Page 84 of Miss Understood

“She’s a masochist.” I chuckle.

“No more than you are, my friend.” He looks me in the eyes. “It’s because she cares about you. Probably loves you, even, although don’t ask me why, because for the life of me I can’t understand that right now.” A sneaky smile crawls across his face, but my head is pounding again.

It could have been love.

Love.

Love.

She knows better than that though, right? Even if my stupid heart fell down and scraped itself, hers knows not to get caught up in something so messy.

Or does it?

We were both at that table. The memory of her sharp eyes pinning in me place is fresh. Right before it all fell apart. The tick of a smile on her lips—at first it was almost nonexistent, but eventually it crawled all the way up to her eyes.

Was that love? Why would I deserve it?

“She’s gone,” I say, pushing the divorce papers away like it hurts to have them close to me.

“I noticed, Captain Obvious.” Mateo rolls his eyes.

“You know I could still fire you,” I say to him.

“Then do it already.” Mateo stands up and puts his hands on his hips. “But you won’t, because who would be left to smack some sense into you? Now, just because she left the company doesn’t mean she flew to the moon. It’s less than a fifteen-minute drive from here, as a matter of fact. So stop being an idiot and go talk to her.” Mateo plants his hand flat on the manila envelope, which seems so alive that the papers might as well have a heartbeat.

“Or.” He slides the envelope back toward me on the desk. “Sign the papers.”

I swear I see teeth when he moves his hand, but it must be my imagination.

“One more thing.” Mateo pulls out his phone and thumbs through it. A moment later, my phone chimes on my desk. “Watch that when you get a chance.”

“Where are you headed?” I ask, noticing Mateo sliding on his sunglasses as he makes his way to the door.

“Lunch with Luce,” he says casually, stopping to tip his glasses down his nose. “There it is.” His pinkie finger points my direction. “That’s the look I was waiting for.”

“What look?”

“Regret.” Mateo slides the glasses back on and leaves without saying anything else.

That fucking dick.

He walked in and tossed the rest of my sanity up in the air just to see where it would all land.

The door slaps closed behind him, and I jump. I’m not the kind of man who jumps at anything. I stare it in the face and know it will back the fuck down.

My eyes drop to the manila envelope again, and I pull out the papers like a fucking masochist. There’s a Post-it note with an attorney’s number on it stuck to the bottom, even though she knows I won’t use it.

I can’t get past the first sentence.

Petition for divorce: Jesse Robert Davis and Lucille Bethany Stevens

I read it again and again, until the words aren’t actually words at all—kind of like how our marriage wasn’t actually a marriage. And in the bottom of my gut, I know why the emptiness eats away at me so much. Because I don’t want to live with the nothing; I want to fill it up, and there’s only one woman who can do that for me.

I slide the papers into my bag and click through my email, noticing Mateo cleared my calendar for the rest of the day. Either that or I have no meetings, but that’s unlikely. I’m pretty sure I was supposed to be discussing the appeal strategy on the Hartford case with Brad this afternoon.

Whether it’s Mateo sending a sneaky signal or not, I’m thankful.

I go with my gut.

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