Page 83 of Miss Understood

It’s a thin envelope with no indicator on the outside, but from Mateo’s demeanor, I know I’m about to peel the lid off Pandora’s box. When I slide the first page out, it all becomes clear.

“Divorce papers? Is she fucking serious?”

The packet is thinner than I’d expect, but maybe that’s just because of what I’m used to: messy. And that’s not Luce. This is all tied up in a pretty bow. There’s nothing to really separate because we didn’t ever actually come together in the first place.

It’s a reminder I don’t really need right now.

I lean back in my chair and drag my palms over my face, hoping that maybe this is all a dream. But when I open my eyes the folder’s still there, and I know that this is actually a nightmare.

“What is it you were expecting?” Mateo says. Some of the edge in his tone has softened as he drops into the chair across from me. “That the same tricks you used in high school would still work? This isn’t playtime. You can’t ignore a girl to get her to like you. Not to mention, Luce isn’t just any girl.”

“I know.”

“Do you?” Mateo narrows his eyes at me, but there’s no anger behind them. He’s scanning my face, reading what’s there like he’s trying to figure out what’s wrong.

Good luck.

I don’t know what’s wrong either. I’m in so many pieces I feel like a semitruck ran me over.

Pulling the papers out again, I’m surprised they don’t burn my hand or drag me to hell, because that’s what this feels like, mistake wedding or not. Like the final tie is about to be cut loose. And honestly, I’m not sure I won’t float away entirely once that happens.

The paperwork is simple, her signature already on the dotted lines. All I have to do is sign, and these last couple months go in the rearview with every other relationship I’ve had.

I reach for my pen and tap it against the table, floating it over the line and back again.

“Fuck.” I stuff the papers back into the folder, like maybe that will bring some of the air back into my chest. I’ll sign them later. I know delaying is just putting off the inevitable, but I can’t think straight.

“Want my advice?” Mateo’s gaze is zeroed in on me.

Advice?It’s almost a joke coming from him. Up until he met Nate, he was more of a player than I was, but I say “Sure” through gritted teeth because all hope is basically lost anyway.

“Talk to her.”

My head shoots up, and my eyes deadpan him. “Funny. You almost had me there.”

“It’s not a joke.”

“And you think that’s going to solve it. Walk up to Luce and say, ‘Hey, I’m a total dickhead who fucked everything up, but you should forgive me.’”

Mateo shrugs a shoulder. “Maybe don’t word it quite like that, but yes. Something along those lines might be effective.”

A laugh escapes my clenched teeth.

“You’re both reasonable people. Sometimes, like in this situation, a little too reasonable, overanalyzing everything until you’re blue in the face.” Mateo leans forward with his elbows propped up on his knees. “But none of what happened between the two of you is clear and clean-cut. It’s messy. And the first chance you both got, instead of working it out, you cut ties and ran. I’ve got to be honest, for two people who don’t take crap from anyone, I’m a little surprised you both let your own get to you so quickly.”

I’m not sure how I’m hearing anything beyond the pounding in my head.

Each thud says sorry.

Sorry.

Sorry.

I’m fucking sorry.

“I’m an asshole. She deserves better,” I say to Mateo.

“Probably, but she walked in knowing that already. Give the woman some credit. It’s not like you two were sweet as pie to each other the past two years,” he says. “And yet, she still decided it was worth dealing with your sorry ass these past couple months. Why do you think that is?”

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