Page 103 of As the Years Pass
We’ve been down this road, and I need to stop while I’m ahead. If I let this go any further, I won’t come out okay on the other side of it all.
So for the second time today, I walk out the door, and this time, I don’t look back.
Chapter Forty-Two
Adam
Three months later…
I drive around the block for twenty minutes, making myself late, before finally pulling into the driveway of the modern two-story house on the best side of town. It’s where Leslie lives with her new boyfriend, and the kids when they’re with her.
I met him once, in passing, not officially. His name is Chris, and he’s a dentist. Average looking guy with a dad bod and bad jokes.
Though she’d told me three months ago she was moving in with him, it went relatively slow. They couldn’t decide where they wanted to move, and then they found this house, closed on it pretty quickly, and got everything moved in within two days about a week ago. It’s a nice house, I’ll give them that, and theygot it for a good price. Well under what it’s worth, that’s for sure. But apparently Chris knows people, so they made out in the deal.
Leslie and I haven’t talked much, outside of planning for the kids and the now and then spat when I’m irritated about this entire situation. She hasn’t lost her cool with me once, and in fact has been very patient, but that only irritates me more.
But I’m here today because we’re filling our divorce papers. I’m not upset about it. What’s bothering me is going into this beautiful house and getting a flash of their perfect life when mine is such a mess still.
The sun is out today—of course it is. And I wait in the car, making myself even more late, until the front door opens and Leslie eyes me with her arms crossed over her chest.
With a huff, I shut the car off, grab my folder from the passenger seat, and head up the steps.
“You’re late.”
“I’m aware.”
“Get lost?”
“No.”
She steps to the side, and I walk into a spacious foyer with a high ceiling, a glass chandelier hanging over the center. The staircase is against the back wall, leading up to a second floor that I can get a small glimpse of from here.
“Would you like a tour?” she asks.
“No, thanks.”
She heads to the right, and I follow after her into a sparkling kitchen with black countertops and new appliances. She takes a seat at the island and gestures for me to sit across from her, so I do—begrudgingly.
“I’m waiting,” she says.
“For what?” I ask.
“Your opinion. Judgment, maybe. You did this for years, Adam. What do you think?”
“It’s very nice,” is what I say.
She huffs an annoyed laugh, shaking her head. “Let me see them.”
I slide the folder over, and she opens it up, flipping through the pages. We’ve talked about this, and what we’re putting in it. Both of us, thankfully, have been agreeable and decided to keep the schedule with the kids the same and split custody and financial responsibility fifty-fifty. Basically, we just want to keep things fair. It seems logical to me, even if I still wish I could have my kids every single day, all day.
“How’s work?” she asks, her eyes roaming over the page.
“Starting to pick up,” I say. “I’ve sold a couple houses this month already.”
“Look at you being all independent.”
“What the hell does that mean?” I ask, scoffing.
