Page 66 of Absolution

He starts apologizing again. I hold up a hand. “I’m nowhere near ready to forgive you. But what the fuck are you doing? It’s three in the afternoon and you’re drunk.”

He shrugs. “You said you wanted to divorce me, so you don’t get an opinion.”

“I said I can’t divorce you. Dickwad, big difference.” Getting up, I grab the stack of pages, now printed and warm in my hands.

“You did a bad thing, Cory. Own up to it. Stop being pathetic.” With that I walk to the door.

Harsh? Maybe. But I’ve got zero fucks left to give.

Back in the car, I call Marianne.

“Hey,” she answers, voice groggy and scratchy with sleep.

“Hey. Where are you?”

She groans softly. “Driving home. Why?”

“I need a home base to go through some discovery,” I say, sliding into my best Law & Order tone. I have watched enough episodes to know the lingo.

She’s quiet for a second. “O…kay. You can use my apartment, but I’m not sure I’ll be any help.”

“You don’t have to be. I just need four walls. You sound exhausted.”

“You have no idea,” she mutters. “The number of stupid reasons people end up in the ER would shock you.”

“I have a pretty good idea,” I say, laughing. “My favourite was the guy who shoved a shampoo bottle up his-”

“Oh my God, don’t,” she groans, laughing through a yawn. “I can’t unsee that X-ray.”

The rest of the drive, we keep talking. Nothing heavy. Just little things, apartment repairs, bad coffee, a show she started but didn’t finish. I keep her talking so she doesn’t fall asleep behind the wheel.

We hang up when she pulls into her building. I arrive five minutes later.

Marianne lives in a two-bedroom apartment on the second floor; the building only has three and no elevator. Moving her in had been fun.

The door swings open before I even knock. She stands there in scrubs, hair half up, and eyes barely open.

“You look like death,” I say.

“I feel like death. That’s why I left the door unlocked. Come in, take over my life.”

She steps aside and waves me in, already shuffling toward her bedroom.

She gestures to the thick stack in my hands. “Do I want to know?”

“Nope.”

“Couch is yours. I’m going to pass out for, like, forever.”

“Sleep. I’ll keep quiet.”

She gives me a one-armed hug, then disappears into her room. I hear the bedroom door click shut.

The apartment falls silent.

I drop onto the couch, the documents heavy in my lap like a physical form of his betrayal. My hand rests on them for a second. Just a second.

Then I get to work.

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