Pushing the paper away from me, I lay my head in my arms on the table and cried. I cried hard. When I finished, I shoved the paper in one of my empty kitchen drawers and kept the pen.
Then I signed the papers.
I left them on my counter and went to bed.
Ashley stares at me.
“You wanted to know what happened after I puked,” I point out with a smirk, trying to lighten things up again.
“I did,” she admits.
“Did you think he’d take me home and we’d make wild, passionate love?” I jest.
“Maybe,” she admits.
“Did you miss the part about me yacking up a monster chilidog all night? Wasn’t exactly sexy.”
“That’s true,” she laughs. “Are you okay if we keep going?”
I check my watch. “I’ve got thirty minutes.”
“So . . .” She motions her hand. “What happened next?”
I smile because I have a feeling I’m about to tell her something she’s really been wanting to hear.
The next day, I ventured out to the post office and dropped the separation papers in the box. Once these were filed, our divorce could be finalized in a few months. I decided to stay home that day. I left a message on the office machine, not sure anyone would even get it if Marcus didn’t bother to show up. I knew Paul definitely wouldn’t check it. I took a long, hot bath, ate some ice cream, and painted my toenails. Basically, I took a me day. And it refreshed me. While I’d dreaded signing those papers, I felt like a weight had been lifted. I didn’t have to dread it anymore. I didn’t have it hanging over my head. And oddly, I felt like everything was going to be okay; that I’d taken a huge step in moving on, moving forward.
Eight o’clock rolled around and I was lying down on my couch, watching the only channel I could get on television. They were playing reruns of Married with Children. Don’t judge me, I absolutely loved that show. I nearly jumped out of my skin when someone knocked on my door. It actually sounded more like they kicked my door. Rushing to my purse, I grabbed my revolver and plastered myself against the wall beside the door.
“Who is it?”
“It’s Paul. My hands are full! Open the door.”
“What the hell is he doing here?” I mumbled softly to myself as I unhooked the chain and flipped the dead bolt.
Holding a bottle of red wine under one arm, and balancing five containers of Country Crock in the other, he grinned. “Thought you might like some dinner.”
“You brought five containers of butter?” I asked, confused.
He pushed by me and walked to the kitchen. “No,” he called over his shoulder as I shut the door and followed. “My mother likes to reuse these containers as Tupperware. Not too bad unless you’re at her house looking for some kind of butter.” He gently slid everything on the counter. “It takes twenty containers until you can butter your bread.”
I laughed a little. “She sounds awesome.”
“I just left her house. She’s moving to Florida in a month so I’m trying to get my fill of her awesome cooking before she goes.” His gaze turns to me and his eyes widen. “Have you been holding that gun the entire time?”
I glance down at my hand. “I didn’t know who was at the door. You kicked it,” I defended. “You scared the shit out of me.”
“My hands were full. Damn, Clara,” he murmured. “Put that thing away.”
“Okay, okay,” I agreed. “Don’t be such a baby.”
“I prefer responsible adult and gun safety advocate.”
I pursed my lips. “Yeah, well I prefer supermodel and wealthy divorcée.” I shrugged. “We are what we are.” I hid the gun in a kitchen drawer as he peeled the lids off of the containers.
“So your mother gave you enough food to feed an army and you decided to share it with me?”
“Italian food is the best hangover food.”
My stomach grumbled at the thought. I wasn’t sure what I thought about his unannounced arrival. We were so weird together then. We started off enemies. Then we called a truce and proclaimed peace in the name of our business partnership. Were we becoming friends now? Really? Did he do things like this for all of his friends; bring them tables he built with his own bare hands, help them work on their house, protect them from themselves when they’re drunk in a bar, bring them dinner when they’re hung over?
He must have noted my perplexed look. “Wasn’t just for you. I wanted to have dinner with a good friend tonight.”
“We’re friends?”
He gave one curt bob of his head. “Yes, we’re friends.”