Page 87 of I Almost Do

"Yes," I admit.

Dr. Carlson nods.

"I was thinking of writing her a letter," I say.

"That could work."

I give a bark of laughter. "Now the hard part. I can see it now: 'Dear Clarissa, I'm completely ready to fuck your brains out, and I promise to try not to sink into a pit of self-recrimination if you skip your dental hygienist appointment.'"

Dr. Carlson snorts and briefly covers her eyes with her hand before she looks up with a grin and says, "It's a start, James. A very good start."

33

Roots

James

Isenttheletterand waited for a call that never came. She’d have received it yesterday. I think.

It’s possible the mail was delayed. Her delivery time is first thing in the morning. So she could still call today, but I'd have expected it a couple of hours ago in that case.

I thought the letter was the best way to know I didn’t forget to tell her anything. I also thought a letter would give her time to process what she read without the pressure of me hovering over her.

Now I'm second-guessing that choice.

“Worst-Case”—she doesn’t call at all. She’s already decided she’s done, and this is her cue to exit stage left without feeling guilty about it. Maybe she’ll write me her own letter and include divorce papers with it. Maybe she’ll just show up one day with a “Glad to hear you’re doing better. Sign these papers, and we’ll both put this all behind us.”

I came into the office early today, thinking it would keep my mind off Clarissa while I wait to hear from her. I’ve been here since 5:30 a.m. and haven’t even bothered to put my tie on yet.

My assistant popped her head in at nine. Then she promptly popped her head back out. She knows I’m about to go on a tear just by looking at my face. I pull up my emails regarding an acquisition in Tokyo and scowl at what I see.

Fucking incompetent….

I drum my fingers on my desk, then throw on the headset I use when I’ll be on the phone for any length of time. I hit the intercom and swivel around to glare out at the gray skies and grayer skyline. “Have you made those calls to Lofton yet?”

There’s a pause, and then her voice comes through my headset. “Not yet. It’s the middle of the night in his time zone.”

I grunt. “If he’d done his job yesterday, we wouldn’t need to interrupt his beauty sleep now. Call him,” I snap.

“Of course. Um, yourwifeis here to see you. In the office. Right—”

I turn back toward the door. And there she is.

“I see that,” I manage to choke out. “No interruptions.”

I very methodically remove the headset, place it on my desk, and thread my hands together in a single fist.

This is my “Worst-Case” scenario, then. She didn’t call. She showed up here, unannounced, looking nervous and with a briefcase over her shoulder. I’ve never seen Clarissa carry abriefcasein her life.

The building may boast her maiden name on the side of it, but she’s never even been inside my office before today. She’s never been to my apartment either.

Our marriage wasn’t normal. She said that to me over and over again. I ignored it, and now it’s over.

She closes the door and takes off her jacket, laying it over the back of one of my guest chairs. Then she clears her throat, smooths down nonexistent wrinkles in her skirt, and plays with the lock on the briefcase.

The lock. Because God forbid the press get hold of her divorce petition before my own lawyers have a look at it.

Fuck that. My lawyers aren’t going to look at it. I’ll sign whatever she wants me to. I won’t fight her on anything. Then I’ll come up with a plan to win my wife back.

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