Page 8 of Hate the One You're With
“You’re married,” she adds, dropping the bomb with the kind of casualness that only she could pull off.
“What the fuck did she send?” I snap, feeling a mix of anger and disbelief bubbling up. We agreed never to discuss the marriage or us with anyone else.
Why is Emmersyn sending something?
“You know, proof that you’re not . . . single.” She’s clearly enjoying this, and I can practically hear the smirk in her voice when she responds, “Looks like Vegas didn’t keep your secrets, huh?”
I groan, running a hand through my hair. “What does she want?”
“A divorce, of course,” shereplies.
“Divorce,” I repeat, and at that moment, I receive the textfrom Max with Emmersyn’s phone number. Instead of staying on the line with Hanna, I hang up and call Em right away.
If she suddenly found the love of her life and she wants to get rid of me just so she can . . . What the fuck is she doing? I don’t care, but she’s not going to fuck with me. I’m not some minion she can order around. She wants a divorce, it’s going to be on my terms—not hers.
“Emmersyn Langley speaking,” she responds with a chirpy voice.
“What the fuck, Emmersyn? You think you can just decide our marital status, and I’ll sign the divorce papers without hesitation?” I snap, the frustration bubbling over.
“So you haven’t signed the papers?” she asks, and there’s a flicker of hope in her voice, a mixture of surprise and something else that’s harder to pin down.
“No. I?—”
“Yes. Miracles still happen,” she laughs, the sound almost relieved, as if something good has finally happened to her. Now I’m the one who’s confused.
“Explain,” I demand, irritation threading through my words.
“Gertrude died,” she says, and there’s a slight sadness in her tone, though she uses her grandmother’s first name, which she only does when she’s pissed at her. “I thought it was time to . . .”
“Em, finish that thought,” I order, my patience wearing thin.
“Keep your growly voice in check, Caleb,” she fires back, her tone sharp. “I’m not going to tolerate you barking orders at me.”
“Em, you’re trying my patience,” I say, struggling not to snap at her again.
“Can I see you?” she asks, her voice softer now, almost tentative.
“No.”
“We really need to talk,” she insists, urgency creeping into her tone.
“You have a minute to explain yourself,” I reply, unwilling to give her more.
“This has to be done in person,” she says stubbornly. I see she hasn’t changed one bit. You’d think that after so many years, she’d be willing to compromise.
“Em, I just came home from a mission. I’m exhausted. Maybe we can talk next month or in another ten years.”
“This can’t wait. The future of many depends on you—on us. I’d rather discuss this in person. I can fly to San Diego,” she offers, determination clear in her voice.
“I’m not there. I’m in Boston,” I reply, exasperation creeping into my tone.
“Oh, that’s even better. I can be there in an hour,” she says with a stubborn certainty.
“Emmersyn, no—” I start, but she ends the call before I can tell her that I won’t see her and where she can shove those divorce papers.
Wait—does she want the divorce or not? Now I’m completely confused about what she needs from me. Her insistence on seeing me in person, coupled with talk about people depending on us, doesn’t add up—unless . . . Gertrude Langley pulled something even more ridiculous thanmanipulating her granddaughter into marrying some Joe Schmoe off the street.
And yes, I’m that Joe fucking Schmoe who said yes to her proposal. She was pretty, desperate, and offered me something I really needed—I couldn’t pass up the opportunity. But I should’ve. Because what I didn’t realize was that I was signing up to be hitched to the coldest, most emotionless person in the world.
