Page 11 of Big Rucking Disaster

“2024.” He sank into the passenger seat and rested his head against the headrest. “He gave it to me the month before he kicked me out.”

“Your ex? Ouch.”

“Part of his grand plan. He wanted the courts to see what a generous guy he was.”

“Booting you out of the marital home?” I pushed the button, and the electric system purred to life. So damned quiet compared to my car—that had needed a new muffler last decade. Oh well, no one could claim they hadn’t heard me coming.

“He considered it an amicable uncoupling. I’m supposed to be grateful because his salary as a podiatrist was always significantly higher than mine as a high—”

“Guy works with feet all day?”

“Uh…yeah. Very rich feet.” He pressed a hand to his forehead.

“This thing know where home is?” I gestured to the GPS.

“Yes.”

I tapped and regarded the map. “Well, there’s a Subway on the way, so we’re good. What do you want?”

“Is there any point in arguing?”

“Do you have some moral argument against me buying you a sub? Would you prefer a burger? A salad? A poke bowl?”

He sighed. “A sub is fine.”

“Great.” I pointed the beautiful SUV toward Somerville Street, with a detour to Subway, and headed out of the parking lot. I cast a look at my fifteen-year-old car, hoped no one touched it, and pulled onto the street. At a red light, I glanced at Coach. “You don’t look so good.”

He groaned. “I hate taking painkillers.”

“Well, yeah.” The light turned green, and I advanced. “But having a bad headache is worse. A volleyball, you say? Must’ve just hit you wrong. Those things are soft.”

“Didn’t feel soft when it hit my temple.” He cracked an eye open, hit a button on the dashboard, and resettled.

I snickered. “Heated seat?”

“You’re free to do the same. I don’t need comfort like that—but he paid for it, and damn it, I’m going to use it.”

“I still can’t believe he works with feet. What’d you mean, rich feet?”

“His practice is in Kitsilano. That’s where we used to live.”

“And he bought your half of the house?” I whistled.

“Turns out he’d been squirreling money away for years. He insisted to the court that he only had enough to buy me out.”

I made a right turn onto Broadway. “You didn’t believe him?”

“My lawyer didn’t. I was too tired to hire someone to go digging. I got enough to buy a nice, little house, and I got away from him. I still have my pension, which after thirty-five years of teaching will look pretty sweet. I put some extra money aside every month—my house is older and needs lots of repairs.”

I hung a left on Fraser Street. “Sounds complicated.”

“It’s my life. Don’t think I’m bitter…”

“Much.” I grinned because he couldn’t see me.

“Much,” he conceded. “I got to keep my friends. His…I don’t even miss them. Nor do I miss my mother-in-law. She never liked me.”

“And you were married for how long?”

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