Page 32 of Divorced from Number Thirty-Eight
Unfortunately, I don’t think that punching a wall is going to make me feel better.
Because I saw the remains of her house.
And I don’t think her Nana’s banana bread recipe survived.
“Fuck,” I whisper, hands clenching into fists as I stop and breathe. I know I shouldn’t give a fuck—or not more than a passing, empathetic fuck that any normal human would feel for another human who’s been through it.
But I do.
And I’m not even officially divorced yet, not even out of the shit with one woman.
Yet I’m thinking about jumping right the fuck back in with another one.
Yup. I’m an idiot.
Sighing, I force my hands to relax then lean forward and rest my forehead against the wall.
Then I pull out my cell and hit a number, not thinking how late it is.
Not until Smitty’s normally loud as fuck voice comes on the line…
And it’s quiet.
“Hello?”
What the fuck?
I pull my phone away from my ear, process what time it is.
Shit.
“Gray,” he says, still quiet, though I hear movement now, the rustle of sheets, the pad of footsteps, the soft click of a door closing. “Talk to me.”
It’s louder.
Firmer.
More like the Smitty I know.
“Sorry, man,” I mutter. “I didn’t realize how late it was. This can wait till the morning.”
Even if that feels like a lie.
Even if it feels like I need to fix this for Faye.
Immediately.
Years ago.
“Is it Courtney?”
Fuck. I hate that things are bad enough with my ex that’s the first place his mind goes.
“No,” I say quickly. “Go back to bed. We’ll talk later.”
“Yeah, you’re not gonna get off that easy,” he says, “considering it’s after midnight and your voice sounds like it does and this may be the first time you’ve called me, as in ever…” He sighs and I hear the sound of a fridge opening and closing, a beer being opened. “Quit being ornery and just lay it on me.”
I sigh, considering ending the call.
