Page 139 of Divorced from Number Thirty-Eight

---

I nod, feeling a little better.

Maybe it’s just because the pastry no longer tastes like sawdust.

Maybe it’s because I want so badly to believe her—want to believe Gray’s and my love won’t end up in ashes.

More likely, it’s just…

The Power of Luna.

Forty-Five

Gray

I don’t want to talk to any of these fuckers.

Nope. No fucking way.

But apparently—for the umpteenth time in the last few days—no one gives a fuck what I want.

Not the media.

Not Faye.

Not my teammates.

I purposefully chose an empty row at the back of the plane when I boarded to avoid interacting with these fuckers, but Smitty ignores my silent signals to leave me alone and drops down next to me, pulling out one of my earbuds.

“Wombats,” I growl, snatching it back.

He winces but doesn’t go away. “What the fuck are you doing, man?”

“I’m not doing anything.”

Except trying to listen to my music.

And pretending I didn’t seriously fuck up my life.

“If you didn’t do anything,” he booms—of fucking course he does, drawing the attention of every asshole on this plane, “why is my wife telling me that you may have fucked up the best thing you’ll ever have?”

My stomach convulses.

Shame ripples through my middle.

Ignoring that, ignoring him, I shove my earbud back in, crank up my music.

“Dude—” he booms.

I reach into my pocket, pull out my phone, tapping until I’ve brought up the album I created only to be used in very special circumstances.

Today is one of those special days.

I search through the AI renderings of Smitty (with wombats), trying to find the perfect image as he continues talking loud enough to penetrate my music.

“—you seriously don’t want to fuck this shit up. Faye is?—”

I don’t need him to tell me all that Faye is.

Good. Sweet. Beautiful. In love with me.

---