Page 161 of Divorced from Number Thirty-Eight
Because he’s pulling off my clothes and he’s using his mouth for things that have absolutely nothing to do with laughter and all to do with pleasure.
And love.
And the understanding that it’s time for us to move forward.
Together.
Later—much later—the rug in the entryway a complete and total loss, our naked—and paint-covered—bodies still intertwined, I call his name.
He trails his fingers through a splotch of paint on my side, making even more of a mess—though I know he’s looking forward to washing it off in the shower just as much as I am—and asks, “What is it, Red?”
I snuggle closer. “I just think this begs the question…what the hell are we going to do about Courtney?”
His eyes come to mine.
And instead of the anger I expect, there’s plotting.
And humor.
And suddenly I understand that in finding myself amongst the ashes and glitter, burned loaves of banana bread and heartbreak, I’ve also found a world that’s messy and imperfect and…so much more beautiful than I ever could have imagined.
And better yet?
I have man who proves exactly that with his next words.
“We’re going to sic Luna on her.”
I freeze.
Then smile wide.
Because that’s the most perfect idea I’ve ever heard.
Epilogue
Gray, One Month Later
I slip out into the garage and do what I’ve been doing every single night I’ve been home since construction began in earnest on Faye’s house.
Go through the boxes of debris they’ve cleared out.
Hoping to find more of her belongings.
Most of the boxes yield nothing aside from ashes, but tonight I get lucky.
Really lucky.
Carefully, I brush off the splinters and ash, extracting a binder from the box.
The cover is charred, almost unreadable.
Except for four letters that have my heart in my throat.
I.P.E. And S.
The spine makes an ominous creaking sound as I carefully open it.
Inside, the handwriting is old and looping, made in the cursive my generation never managed to fully master.
