Page 46 of One Vow

My dad was the one all my friends always thought was hot, just enough five o’clock shadow to be artsy not sloppy, dark hair, darker eyes, and no sign of a dad body. But today, I saw the lines on his face, the stress this whole situation etched into his skin. I hated that I had a part in it.

He set his empty bottle on the table next to my chair. All my life he’d been a man who didn’t swear, didn’t drink, didn’t date. To have me as a daughter must’ve been quite the disappointment. Yet he’d never shown it. He’d always been there for me, and he deserved better than I’d ever been.

“Dad, I’m so sorry for…” The list would take forever. “Everything.”

“All of life is a lesson. As long as you keep growing and striving to be better, there’s no need to apologize.” He patted my shoulder. “It’s when you give up that I’ll expect those I’m sorry letters and calls and skywriting.”

He walked to the stove and dipped out a bowl of chili then came to sit at the coffee table. “So, he’s gone?”

I nodded. Broken heart aside. “Yeah. He’s getting married tomorrow.”

Dad pretended not to stare at me over his spoon as he also pretended to blow it cool. “That all right with you?”

Not even a little bit. Except for the fact he’d taken money from my dad. But maybe I understood. In Glouster, he didn’t have a future. He’d never have been able to become a doctor. Would have had me and nothing else if he’d stayed. And no way could I have left Glouster. Not after everything Dad gave up for me to be able to go there.

“Yeah.” But my lip quivered. And my right eye watered. Then my left. “Not really.”

Dad shook his head. “What is it about that guy? You don’t date. You don’t go out. What hold does Finn Makenzie have on you?”

One I didn’t realize. But I shrugged because no way was I shoving those words out into the ether. “I love him.”

Well shit. Those words weren’t better.

One Decade Ago

I stared at the envelope. Stared hard enough the damned thing should’ve burst into flames. I wanted to ignore it, pretend it hadn’t come, wish it into a disappearance Houdini couldn’t undo, but there it sat, flat, mocking, on my table.

And fuck it all if I knew what to do about it. Well, the rational part of me knew what to do. Get up in the morning, take it to the courthouse, and file it. Get the divorce I now knew he wanted.

But rational me wasn’t in the driver’s seat. Tequila soaked me was driving this runaway train, and she had her foot hard on the pedal. And tequila me wanted to see his signature. Because if he didn’t sign, we had a chance. His not taking my calls and not calling me or answering my texts didn’t mean anything if he didn’t sign.

I ripped open the big manilla envelope. It was just folded brown paper with glue and a clasp. Nothing intimidating, but my fingers numbed after I touched it. I swiped them against my jeans then reached inside and pulled the papers out.

I was the petitioner. Stupid word. It listed Finn as the respondent. If he was here, he would have third-personed himself as respondent until we found something else to occupy him. Maybe even then. Respondent would like to touch petitioner’s breasts. Or respondent hungry, in a deep monster voice as he chased me into the bedroom. Or respondent loves petitioner as he slid inside me then kissed me until nothing mattered but him.

I could hear his voice in my head. “Petitioner loves respondent, too.” No one home to hear the whisper but me. I took a swig from the bottle of Cuervo for courage. I wanted and didn’t want, to look at the papers.

I slid my hand into the dark inside of the envelope and felt for a loose paper because maybe he’d written me a note. But there was nothing in the envelope but the divorce papers. And I checked because if he was having second thoughts, I could work with it. I would. I wanted to. But only the papers slipped out.

I poured over every word. Not so much as a single typo or transposed number I could say ruined the validity of the papers. But because fate has always enjoyed taking her shots at me and the lawyer I’d hired was diligent to the point of perfection, the damned things were an unblemished factual representation at the end of a relationship. My relationship. And no matter how I tried, I even tried reading them in a bad British accent because nothing else worked, I couldn’t distance myself from them. These were my papers with my name and the finish of my relationship.

I tossed them onto the table, picked up my bottle of tequila, and walked to flip on my iPod. I danced with only my alcohol as a partner across the same floor I’d danced with Finn a few months ago.

Hip thrusts here. A two-step there. A spin and a sashay. Until our song came on. Our fucking song. Then I folded. Every joint on my body bent so I was sitting in the middle of the floor. Drunk. Sniffling. Then sprawled and staring at the ceiling as Bon Jovi lived on a prayer then Elton John figured out why they called it the blues.

I glanced at the sofa. We’d cuddled there against the gray chenille fabric and fooled around under the cream and gray-colored throw blanket that I’d laid over the back. Then I ran my hand down the leg of the coffee table, caressing the wood where we’d sat on the floor and made a mess with ramen noodles we were trying to feed each other. Everywhere I looked, I saw him. Saw us. The great what could’ve been of my life.

It took a couple more drinks and a song so melancholy I couldn’t believe I’d put it on my playlist that played. It caused my heartbreak to leak out of my eyes and down my cheeks. Another couple drinks before burning the papers sounded like a good idea.

If he wanted a divorce so bad that not even a few months of time had changed his mind, that he’d signed and returned them, then by God, he could hire his own lawyer, file his own damned papers. And I’d send them back signed with a lipstick imprint on the envelope. The bastard.

But it wasn’t until I poured the papers their own shot of tequila that I could summon the courage to toss those blue-backed pages into the fireplace. Thanks to the scientific phenomenon of alcohol plus fire, the flames flared in a burst with a sizzle then wisps of smoke floated up the chimney, along with the last traces of my happiness.

I went into my room and cried myself to sleep.

15

Finn