoulders in a shrug. “It’s all legal jargon. I didn’t even read it. If she’s fucking me, she’s fucking me.”

Easton shot me a look and I subtly shook my head, not wanting him to push Aaron, especially when he was in this mood.

I pushed out of the chair and opened the cooler. Shifting through the half-melted ice, I snagged two more beers. Cracking the tops off both, I passed one to E. “Hey. To new beginnings.”

Aaron held out his beer. “To new beginnings.”

We clinked bottles and I saw a bit of the tension ease out of Aaron’s shoulders.





We finished a case of Bud Light over fish tacos, all while sharing every terrible story we had about Becca. I told them about the time she borrowed my Betsy Johnson purse which had twenty dollars in the inside pocket, and returned it sans the cash. Aaron told us about the time she got so drunk that she told his Cuban grandmother that political refugees were the downfall of the South Florida economy and culture. We were horrible and cruel and laughed harder as the night grew later. At ten-thirty, I sent her a text that outlined in typo-riddled clarity, all the reasons that she was a terrible person. At eleven-fifteen, we decided to Viking funeral the copy of the divorce papers and spent thirty drunk minutes assembling a boat. Easton produced a cracked skimboard as a base, and we created a structure out of beer bottles, a starter log and twigs, the stack of papers set on top and then doused in Wild Turkey.