Page 68 of Anchored

“My eyes are up here,” I snap.

Macy rolls her eyes, but she quits checking me out. “May I speak to you?”

I lean into the door and squint my eyes, wondering what exactly this could be about. We haven’t had a private conversation in years. Mostly because they devolve into shouting (her) and too much stimulation (me), which leads to bad outcomes for both of us.

“Please, Holt.”

It’s the please that gets me. I’m not a mean person, normally, and Macy is not known for asking for things nicely. So I push off the door and let her into the cabin. Mookie snarls and pounces at Macy’s feet like she’s an attack dog guarding the castle. I stoop and pick her up, careful to keep teeth and claws away from me.

“Just a second.” I hustle out of the living room with the seven pounds of fury and deposit her into the bathroom and shut the door. The sooner Macy talks, the sooner I can get her out of here.

When I come back out of the hallway, she’s had a seat on the couch. Seeing her just inches away from where Maple and I sleep makes me realize how wrong this woman was for me. Other than growing up in Anchor Lake, we have absolutely nothing in common.

“So, what’s the problem?” I ask, sitting on the couch armrest and folding my arms across my chest. I refuse to fully sit down. Anything that might give Macy the impression I prefer a lengthy chat.

She lifts a dark eyebrow, but doesn’t comment on my gruffness. “I’m getting married.”

I find I don’t really care. “Wow. Um, congratulations?”

She smirks, bowing her head like a queen accepting tariffs from her peasants. “Thank you. It’s rather sudden, I know, but one of the things we have in common is a divorce, or two, in our pasts. We’ve decided to go to marriage counseling to make sure we get things right this time around and our counselor has suggested that I have unfinished business with you that needs to be resolved.”

I rack my brain, thinking maybe I still have one of her books? Or a bottle of nail polish that somehow got boxed up in my things during one of my moves? What unfinished business could we possibly have?

“It’s been eight years, Macy,” I say incredulously. Eight glorious years.

She dips her head again and breaks eye contact. “I know. But when I told the counselor why we didn’t work out, she pointed out that those reasons were all thingsyoudid wrong. She wants me to talk to you and find out, from your point of view, whatIdid wrong.”

I grin, which somehow she must know because her gaze snaps back to mine, thoroughly irritated.

“Be serious, Holt.”

I throw my hands up. “I am! I was just thinking how much I like your counselor.”

She gives me a familiar death glare that’s only sharpened over the years. I feel a momentary pang of sympathy for the guy she’s marrying, but we’re all fully grown adults here. He can watch out for himself.

“Okay, okay. Um, if I had to pinpoint what went wrong, I’d say we got married too young. I realize mid-twenties is when many couples get married, but I was still pursuing my graduate degree and building my business, so that was a significant focus for me that didn’t help our marriage. Secondly, we have, like, nothing in common.”

She scoffs.

“Seriously. I love to hike, you love the gym. I love surprises, you loathe anything that’s not under your control. I’m a morning person, you stay up late and do things with bright screens.”

“All of that seems like things that can be overcome in a healthy marriage,” she argues.

A headache is blooming. Having a deep conversation with my ex-wife was not in my plans for today, but apparently that’s what we’re going to do.

“You really want to know?”

“I really want to know.” She rolls her shoulders back and lifts her nose in the air like she’s ready to take a fist to the face.

“I spent my whole life having my mother make digs at me for my lack of concentration. I’m late to things, I have rambling conversations, I got good grades only because I was smart, not because I had any kind of consistent work ethic. And I don’t like loud, flashy places like most twenty-year-olds. Being diagnosed with ADHD was the best thing that could have happened to me. It gave me a reason for why I behaved the way that I did. It took the shame away and let me walk through life with my head held high for once. And then you came along, picking up where my mother left off and banging me over the head with a heavy dose of shame for each and every offense. Instead of helping me, understanding my diagnosis, or just having some fucking patience, you belittled me. And pretty soon, every comment chipped away at whatever love I had for you until it was gone.That’swhy we got divorced.”

She blinks at me, her dark eyes staring in shock. I realize then that I should have told her all of this much sooner. Instead, I stuffed it down deep where it clearly festered over the years as I tried to rebuild my self-esteem on my own.

“Huh,” Macy grunts, mind still reeling.

Mookie barks from the bathroom and I hear her, the anger I felt previously evaporating in an instant. I jump to my feet, patting my pockets for my phone. I must have left it in the bathroom when I was getting ready to hop in the shower.

“What time is it?” I ask, worry rising in my throat.

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