Page 11 of The Perfect Divorce

She puts the knife down on the cutting board and plucks a hand towel from the drawer beside her, extending it to me. “Make sure you wipe up all your blood.”

I hesitate for a moment, my eyes locking on her. They say there’s no difference between a scorned woman and the devil himself, and I believe it—because I can’t tell which one I’m looking at.

I take it from her and mumble, “Thanks.”

“My pleasure,” she mocks.

Sarah continues with dinner prep like nothing happened while I wipe up the drops of blood from the counter and tightly wrap the towel around my hand. She grabs a frying pan from the cupboard and places it on the stove, turning on another burner. It clicks several times before an open flame dances beneath the pan, licking at the metal. I need to keep her talking because if we talk, maybe we can find our way back to one another.

“Please don’t be so rash. When you found out what... happened, you didn’t even confront me. You didn’t question me. You didn’t yell at me. We didn’t have a single conversation about it. You just quietly filed for divorce. Come on! Who does that?”

“I do,” she says, adding a drizzle of olive oil to the pan, followed by the mushy onions.

“We have a daughter. I know you’re pissed at me but think about Summer.”

Sarah sifts through the spice cabinet, collecting an array of seasonings. “That’s exactly who I am thinking about and why I filed for divorce rather than taking some other course of action.”

My wife only has two forms of aggression—passive and completely and utterly destructive. I guess I should feel lucky that she’s chosen to use the former since she can’t stop reminding me of that. Her reflection in the microwave mounted above the stovetop is a warped version of the woman I know. Maybe it’s who she’s always been, but I just can’t believe that.

“I’m not giving up that easily,” I say, squaring my shoulders and lifting my chin to convey my fortitude.

Sarah sprinkles thyme onto the simmering onions, then turns to face me. She angles her head in a condescending manner. “Eventually, you will.”

“Mom, Dad!” Summer calls out as she barrels into the kitchen, dressed in a one-piece swimsuit and a pair of shorts. She’s slender with long blond hair and bright-green eyes, and she looks more and more like her mother every day. I just hope her appearance is the only attribute she takes after Sarah.

Our attention goes to our nine-year-old daughter, the one thing tethering Sarah and me to each other. And perhaps the only reason my wife slashed me with the knife instead of completely gutting me.

“Can I please, please, please go swimming?” she begs.

The water boils over, hissing and simmering against the hot stovetop.

“Shit,” Sarah groans. She quickly tends to it, reducing the heat on the burner and laying a wooden spoon across the pot to dispel the rising foam.

“That’s a bad word, Mom,” Summer teases. “You’re not supposed to say bad words.”

“I know, sweetie. Sometimes adultsaccidentallydo things they’re not supposed to do,” she says, briefly glaring at me. “Dinner will be ready soon, and your father hurt himself, so why don’t you help him set the table.”

Summer gives me a sad look when she sees the bloody towel wrapped around my hand. “Dad, you’re bleeding. What happened?”

“I slipped up,” I say, my eyes darting between my wife and my daughter.

Sarah pays me no mind, busying herself with dinner prep, while Summer tries to get a better look at my injury. I unwrap the towel, revealing the bloody slash across my palm, two or so inches in length.

“That’s gnarly, Dad,” she says with a mix of intrigue and disgust. “You need a Band-Aid. No, more like five of them. I’ll get the first aid kit.” Before she even finishes her sentence, Summer’s already bolting toward the hall.

“At least someone in this house still loves me,” I say, hoping my wife will admit that she still cares about me, but she doesn’t. Sarah adds premade meatballs one at a time to the frying pan, pretending like I’m not even in the room.

EIGHT

SARAH MORGAN

The dishes clang against the metal basin as I drop a handful of dirty plates and silverware into it. Bob offered to help me clean up, but I sent him outside to keep an eye on Summer. I just didn’t want him around me anymore, and there’s only so much groveling I can take. I squirt dish soap into the sink and turn on the faucet. The looming storm has held off for now, but from the kitchen window, I see the sky has darkened to the shade of coal, and the wind is starting to pick up. It’ll be here in no time because a storm this big rarely passes.

While waiting for the sink to fill with water, I walk into the living room and flick on the news. It’s a welcome background noise to keep me up to date. I assume Ryan’s arrest will have leaked by now. Given the seriousness of his crime and that he’s the former sheriff, some local station will be clamoring to report on it first. Death and scandal always sell, and in a town of fewer than fifty thousand, their value is even higher. Returning to the sink, I begin handwashing the plates first. We have a dishwasher, but I don’t trust it to do a good enough job. Most things you just have to clean up yourself.

The back deck door slides open, and Summer dashes in, wrapped in an oversized towel, leaving behind a trail of wet footprints as she beelines out of sight and down the hall.

“Careful, Summer!” Bob calls out. “And make sure you hang your swimsuit over the shower rod,” he says, closing the glass door behind him.

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