Page 135 of Fault Lines
“Give me a couple hours. Divorce lawyer meeting,” I admitted, and the words sat heavy in the air, more final than I’d expected.
“Okay. Call me after. I’ll be here.”
I hung up and lay there for a long moment, staring at the ceiling, letting the stillness work in deeper than caffeine or painkillers. Then I climbed off the couch, pulled on clean leggings, and got ready to carve out something new for myself—even if I didn’t know exactly what shape it would take.
∞∞∞
The divorce lawyer’s office was in a strip mall, sandwiched between a vape store and a place advertising “fast cash” pawn loans. The sign outside read “No-Fault Legal Solutions” in fading blue vinyl, and the inside was exactly as depressing as I’d imagined: brown carpet from another century, dusty plastic ficus in the corner, and a receptionist who could have easily been the owner’s mother. It’s what I deserved for ignoring Jake’s suggestions for hire but… money. She wore a sweatshirt with agrinning raccoon holding a coffee cup and didn’t look up when I entered and pointed me toward the back hallway without a word.
I’d dressed up for the occasion—blazer over a black t-shirt, hair in a severe ponytail—thinking it might make the whole thing feel less surreal. It didn’t. If anything, it made me feel like a child playing at adulthood.
“Olivia James?” the lawyer called out, pronouncing it “Jims” for some reason.
I followed his voice into a cluttered office. There were cardboard boxes everywhere, filled with manila folders and dog-eared legal pads. The desk was buried in loose papers and coffee rings, but behind it sat a man who looked remarkably like a discount version of my general practitioner: balding, mid-fifties, beard stubble grown out more in neglect than style. He wore a threadbare suit jacket with a misshapen elbow patch and a tie that might have been a joke, or just a relic.
“Have a seat,” he said, waving at a stained upholstered chair.
“Thanks,” I said, perching on the edge.
He shuffled some papers, then fixed me with a gaze that was sharper than I expected. “I read your intake form and the email attachments. You said you wanted this done quick, no-fuss, but there’s nothing no-fuss about your situation.”
I blinked. “What’s so unusual about it?”
He gave a little snort. “Honey, if I had a nickel for every woman who walked in here with a cheating husband, I’d own a real office. But you’ve got receipts—text threads, witnesses, even his verbal signature on an open marriage agreement with severely broken rules.” He shook his head, impressed. “It’s open and shut, pardon the pun. He’s got no leverage.”
I flushed. “I don’t want to hurt him.”
He raised an eyebrow. “You wrote, and I quote, ‘I just want to be free.’ No mention of cash, property, nothing. You realizethat with this much proof of infidelity, you could take him to the cleaners, right? The house, his 401(k), probably spousal support too.”
I shook my head. “I don’t want any of that. It’s his money, his house. I just want my own stuff and a fresh start.”
He leaned back in his chair and studied me, trying to decide whether I was a sucker or a saint. “You sure about that? Sometimes people say that, but when the numbers come out—”
“I’m sure,” I interrupted. “I already know what I want. I need this to be as quick as possible.”
He made a mark on his legal pad, then sat forward. “You want him to pay the filing fees?”
I hesitated. “If he wants to. But I’ll cover them if it’s easier.”
He gave a little grunt and began scribbling. “You’re a unicorn, you know that? Most people who walk through my door want to burn the other side to the ground. I’ve seen women get so mad they try to get the dog just out of spite.”
I almost smiled. “He hates dogs.”
He snorted again, louder this time. “Good. Then you won’t have to fight him for visitation.”
He outlined the basics: If Cam contested, it’d be a couple months, tops, but with the evidence, it could be over in six weeks. I’d get the divorce, he’d keep his house and his accounts, I’d get whatever I wanted to claim as personal property. No spousal support, no drawn-out battles. Just signatures, paperwork, and a final court date.
He handed me a pen. “Sign here, and I’ll send the draft to his lawyer.”
I took the pen and paused, staring at the page. My hand shook so hard I worried the signature would come out as a toddler’s scrawl. I pressed down and signed anyway.
He looked at me with a little more softness then. “Are you sure you don’t want something from him? You’ve got leverage. He won’t know what to do with himself if you just let him walk.”
I looked up at him, surprised at the sting behind my eyes. “He’s already lost a lot. There’s nothing left I can take that matters.”
He nodded, like he’d seen it a hundred times before but still respected it every time. “Alright. I’ll be in touch if we need anything else.”
I stood, suddenly unmoored. The room was spinning a little, the low-grade scent of old coffee and stale air clinging to my skin. I thanked him, walked out to the parking lot, and sat in my car for a long minute, breathing.
