Good Time(54)

“Like that, yes,” he answers after a long pause. Then he hangs up.

Okay then. I sigh as I push my chair back and stand, gathering my things for the department meeting. At the last minute I grab the annulment papers from my purse and slide them into the stack of papers I’m bringing to the meeting. These things are boring as hell, I might as well use the time to scan over the paperwork. Familiarize myself. Maybe calm down a little and decipher whether that entire crazy exchange really happened. Whether I overreacted and blew it out of proportion or whether I haven’t reacted enough. Like Gwen—what does she have to do with this? Probably nothing, right? But why does he speak to her? That’s annoying. Maybe old people talk to their exes but I don’t care for it. I cross my arms and huff while I try to look like I’m interested in this meeting.

There’s probably something really wrong with him anyway. He’s far too perfect to have just been hanging around, single, waiting for me to show up for thirty-seven years. Right? I’m a disaster and he’s perfect. And Jesus Christ, the things he does to me with his tongue. And those fingers. And his—well, I can’t even think about his penis right now because I’m at work and I have enough problems without spontaneously combusting into orgasm in the middle of this meeting. The point is, he’s probably super annoying in all sorts of ways I just haven’t figured out yet.

Probably.

So fucking annoying the way he brings groceries over. And cooks. And cleans up. And plays board games with me. And engages me in meaningful conversations before taking me to bed and doing all manner of filthy things to me until I come—always before he does. Yup. He’s a jerk. Women probably dump him all the time.

I heave an exasperated sigh until Mark elbows me, reminding me I’m in a meeting. I wiggle my pen around on my notepad, pretending to listen. I’m not a terrible employee, it’s just that we’re covering the same material that was sent via email two days ago. Maybe some people need to have the email read aloud to them. I do not. I’m an excellent reader, it’s one of my strengths.

Which makes me think. I should look at this paperwork a bit closer, shouldn’t I? I bet he filed it that very first day. I mean, I know he did, don’t I? He tossed it on my kitchen counter and said we needed to talk about it. Except that we didn’t talk about it and then he took it with him and we never even discussed what the ‘it’ was.

But it doesn’t take a genius to figure it out. Of course he’d have filed annulment paperwork. He’s a freaking lawyer, he probably filed it himself that Sunday afternoon after I ran out of my apartment without my bra on. He probably went home, fired up his laptop and completed the paperwork, and why wouldn’t he? I was a crazy girl who tricked him into a drunken marriage and then ran off once I slept with him.

Honestly, I’m not sure why he’s put up with me this long. I’m good in bed, but I’m not that good. I don’t know any tricks or anything. I can’t deepthroat, like not even a little. Don’t get me wrong, no one’s ever complained, and I think I’ve perfected a nice hand-mouth combination that might give the illusion that I’m taking on more than I am. But there’s no ‘fuck my mouth, sir’ offers happening, I can promise you that.

I’m a terrible cook and I already admitted I have no interest in picking up his dry cleaning. I’d have kept that fact to myself if I’d realized he wore nothing but suits and freaking pressed shirts on the daily. Not that I’ve changed my mind about picking up dry cleaning, but I’d have at least kept up the illusion that I might pick up his dry cleaning for a little longer.

But still, he seems to like me. Maybe he doesn’t love me, but who could blame him? We haven’t even hit our two-week anniversary yet. I slide the papers out of the envelope and read them, line for line. It’s really boring and filled with the words ‘defendant’ and ‘plaintiff’ over and over again. I know it’s just legal jargon but it’s sad.

When I look a little closer I notice something else. Rossi Law Firm on South 4th Street is listed on the paperwork. But it also lists Gwen Jones, Esq. And a Nevada bar number for Gwen Jones. And here on the final page it states Gwen Jones, Esq, attorney for the plaintiff Vincent Thomas Rossi.

I’m positive I’m red with humiliation or possibly rage. Tell Gwen to hold, I need to talk to her.

That fucking fucker. He had his ex prepare the paperwork? I wasn’t even worth seven hundred dollars of his time to complete the paperwork himself? He had his ex do it for him? His ex who works for him? At his law firm?

Did they laugh about it? About me? Did he stroll into her office that Monday morning and regale her with stories of his weekend of regret? About the silly girl who couldn’t stop throwing herself at him all weekend? Did they talk about lawyerly things as he told her he’d accidentally married a girl who plans weddings for a living due to a whirlwind of booze and lust?

Kismet is dead. Not even a bathtub full of Cheez-Its could make this better.





Chapter Twenty-Seven





“Did you get everything you needed or did you want me to grab a slice of pizza for you?”

I scowl at Mark, because that was not a genuine offer. It was an offer laced with sarcasm and judgment over my lunch choices. I’ve got a bowl of pasta and an entire turkey dinner with mashed potatoes and gravy, green beans and stuffing. And a cupcake. Fine, it’s two cupcakes but I’m in crisis and I fit it all on one tray so I don’t know what he’s nagging me about. One tray equals one lunch, everyone knows that. I shoot him a nasty glare as I pick up my tray and navigate the employee cafeteria, looking for a good seat. We’re having a late lunch because our department meeting droned on forever, unlike my marriage, which only droned on for twelve days.