Page 14 of Just Not That Into Billionaires

“Literally,” she repeats.

Francine always misused the word literally.My eyes literally bugged out of my skull! I literally lost my mind! For once, she’s using it as intended.

“Literally,” I confirm.

She narrows her eyes, pretty features taut with pretend suspicion, pillowy lips puckered. “Soooo…you knew all this time?” She seems stunned, as if the unusual aspect here is that I remember we’re married, whereas it took her anentire fucking decadeto discover the fact for herself.

That, too: very Francine. Nothing really matters to Francine unless it has something to do with ballet.

“All this time?” she asks, incredulous. “How is that even possible?”

“I utilized a cognitive faculty calledmemory,” I tell her.

She gives me a humorous scolding look now, hands on her hips. Even seated, she’s in full physical expression mode. “You’re telling me you knew?”

I stare down at the paper. “You don’t remember…anything?”

“Well…” She jiggles her head while making a funny face, a playful gesture she used to dramatize the concept of “ummmmmm wuuuuut?” which happened to be a favorite phrase of hers. It was Francine’s expert way of making light of an awkward situation, or getting out of a difficult question. And people would gladly let her off, because she’s beautiful and fun.

“You remember nothing of it?” I ask again.

“Bits and pieces,” she says, looking down. “And I remember waking up at your place. You were on the couch. I remember it was a bit of a drunken night. And let’s say I haven’t touched tequila since. Benny, I just need to say—I’m so sorry—”

“Don’t,” I say. “Nobody cares. It was nearly ten years ago.”

“Well, Social Security cares. Only Vegas, where you can get a marriage license out of a gumball machine, right?”

A gumball machine marriage. The naive kid I was back then would’ve been crushed to hear such a thing. The man I am today doesn’t give a shit.

I pick up my spoon and draw it through my soup.

“So you’ve just been going with it?” she finally asks when I don’t bother to chime in.

“Why not?” I say coolly. “Our marriage has been extremely convenient. You’re an excellent tax break.”

She swallows, rolling the corner of her napkin. Francine was always excruciatingly easy to read, but even if I couldn’t read her, the state of her napkins always gave her away. She’s nervous now. If this particular napkin weren’t made of cloth, she’d have ripped it to little shreds.

There was a time when I hated that I made her nervous—hated that I made people nervous in general. I didn’t know how to put people at their ease. I didn’t understand back then that I didn’t have to care about those things. I didn’t understand that this very thing that I hated about myself could be a strength.

“Well…I had no idea, personally,” she says. “But I know now. And here’s the thing—I really, really need us tonotbe married.” She looks up at me, searching my eyes, back and forth. “I need an affidavit of single civil status as soon as humanly possible. If you would be so kind.”

I set my spoon on its napkin, lining it up precisely with my knife. “An affidavit of single civil status,” I say.

“Exactly.” She produces another piece of paper and sets it on the table next to the license. It looks like the type of divorce decree you’d download from the internet. “The affidavit I need requires a divorce. This is a simple one—no strings, no fault. I mean, it’s not as if we’re actually married, right?”

A divorce, then. This is her quest. This is why she’s come.

Then again, why else?

The waitperson sets down her drink.

“Thank you,” Francine says brightly. She swishes the peel. “My dance company leaves on an international tour in January and it’s the chance of a lifetime. If I don’t have an affidavit of civil status that shows me as single, I’ll look like the liar of the year on a bunch of my visa applications.”

Here she lowers her voice, fixing me with a serious gaze. “Apparently I signed a lot of documents saying that I’m single when I’m not, and it turns out that embassies gettresuptight about that kind of thing these days. Due to terrorism and all.” She stirs her drink. “Thanks a lot, terrorists. Like, that was the hobby you had to choose? It couldn’t have been macrame? The sketching of fruit bowls? Woodworking? You went with terrorism?”

She looks up with a humorous little smile that I don’t bother to return. I’m not exactly known for my sense of humor. I’m good with that.

“So that’s how you found out,” I observe coolly.

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