Page 11 of What's Left of Us

Her father never let her before poisoning her mind with whatever bullshit he could to drive a wedge between us. It worked.

“And when was that finalized?”

Another question I’m sure she already knows the answer to. “About seven months ago.”

“So, right before the shooting?”

“I was served a month before it happened.” A familiar bubble of anger rises up my throat that I force myself to swallow. She had the nerve to serve me and then refused to sign negotiated paperwork that protected my pension. One of my buddies was a layer and manage to talk to whatever seedy motherfucker she worked with until her inked name was finally put on the dotted line. “They were signed a month and a half after it happened. My lawyer called me the day I was released from the hospital to let me know I was free.”

Free.Whatever the fuck that meant.

It’d been a harsh reality call—like the string that had attached me to Georgia had been severed by a meat cleaver that might as well have been held by Nikolas Del Rossi himself. A finalfuck youfrom the girl who didn’t visit me once when I was hurt.

Yet I keep the door unlocked just for her so she can sneak in and remind me of the one thing we were always good at.

“It’s been a rough year for you,” she states.

I know where this is leading. “I’d say I’ve been pretty damn lucky considering,” I answer pointedly. I’m in no mood to bring up Conklin. I barely like talking about my failed marriage.

Thankfully, she doesn’t push the topic I think she’s veering toward. “Whose idea was it to separate?”

My jaw tics because there are two people responsible for that ultimate decision. But inevitably, she was the one who walked away first. “Hers.”

The good doctor’s head dips down, pausing before asking, “Did you try fighting for it?”

Fighting. Isn’t that all I did for the entirety of our marriage? Fighting to make it work. Working my ass off day in and day out to make sure she was comfortable. We might not have always been happy, but we were content.

“What’s the point of fighting for somebody who doesn’t want to fight for you?” I ask her.

She doesn’t have an answer for me.

Good. At least she’s not the kind of person who will sit here and bullshit me with some Pinterest-level advice. It’s the last thing I want and the last thing I need.

I cross my arms over my chest. “I won’t sit here and lie and tell you it didn’t suck that the woman I spent almost ten years with chose to leave. But I wasn’t going to force her to stay either. One of us might as well be happy.”

She tilts her head, starting to pick up her pen but setting it back down on the paper as if she decides whatever she has to say isn’t important enough to be immortalized. “It sounds to me like you still care about her.”

Truthfully, I probably always will. I can only hope that fades as time goes on. “These days, the only thing I let myself care about is my job. And I think that’s probably for the best.”

This time, she does pick up her pen and write something down.

“So,” I press, watching as she scribbles down her thoughts, “when are you going to sign off on the paperwork that lets me get back to it?”

She looks up at me through the tops of her glasses. “When I feel you’re ready.”

Swallowing, I scoot to the end of the couch and rest my elbows on my bent knees. “And you think talking about my failed marriage is somehow going to prepare me for getting back to work?”

Smile number four appears, as small as before but present. “I think it’s a very big step in the right direction, Mr. Danforth. After all, it was a domino effect following that that led you to me.”

It’s not a question because she knows.

She’s just waiting for me to admit it.

“Would you look at that,” I say, checking my watch and standing. “Looks like our time is up for the day.”

CHAPTER THREE

Lincoln / Present

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