Page 10 of The Perfect Divorce

SEVEN

BOB MILLER

My house doesn’t feel like home anymore, and that’s probably because I’m not welcome here—even when I come bearing gifts like the bouquet of red roses clenched in my left hand. The seat at the head of the kitchen table as well as the recliner in the living room are no longer inviting. I shake my head in dismay, noticing that Sarah’s taken down all the photos I was in, replacing them with ones of Summer or ones with Sarah and Summer together. My footsteps echo like they’re taunting me as I walk to the big bay window that overlooks the lake. This view used to bring me peace, but now I don’t know what it brings me. With no wind today, the water looks like a sheet of glass, fragile enough to shatter if I just dipped a finger into it. The clouds are dark and heavy, almost ready to fall apart. I could say the same for myself. First, my marriage. Then, these clouds. And then me.

They should be home any minute, and I’m sure my wife won’t be pleased to find me here, but my daughter will. Sarah and I agreed to keep up appearances for Summer’s sake, at least until everything’s settled. For Sarah, that means divorce and going our separate ways—that’s what she tells me. For me, that means fighting for our marriage.

A sharp pain radiates in the palm of my hand. I wince, realizing I’ve clutched the thorny stems too tightly, and switch the flowers to my other hand. A drop of bright-red blood seeps from the wound. Bringing it to my mouth, I suck on it until the bleeding subsides. This is the fourteenth bouquet of roses I’ve brought Sarah. She does the same thing with them every time, but I hold on to the hope that one of these days she’s going to trim the stems and place them in a vase full of water.

The front door opens, and Summer sprints through the house, straight down the hall toward her bedroom, without even noticing me. A moment later, my wife appears, carrying a bag of groceries.

I move quickly, attempting to take the bag, but she refuses, tightening her grip on the handles and jerking away. “I don’t need your help, Bob.”

Sarah’s favorite conflict style is a full-on attack, but her second favorite is obstinance, which I find to be extremely annoying. She thinks if she allows me to help her, then she’s caving and her anger is subsiding. So, she won’t accept anything from me—not a gift, a helping hand, a compliment, a suggestion, nothing.

Kill her with kindness, I remind myself as I force a smile and extend the flowers to her. “These are for you.”

Sarah rolls her eyes and begrudgingly takes them. Maybe this is the day, the day they get fitted for a vase. She sets the groceries and her purse on the counter and moves around the island. I think she’s heading for the sink and that they’re finally going to get trimmed, watered, and rehomed. But no, she stops right in front of the trash and presses the toe of her stiletto against the garbage can lever. The lid pops open, and she tosses the bouquet into the bin, smashing the flowers down to make a show of it.

I can’t help but sigh in frustration as I unpack the groceries. They’re mostly ingredients for what I assume will be tonight’s family dinner, spaghetti and meatballs, which she knows I hate. And I’m sure that’s the exact reason she chose it. Sarah fills a pot with water and places it on the stove, sprinkling a palmful of salt into it.

“Can we talk?” I ask.

“We probably shouldn’t without our lawyers present,” Sarah says, igniting the burner.

“Don’t give me that. Wearelawyers. They’re just there to make sure we don’t kill each other.”

She swivels her head in my direction, raising a brow at my choice of wording. Other than that, she doesn’t react. At the island, Sarah pulls a large kitchen knife from the butcher block. The globe pendant lights above the counter catch the blade, making it gleam.

I exhale, letting the air out of my puffed-up chest, and lower my shoulders to present a calmer demeanor. The macho-tough-guy act has never worked on Sarah. If anything, it only further pisses her off—which is the last thing I need if I’m ever going to make this work.

With a cutting board and knife in hand, Sarah gives anahem—her passive-aggressive method of telling me to get the hell out of her way. I step aside, giving her the space she demands.

“I just want to talk,” I say, leaning against the counter opposite her.

She sets an onion on the chopping block and readies her knife. The blade slices through it with ease, thudding against the wood.

“You never even let me explain,” I add, trying to get her to talk to me.

Sarah rocks the blade back and forth, quickly dicing the onion. She meets my gaze, wearing an expression so tense, it appears she’s made of stone. The knife continues to slap against the cutting board, growing louder as she puts more force behind each chop.

“That’s because there’s nothing to explain.” Her voice is emotionless, like she’s reading from a legal document rather than discussing our broken marriage.

“Yes, there is.”

“Like what, Bob?” She tilts her head. “Aside from you calling it an ‘accident,’ what other explanation do you have for fucking some girl in a hotel room?”

I let out a deep sigh and move toward the island so I’m standing straight across from her, staring into her hardened eyes. “It was a mistake, the biggest one I’ve ever made, and I swear it didn’t mean anything.Youare the only one that matters. It was a big night for me, and I was wasted. I don’t know what happened. One moment, I was giving a speech, and the next, well... I don’t remember, and I don’t remember her either.”

“Is your lack of memory supposed to comfort me?” The onion has practically turned to mush due to her incessant hacking, but she keeps going anyway. I’m sure she’s picturing me under that knife—or some delicate part of me.

“No, not at all. I’m just saying that it... won’t ever happen again,ever.” I lean over the counter, reducing the space between us, hoping my proximity will break through to some small understanding part of the emotionless statue before me.

“You’re right about that, Bob, because you can’t cheat on an ex-wife.”

“Sarah, come on.” I reach my hand out for hers, but she jerks away, and the knife slashes across my palm. Blood oozes from the fresh cut, and I clench my fist, yelling, “Jesus, fuck.”

“Sorry,” she says coolly. “It was an accident.” There’s no sincerity in her voice, and the faintest smile settles on her face.

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