by JD Chambers
Of course that means this week has to suck more than usual. Mal has been too busy working on Zach’s website, and I’ve been too busy trying to cram three days of work into two, for us to see each other. And worst of all, today’s another divorce settlement meeting, which means driving to Denver and seeing Shelby. On Valentine’s Day, of all days.
The conference room where our meetings take place looks like it belongs on a Hollywood set. There’s a massive wood table with room enough for fifteen, even though there are only four of us here. There are no bare walls; every inch has a bookshelf stacked high with volumes.
“I’m hoping we can get the final details worked out today,” my lawyer, a middle-aged woman I don’t dare call anything other than Ms. Grassi, says. She’s so fierce, she even scares me, and I’m her client.
“Well, if someone hadn’t rescheduled last week’s appointment, then we wouldn’t have to be here on a holiday,” Shelby says.
“My parents needed me.”
The fire that flashes in Shelby’s eyes lets me know it was the wrong thing to say. “And where were you when I needed you? Oh, that’s right. You left me to go live with the heathens that caused my miscarriage.”
I’m not arguing this point again. Shelby isn’t stupid. She knows they didn’t cause her miscarriage. She’s just a bitch. It hasn’t skipped anyone’s notice that we’re holding a divorce meeting on Valentine’s Day – really, you’d think an office of divorce lawyers would be more sensitive in their decorations – but to know it’s irritating Shelby makes it a little more bearable.
An hour into the meeting, and I’m rethinking just how sweet this Valentine’s vindication really is, because Shelby’s determined to take us all down with her. We’ve gone around and around, and in almost every instance, I give in. Case in point, Shelby is now asking for the Volvo. I left her with the Range Rover because it was the more valuable vehicle, and therefore what I assumed she would want. But she has to argue everything, and she complains that the Range Rover is too big and too difficult to drive, and wastes too much gas. Fine. Now that I’ve taken up mountain biking, I’d prefer the Range Rover anyway. As soon as it sinks in that she’s getting the cheaper car, she wants to be able to sell the Range Rover for the cash in addition to her getting the Volvo. Whatever. At this point, I’d drive a Pinto if it meant getting the divorce finalized.
When the meeting is about to adjourn, after we’ve set a date for yet another hopefully-final meeting, my lawyer drops the bomb that we purposely saved for the last minute.
“I’d also like to hereby give notice that since the state’s residential requirements were met prior to my client filing for divorce, my client may elect to move out-of-state at any time.”
“What?” Shelby slams her palms down and leans, or I should say practically crawls, over the table. “How many times did I want to move back to Georgia? But no, you loved Colorado. You would never leave. Do you see what I had to put up with?” she says to her lawyer, who busies himself with his briefcase. Poor bastard.
Funny how during our marriage, I could do no wrong, and now she can’t bring herself to admit I ever did anything right. And no, I was never going to move to Georgia so Shelby could be closer to her family. Even back then I knew I’d never last with her in close proximity to the woman she was practically cloned from.
“My mom has Alzheimer’s, Shelby. I might have to go back and help take care of her.”
If the emails I’ve been getting from my dad detailing my mom’s condition and rapid deterioration are any indication, it’s looking less like a “might” and more like a “will.”
God damn it. Now my throat is tight. I hate thinking about this. I wake up in the middle of the night and think about how my mother will never be the same again, and I have to watch movies until time to get ready for work, just to keep my mind occupied. I haven’t let myself break down yet, and I certainly won’t be doing it in front of Shelby.
“I’m so sorry to hear it,” Shelby’s attorney says to me. “It’s so sad to watch them go through that.”
Shelby looks like she’d set fire to her own lawyer if she could, but this time he doesn’t cower. He raises an eyebrow and jerks a small nod in my direction. She has the countenance of a chastised child when she turns to me.
“I’m sorry about your mom. I did always like her.”
I thank her with as much politeness as I can muster, and we all wait at the banks of elevators together. Shelby’s phone dings as a set of doors open, and she waves us on. There’s a mass exhale of relief when the doors close with Shelby still firmly on the other side.
When we reach the ground floor, I take out my phone to text Mal that I’m on my way. The meeting is in Denver, but as long as traffic isn’t worse than usual, I have plenty of time to pick up Mal and keep our six o’clock reservation at Chez Andre. This is the date night I’ve been planning. The night where I’m going to treat Mal like royalty and sweep them off their feet. The night where I finally make it clear where I see this thing between us going.
Parker: Hi Mal, it’s Parker. I’m leaving now.
I’m at the car when I get the reply.
Mal: Mal’s not here right now. You’re speaking to Drop Dead Gorgeous at the moment. What can I do to you today?
“Parker McWilliams!” The shout comes from the tiny woman barreling through the parking lot at lightning speed. “How dare you?”
I am at a total loss as to what happened between Shelby offering condolences for my mom to now. I’m so shocked that I don’t notice the intricately manicured hand in the air until it collides with my cheekbone. My phone flies out of my hand, and I palm my face. It wouldn’t have hurt, except for her ring, which left a stinging scrape under my eye.
Shelby’s lawyer runs between us and tries to refrain her. Ms. Grassi rushes to my aid.
“What happened?” she asks, but I have no words.
“I’ll tell you what happened,” Shelby yells, still trying to get past her lawyer for another go at me. “He cheated on me.”
“Shelby, we are separated. We are divorcing. Nothing I do at this point is che–”
“With a man!”
How she found out about Mal, I’ll never know. It must have something to do with her phone because she keeps waving it in her lawyer’s face. But as her yelling intensifies, I’m filled with a sense of peace that I’ve never felt around Shelby before. Words like disgusting, perverted, and sinner get tossed about like confetti, but they don’t touch me.
“They don’t define themself as a man. They identify as nonbinary.” My voice is unrecognizable, detached and calm.
“I’d stop talking if I were you,” Ms. Grassi says quietly by my side as she dabs under my eye with a tissue. What I thought was a scratch must have been deeper, because there’s quite a bit of blood already soaked through.
“You’re not even going to deny it? I’m going to make you pay, Parker. If you thought this was over, hell, I’m just getting started.”
Shelby’s lawyer finally drags her away, and Ms. Grassi stops tending to my cheek long enough to pick up my phone, now covered in a spiderweb of cracks, for me.
“And you didn’t think to inform me of this?” she says while handing over my phone, Mal’s text still prominently displayed underneath the destruction.
“I’m not sure how it’s your business who I date.” She levels a stare and doesn’t even have to say a word. I’m not stupid. “Yeah, I get that. Sorry. It’s still pretty new.”
“Not tonight, but as soon as you can tomorrow, send me all the info you have on this guy.”
“Person.”
“Whatever.”
“And why?”
Ms. Grassi sighs. “Because after that reaction, I need to be prepared for anything. Thank god you two don’t have kids.”
“You’re telling me.”
“Oh my god, that bitch!”
Mal grabs my hand and leads me through their living room, down a narrow hallway, and into a tiny bathroom.<
br />
“Sit,” they order, after closing the toilet lid. They open the mirrored door of their medicine cabinet, and I can see my reflection. The area around the cut is a little swollen, but I think that too is from the cut, and not Shelby’s slap. Yep. That’ll leave a mark.
I called Mal on the way to tell them what happened. Thankfully my phone was only cracked, not destroyed, and it still connected to my car’s Bluetooth. And I’m also thankful for Ms. Grassi’s quick reflexes and stash of tissues that kept me from dripping blood all over my nice shirt. We have reservations.
Mal tilts my chin toward the ceiling and dabs at my injury with rubbing alcohol on a cotton ball.
“You look really nice,” I say between hisses. Their fingers hold my head so firmly that I can’t even wiggle, but that doesn’t stop my eyes from roaming. They’re wearing a slinky red outfit. The top dips to a low vee, and the pants cling in all the right places.
“You should press charges.”
I sigh because Ms. Grassi said the same thing, but I’m not going to sic the cops on my soon-to-be ex-wife.
“This is not how I pictured our first Valentine’s Day together going. I can see down your blouse.”
Mal quirks an eyebrow at me while switching out instruments of torture from rubbing alcohol to ointment on a cotton swab.
“You have a tiny mole beside your left nipple.”
“I’m aware,” they say and apply a small bandage strip to my cheek. “Are you drunk?”
“Mmm, no.” When my head is finally released, I maneuver Mal by the thighs until I can lean my head onto their stomach. “Just exhausted. It’s been a day and a half.”
Mal gently combs their fingers through my hair. We should get going, but I don’t want to leave their side.
“I don’t want to miss our reservations,” they say in a coaxing voice that suddenly turns determined. “I will not let that bitch ruin our Valentine’s Day.”
17
Mal
I can’t believe I’m so nervous. Chez Andre is an intimate spot with candle-lit tables and classy, but not gaudy, decor. There’s only enough room for four couples at a time, and based on what Parker was telling me about the staggering of the reservations, they must be charging up the butt for these tables. I came up with that classy description all on my own.
When we first arrived at the restaurant and Parker took my arm in front of everyone and escorted me to the table, I’d never felt so treasured. I wouldn’t exactly call the relationships I had in the past relationships. We lived in a small town. I was every curious straight boy’s experiment in high school, but never anything more. Whatever. Then in college, in the art department, people like me were a dime a dozen. So I perfected my flaunt and my flair, and I got laid. It didn’t occur to me to want more until now. And now I’m afraid Parker is spoiling me so that I don’t just want it, I need it.
I look around at the other couples here for the Valentine’s dinner, and it’s guys who probably golf all weekend and their wives covered in tacky jewelry, bought specifically so the husbands can golf all weekend guilt-free. Actually the kind of couple I would have imagined Parker and Shelby were, pre-divorce. Now that I know Parker, though, I know he didn’t bring us here to flaunt his wealth or success. He’s treating me to this new experience because he wants to share something amazing with me, like how I felt showing him the biking trail.
“I’ve always wanted to eat here,” I tell Parker as he spoons a bite of Velouté de Châtaignes to his lips. I have no idea how to pronounce pretty much anything we’re eating tonight, except for the brie and baguette that was the appetizer. “I had a co-worker whose husband brought her here for their anniversary. She bragged about it for weeks.”
“I’m sorry you don’t have work friends to brag to right now,” he says with a gentle nudge to my knee under the table.
“Can’t exactly brag to Zach, since he’s the only one I’m working with right now.” Not that I would brag. Maybe at a different time in my life, and with a different man. But being here with Parker feels, I don’t know, sacred.
“You could, if you wanted to. Tell him. If Shelby knows, then it makes no sense for the people who will actually support me not to know.”
The waiter takes away our bowls and returns with a silver brush and pan to sweep away the baguette crumbs from the table. I catch Parker’s eye and we’re both trying not to grin at the absurdity of it all. At the same time, there’s a part of me that thinks the special attention is pretty cool.
“Tell me something about yourself that I don’t already know,” Parker says once the waiter has left.
“Random.”
“Maybe, but play along.”
I survey the room as I try to jog my brain for an interesting factoid. Nothing comes to mind.
“I can do a triple clover roll with my tongue.”
Parker blinks like he’s trying to figure out what that means. I glance around to make sure no one’s watching, then demonstrate, making three rolls of my tongue. His gaze, now transfixed on my mouth, doesn’t even twitch as a plate of steak au poivre and haricot vert, which I now see is just a fancy way of saying green beans, is set in front of him.
“Try again,” he says with pursed lips.
“Excuse me?”
“If you thought I didn’t already know about your skilled tongue, you haven’t been paying attention.” He cuts into his steak and brings a dripping bite to his lips, leaving them shiny and tempting. Damn, this meal is going to kill me.
“Fine, I’ll try again, but it’s your turn now.”
“Let’s see,” Parker begins, but cuts himself off with a bite of dinner. “When I was in elementary school, I wanted to try out for the cheerleading squad. A letter went home to all the students at the end of fourth grade, talking about football and cheerleading tryouts for entering fifth graders. I thought football sounded boring, but I wanted to do all the flips and jumps that I saw cheerleaders doing on TV. My dad just about had a shit fit. So football team it was.”
“I was on the football team in middle school.”
I’m expecting surprise, but Parker smiles. “I can see it. Little Mal running around, whooping it up, tackling everyone.”
I laugh at that picture, because it’s such an adorable one that my optimistic Parker has painted. “Sorry to disappoint, but I hated it. I only joined because my parents had just divorced, and my dad was moving to Massachusetts. I thought it was my fault. That he was leaving because I wasn’t the son he wanted. I thought if I could butch it up enough, he’d stay.”
Parker stifles a wounded sound and reaches out for my hand. Seeing his emotions on my behalf starts making me fluttery, so I do the only thing I can.
“Obviously that didn’t work. Can you even imagine trying to tame all this?”
Parker makes the sound again and squeezes tighter.
“I’m going to need my hand if you want me to eat.”
“Sorry.” Parker pulls away and refocuses on his dinner. Thank fuck. That man sees too much.
By the time we are presented with dessert, after another silver sweeping and a tiny scoop of lime sorbet that the waiter called a “palate cleanser,” I’m so stuffed I’m certain that my red satin blouse is going to burst at the waist. I’m also glad I wore the red, because the gat-something, I don’t remember the name, has a cherry filling that is extra drippy. The napkin in my lap looks like I murdered someone for dinner.
I erupt with giggles at the thought.
“What’s so funny?” Parker asks, looking at me like I’ve finally gone and lost it.
“I had these delusions of being sophisticated and cultured, the art-school-snob effect, before coming here. But now, all I can think is that my napkin looks like a crime scene, and I’m trying to picture which of these trophy wives would actually be the most likely to commit murder.”
Parker snorts, loudly, and one of the couples at a nearby table glares.
“Definitely her,” he says with a tiny nod in the direction
of their table. “Her looks alone could kill.”
We giggle quietly, but the husband still fixes me with a censuring look that reminds me of Parker’s dad. I bite my lip and try to fold my hands into my lap while avoiding the messy napkin.
“How’s your mom doing?”
Parker’s good mood evaporates. “My dad keeps sending me updates. He wants me to move back home.”
My mood dries up faster than Parker’s. That came out of nowhere. But surely he’s not considering it.
“Are you considering it?” I ask before realizing the emphasis I placed on the sentence doesn’t make sense, given the rest of the thought was only in my head.
“I wasn’t at first. He mentioned it at the party when he first told me about the Alzheimer’s. He had it all planned out – my move back. I told him then I’d think about it, but it was just to put off turning him down.”
He folds his napkin into smaller and smaller cloth triangles, noticeably avoiding my gaze.
“You sound like something has changed.”
“Kind of,” he says, the words like sighs escaping through his lips. “Like I said, he keeps sending me emails. Stories of what she’s forgotten now or some near-disaster he was barely able to prevent. I know he’s manipulating me, but then I think, it isn’t her fault he’s manipulating me. And isn’t being there for her what’s most important?”
Of course it is. If it were my mom, I wouldn’t even hesitate. No matter how crazy she makes me, I love her and would do anything for her.
“So you’ve made up your mind.”
I meant for it to be a question, but I can tell by Parker’s face that it doesn’t need to be. Still, he argues, whines would be more accurate, like a toddler whose Tinker Toys are being taken away.
“No! I haven’t. I don’t want to go. I’ve never been happier than I am right now, right here, in this moment. I don’t want to give that up. My brain says it’s the right thing to do, but my heart …”
Parker doesn’t finish his sentence. He doesn’t have to. My heart does it for him – a spiderweb of hairline fractures just waiting for that final blow to burst apart.