Page 2 of Before You Go
As I’m getting down two glasses from the floating shelf above the sink, the door opens, and I turn just in time to watch Matthew step inside. The fact that he didn’t knock annoys me, but I keep my mouth firmly shut, knowing that if I bring it up, he’ll just claim he forgot and make me feel like I’m overreacting. The reality is, he doesn’t care what I ask of him, which has been a running theme the last five years of our marriage and just one of the many reasons why we’re here today.
“Hey.” The look in his dark-brown eyes is somber, but it’s difficult for me to tell if he’s genuinely sad about what we’re about to do or if it’s just for show. I don’t know when I lost the ability to read him, but at some point, I did.
“Hey.” I force a half-smile before I turn back to the counter, hearing him greet Phillip.
I pour myself and Phillip a glass of water but don’t bother asking Matthew if he’d like one. I refuse to give him a reason to stick around after this is done.
Carrying both glasses to the table, I pass Phillip his water and take a seat across from Matthew, with Phillip seated between us at the head of the table, his briefcase open in front of him. After pulling out a stack of papers and two pens, he closes his briefcase and places it on the floor next to his chair.
“As I discussed with both of you prior to today, you’ll each be leaving this marriage with all your personal assets intact.” He looks at Matthew. “I do, however, understand that you and Francisca have a verbal agreement about the sale of the condo that you and she purchased.”
Of course, he couldn’t let that go and had to bring it up.
“We do,” Matthew murmurs.
With a nod, Phillip takes the top sheet off the stack of papers he has in front of him, then turns the stack my way. “Sign at each tab.” He hands me a pen, and I sign my name next to a pink sticky tab, then sign it again and again until he reaches the bottom of the pile.
When he turns the stack Matthew’s way, I wonder if there is something wrong with me. You’d think after vowing to spend my life with him and tying myself into knots for years as I tried to make it work between us, there would be a tingle of doubt or a twinge of pain as I watch him sign his name on our divorce papers, but all I feel is relief that we can both finally move on.
“That’s it,” Phillip murmurs softly, picking up the stack of papers while looking at me. “Do you want me to make a copy of these for you, or would you just like me to send them to your e-mail?”
“You can e-mail them.” Honestly, what am I going to even do with divorce papers? Frame them and hang them on the wall in my studio as proof that I sucked at being a wife, even though I tried with every single breath I took to make things work and still failed miserably?
“Very well.” He picks up his briefcase and puts the papers back inside it, and I hand him my pen after Matthew passes over his. “Matthew, it was good seeing you.” He stands, and I get up from my chair as well.
“You too, Phillip,” he replies but stays seated, indicating that he plans to stick around after Phillip leaves.
Great.
“Will I see you and Elizabeth tomorrow evening?” I ask as I walk Phillip to the door, and he almost smiles at the mention of his wife.
“We’ll be there. Elizabeth would never miss one of your mother’s parties.”
“I can’t wait to see her.” I adore his wife. She’s flamboyant, funny, and loud to the point of obnoxious. She is also one of the few people who told me that I should chase my dream of becoming an artist—without even knowing if I had any real potential.
Her belief was, if I believed in my talent, then I was talented, and that is something I’ve carried with me every single day since.
Opening the door, I step back to allow him room to leave. “Thank you for coming today.”
“You’re welcome, and I’ll have Tammy get a copy of these papers e-mailed over to you as soon as I file them.”
“Sounds good. Have a good evening.”
“You as well.” He dips his chin and walks out.
Closing the door, I drag in a breath before I turn back around to face Matthew, who is now standing with his hip pressed into the edge of the table and his arms crossed over his chest. I’d like to claim that I don’t still think he’s good-looking, but with dark hair, strong, elegant features, and an ever-present tan thanks to his Italian heritage, there is no denying that he is a very attractive man.
“How do you feel?” he asks softly.
“All right.” I wrap my arms around my middle as he holds my gaze from across the room. “You?”
“Strange.” He shrugs one shoulder. “I don’t think it’s hit me yet that you’re not my wife anymore.”
The possessiveness of the word “wife” grates against my skin. For years, I felt like I was nothing more than a pretty accessory he’d flaunt when the mood struck, then tuck away when he was done showing me off. My value in his life became limited to fancy dinners and rubbing elbows with those he deemed important to his goals. And for a while, I lived off those moments, hoping they’d be enough to get me through, but they never were. “I guess signing those papers didn’t change the fact that I’m still in love with you.”
“Matthew—” I dig my nails into my palm, hoping that he doesn’t do what he’s done dozens of times since I told him that I was leaving him and attempt to talk me into giving him another chance.
“I know I might not have shown it like I was supposed to,” he interrupts, holding up his hands. “But I do love you, which is why I just gave you what you wanted.” Pushing away from the table, he starts walking toward me. “If you need anything, you know how to get a hold of me.”
