Page 10 of Pretend You Love Me

Adrian nods once, his expression matter of fact. “You’re welcome,” he says, and then, with perfect timing, the bell above the door chimes as the first customer of the day arrives, Mrs. Chen, with her crossword puzzle, right on schedule.

The café comes alive around us in the way it always does, the lights brightening, the music turning on, the espresso machine changing from its warm-up cycle to the real work of the day. Luca moves behind the counter with efficiency, calling out a greeting to Mrs. Chen while simultaneously dumping fresh beans into the grinder and reaching for a clean mug. Adrian checks his watch then stands with the movements of someone who’s aware he’s taking up space that’s about to be in demand.

“I should get to the office,” he says. “But I’ll text you those names today. And Elsie?” He waits until I look up. “However, you’re feeling right now, however this goes, you’re not doing it alone. That’s a promise.”

I nod, not quite trusting my voice, and Adrian gives my shoulder a brief squeeze before heading for the door. As he passes Luca, there’s another of those silent exchanges, Adrian’s mouth quirking up at one corner, Luca’s eyes narrowing slightly, Adrian kisses him lightly and then he is gone, the bell chiming softly behind him.

For a moment, I just sit at the table, watching the morning light move across the floor. My coffee is cold again, my eyes feel like they’ve been sandpapered, and there’s a hollow space in my chest where my marriage used to be. But Adrian’s words are still there, too.

“Els!” Luca calls from behind the counter. “I need you to make yourself useful or go be sad somewhere that’s not my sightline. This oat milk isn’t going to foam itself, and Mrs. Chen is giving me the look that means she’s three clues away from a completed puzzle and dangerously low on caffeine.”

I stand, carrying my cold coffee to the counter, and slip behind it. “The oat milk never foams,” I tell him, dumping the remains of my drink and reaching for a fresh mug. “It’s physically incapable of forming stable bubbles. We’ve had this conversation multiple times.”

“Yet somehow,” Luca says, handing me a cup of freshly ground espresso, “I remain hopeful that one day, the laws of physics will recognize my emotional needs and make an exception.”

I laugh despite myself, the sound feels strange in my throat and I move to start Mrs. Chen’s latte. The routine is familiar, comforting in its specificity: tamp the espresso, lock the portafilter, start the shot, steam the milk to 145 degrees. My hands know what to do even when my brain feels like it’s short-circuiting, and there’s something almost peaceful about watching the milk form a perfect rosetta on the surface of the drink.

As I’m finishing, adding the final flourish with a practiced flick of my wrist, Luca catches my eye from across the counter and makes an absolutely ridiculous face: his eyebrows drawn together, mouth twisted into what might be a snarl or might be an attempt to suck his entire upper lip into his nose, eyes crossed slightly. It’s so unexpected, so perfectly timed to the moment when Daniel’s name surfaces in my thoughts, that I nearly drop the latte.

“What?” I demand, handing the finished drink to Mrs. Chen with a smile that doesn’t quite reach my eyes. “What was that?”

“That,” Luca says, wiping down the steam wand with more aggression than strictly necessary, “was my impression of Daniel’s face when he realizes you’ve retained counsel and he’s about to get metaphorically castrated in divorce court.” He pauses, considering. “Or possibly literally castrated. I’m keeping my options open.”

He is just what I needed, this is what I needed, this specific, ridiculous moment of normal in a morning that’s been anything but, that I feel the corner of my mouth twitch upward, the shape of a smile still rough around the edges.

“I’m pretty sure that’s not how divorce works,” I say, reaching for the next order.

“Details,” Luca says with a dismissive wave. “I’m working from the heart here, Els. Don’t crush my dreams.”

The morning continues around us, customers arriving, orders being taken, drinks being made. Luca keeps making increasingly dramatic faces every time Daniel’s name appears in my thoughts, which is often enough that by 10:30, Mrs. Chen has asked twice if he’s having some kind of seizure, and it helps more than I want to admit. Not because it fixes anything, but because it reminds me that whatever happens next, I won’t be facing it alone.

Five

The law office is on the fourteenth floor of a glass building where the windows reflect only other windows. I ride the elevator up, a leaking, postpartum ghost sandwiched between two men in identical suits discussing interest rates. They talk like they’ve never had an errant bodily fluid in their lives. A damp circle spreads beneath my blazer with each floor, and I decide the universe doesn’t just have a grudge against me. It has a detailed, itemized list of grievances and it’s checking them off one by one.

The reception area is all glass and grey: glass desk, grey chairs, grey carpet so thick it feels like walking across a mattress. A blonde woman in a white shirt sits behind the desk, her fingers moving across her keyboard without making a sound. She doesn’t look up when I enter, just keeps typing with the concentration of someone pretending to be too busy to notice you’re there.

“Hi,” I say, after twenty seconds of standing in front of her desk has failed to generate any response. “I have an appointment at two. Elsie Quinn.”

She looks up then, but not at me, at a point somewhere above my left shoulder. “Have a seat,” she says, reaching for a clipboard. “You’ll need to fill this out.”

The clipboard contains seventeen pages of questions about my financial situation, marital history, and employment status, none of which I’ve brought documentation for, because Adrian didn’t mention anything about paperwork and I’ve been too busy rehearsing “my husband has been cheating on me with multiple women since I was heavily pregnant” without my voice doing anything embarrassing to think about bringing bank statements.

I’m halfway through the third page, trying to decide whether to list the twins as assets or liabilities, when a door opens and a man appears in the doorway. He’s in his mid-fifties, with the type of watch that costs more than my monthly mortgage payment and a tie knot so precise it looks like it was executed with architectural tools rather than human hands.

“Mrs. Quinn?” he says, not waiting for confirmation before continuing. “I’m Jeremy Hemsley. Come through.”

His office is more of the same, grey walls, grey carpet, grey furniture, with the single exception of a large abstract painting behind his desk that features what looks like several grey blobs arranged in a pattern so subtle it might as well be an ink-blot test. He gestures to a chair across from his desk, a chair whose armrests are just slightly too wide apart, as if designed for someone twice my size, and sits down with the posture of someone who charges by the minute and wants you to feel it.

“So,” he says, opening a folder on his desk. “Divorce. I understand you’ve been married for... three years?”

“Four,” I say. “Almost five.”

He makes a note. “And children?”

“Twins. Five months old.”

Another note. “And the grounds for divorce?”