Page 17 of It's Holy Matrimony, Baby

“I called my lawyer.”

“And what did he say?”

“I’m screwed.” I rub my hand across my face vigorously. This isn’t me. I’m not one to let a problem hold me down. Time to pull myself together. “I’m stuck with him until we’re divorced. And that will take longer with him refusing to get on board.”

“Then you need to get him on board. Did he say what he wanted? Is he after money or anything?”

“I don’t think so. I told him I had none.”

“Is it possible he likes you?”

“Oh come on, Liv, we’re practically strangers.”

“You’re right. That’s a ridiculous notion, isn’t it? Beckett McClain would never be enticing to the opposite sex for more than a quick romp.”

“When you put it that way...no, that’s not the point. What do I do?”

“Beats me. How about we talk it over when I get back tomorrow morning?”

“Thanks.” Not that it helps right now, while he’s stretched out in my bed, and I have nowhere to sleep. “I guess I’ll go back in. Settle on the sofa. Perhaps I might even get some work done, since I doubt I’ll be able to sleep knowing he’s there.”

“That a girl,” she encourages. “We’ll work out how to fix this. I promise.”

I pour another glass of wine. It’s dry and tastes like oak and it’s doing a surprisingly good job of getting me drunk. My laptop is open on the coffee table, the blue light from the screen illuminating the room. Writing an article on electropop circa 1980 isn’t holding my attention the way it usually would. Not while there’s a man asleep in my bed. How am I supposed to get rid of him?

Getting up, I stumble and stub my toe on the leg of the table. “Motherfreakingfucksticks.” Wine sloshes on the carpet and my shorts as I yank my throbbing foot into the air and lean on the arm of the couch until the pain starts to subside.

Then I freeze, waiting in anticipation. He couldn’t have slept through my cussing at the top of my lungs, surely. For a few minutes I stare at the door to the bedroom, but he doesn’t emerge. It would be silly of me not to check that he’s still asleep. I hobble over and lean in the door. It’s completely dark, except for the numbers on the clock by the bed. There’s nothing to see, no movement, no sound.

A crazy spark lit up between us when he touched me. If circumstances were different I’d probably be in bed with him right now. If I’d never met him before he’d probably have me pushed up against the wall while shoving his tongue in my mouth. If he wasn’t the biggest mistake of my life I’d most likely be watching him fuck me in the huge mirrors on the closet.

If circumstances were different I would have let him take this crazy electricity between us and... there’s no point letting my imagination wander any further. Whatever it is about him that gives me this weird sensation inside it’s still only base chemicals, like dopamine, oxytocin, and serotonin.

I stare into the depths of my wine as I head back to the couch. Not even those chemicals. Those ones make happiness. This is more like...a good dosing of testosterone and estrogen. Putting the glass down on the table I sit down and drag my laptop closer. I halve the size of my post and open up a new window to the women’s magazine I sometimes work for. I’m not one who believes in winning a man over in two weeks, or getting him to pop the question in thirteen steps or less. And I don’t need eight tips for achieving the best orgasm of my life, although that last one might hold some substance. But there are some articles I worked on... A section called Anti-Cupid that readers have flocked to over the last year.

I scroll through those posts now, searching for one in particular. A piece on pushing a man to his limits so he’ll show his true colors. It was so popular it spawned a monthly post with tips like: tell him you’re a fan of the smooth scrotum look while holding your flat iron. And ask him 100 times a day to tell you again and again and again why he loves you. Some of them are ridiculous or plain stupid, but in amongst them were some pearls.

I pick up my glass and raise it in salute to the sleeping man in my bedroom. You made the wrong move deciding to make this difficult, husband. I am going to screw you so hard. All the way to signing the damn paperwork that will finish this marriage.

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