Page 2 of Dear Mr. Brody

“And there really isn’t anyone else?” she asked, and hell, I wanted to tell her then. Maybe if I said it out loud it would be real, not just a concept I’d wrestled with all my life. “For a minute I thought you were into the blonde agent you work with.”

“Claire?” A real laugh escaped from my aching chest. “Hard pass. She’s Satan in heels. Not my type.”

“Maybe Anders is more your type?” she teased, making my pulse jump, wondering if maybe she’d figured it out.

Anders Lowe owned Lowe Literary. I envied my boss sometimes. He happened to be openly bisexual and was engaged to a man. I couldn’t lie to myself and pretend I didn’t find him attractive. It was another secret I kept in a vault, buried where I couldn’t evaluate it too much. But as she looked at me, waiting for an answer, that secret stabbed me in the ribs as I tried to breathe.

“There’s never been anybody else for me, Lanie. Only you. Stop trying to be the victim, you’re the one who fucked around.”

“Van, I’m so —”

“I don’t want an apology.” I didn’t want to fight. Exhaustion weighed on my shoulders as I stood and turned down the sheets. I could feel her eyes on me as I lifted my shirt over my head and took off my watch, setting it on the side table like I did every night. Anxious, I didn’t think I’d be able to sleep. “I’m going to take shower.”

“Okay.”

“I think I should sleep in the guest room, until we figure shit out.”

“Okay.”

“We should tell Anne tomorrow, maybe let her school counselor know as well.”

“Okay.”

“Okay?” I asked, and she blinked a few times before fresh tears appeared on her cheeks.

“I don’t know what else to say. This is really happening. We’re getting a divorce.”

It would be easy to walk over to her, to take her into my arms and kiss her, ask her if we could do couples therapy, and hope maybe one day I’d forgive her. But the thought of a fresh start released the tight knots in my shoulders. Lanie and I hadn’t been happy for a long time. I couldn’t remember the last time we’d gone out together without Anne, or talked about something other than bills, and work, or argued over whose turn it was to do the dishes. We didn’t find ways to touch each other like we used to. We didn’t stay up late tangled inside one another, fucking and talking about dreams and hope and us. Her infidelity was the wakeup call, the key to something we’d shoved neatly behind a closed door. We’d changed, we’d become different people. I was thirty-three years old and had no idea who I was anymore, who she was. How was it possible to know everything about a person, and yet they were still a stranger?

“I think… I think it’s a good thing. For both of us. For Anne.”

“I think so too,” she said, a sad smile rising at the corner of her lips.

I waited for the fear, the uncertainty to overwhelm me, but the possibility of finally getting to know the person I’d locked away all these years made everything seem less tragic. For the first time in over a decade, I would be on my own.

For the first time in my life, I could be me.

Donovan

Six Months Later

A nervous excitement coursed through me, my hands shaking as I packed my laptop into my bag. Glancing at the clock, I had about an hour before my class started.My class.I smiled and all the nervous energy lifted. I’d gotten a second job, part time as an adjunct professor at a small state college teaching an introductory creative writing class in the evening. After my divorce finalized a couple of months ago, I wanted to do something for myself. I’d always wanted to be a teacher. I loved writing, and being an agent was amazing, but I was tired of always feeling like a salesman. I wanted to be a part of the process, I wanted to help people create. But getting pregnant with Anne as fast as Lanie and I had, I hadn’t had the option of being picky. With my lack of experience, I would have had a better chance of getting struck by lightning than finding a spot as an English professor at any of the local colleges. I’d tried to look in my field of study for a job, and the only thing I’d found was an entry-level editor job at Bartley Press. It hadn’t been exactly what I’d wanted, but it had paid the bills. I’d worked my way up and found I didn’t hate being a copy editor. I’d worked there for eight years before Anders recruited me to work at his agency. The money sounded amazing, and I’d loved the idea of working with authors one on one.

Since my divorce, something had shifted. I moved out of the home I’d built with my ex-wife and moved into my small, three-bedroom house in Decatur, a suburb east of Atlanta. Anne was with me two nights a week and every other weekend, but my loneliness, when she wasn’t there, was bone deep. Nights were the worst. I couldn’t sleep, my mind would race, and I’d wonder about Anne, wonder if she’d brushed her teeth, if Lanie had remembered to read her our bedtime stories. It didn’t matter that there were always sixty minutes in every hour, in the darkness of night, time was infinite. A loop that never ended, and I needed something to fill all those seconds of worry and doubt. I’d found this part-time job through an old colleague at Bartley, and I snagged it. Winchester State College wasn’t a prestigious school, and the pay was nothing compared to what I made with Lowe, but it was something to do. Something to stop myself from overthinking every choice I’d made. To stop myself from sinking into depression. It would be too easy to allow the dark, the night, to swallow me whole.

I ran a hand through my hair and laughed at myself. Fuck, I was being overdramatic.

“Something funny?” Anders stood inside the doorway of my office.

The stern set of his shoulder belied the humor in his tone.

“Nah… just thinking.” I checked my watch. “I better head out if I’m going to make it on time.”

“I wanted to remind you about Wilder’s release party tomorrow, he’ll never let me live it down if I don’t invite everyone.”

“If Lanie is okay to watch Anne I can be there.” He seemed relieved. I wished I could say the same. I hadn’t been out to a club since college. “Why is he having it at a night club?”

Anders quirked his brow and shook his head. “I stopped asking him about his choices a long time ago. I love the guy, but he is hands down the most unpredictable author I have on my client list.”

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