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“Because I like you, Banks.”
Maybe it’s the clear night sky, the twinkling lights in the trees, or the liquor in my coffee, but right now, I can’t help but think that Martin Butler is one of the best humans I’ve ever met. He’s an old soul wrapped in a kind and gentle spirit. The fact that he looks like Thor is honestly the least interesting thing about him.
“I like you too, Butler,” I say.
He takes my hand and holds it. We sway back in our rockers like an old married couple, with Ozzie sprawled out beneath the heater. The writer in me feels a sense of relief in knowing that moments like this exist in real life and not just on paper.
“Can I ask you something?”
“As long as it’s not math,” I reply. “Go for it.”
“Why’d you stop coming around here? Was it the divorce? Was it your parents?”
“It was everything,” I say.
But it was mostly me.
Chapter 24
Thanksgiving 2012:
The One with a Side of Divorce
It’s the first time there’s been only four of us for Thanksgiving, and never have I missed my sister as much as I do now. She’s flying down from London for Christmas, instead of Thanksgiving, which means that today it’s just me, my parents, and Nana Rosie.
My parents didn’t even bother inviting over one of my dad’s associates to set me up on a blind date with or one of his professor buddies to lure me back to school. They won’t say it, but I think they’re too embarrassed to have company over this year. Having a daughter with a divorce under her belt after a year of marriage isn’t the sort of thing Carter and Silvia Banks like to brag about. I considered getting a shirt made up with the phrase At least I’m not pregnant on the back in bold lettering to remind my parents that things could be worse. I could be the divorced college dropout who is also barefoot and pregnant. But my parents aren’t the best at looking at the bright side of things.
They are, however, incredibly gifted when it comes to being efficient. Within twenty-four hours of informing them that Smith had filed for divorce, I had a one-way ticket to San Diego. Upon landing, I had an attorney and a moving truck filled with my belongings from my LA apartment. Seventy-two hours later and I’m back in my childhood bedroom and have a plethora of interesting job opportunities to choose from, thanks to my mother. So far, my top picks include assistant to the vice president of the Daughters of the American Revolution, and secretary to the treasurer of the Women’s Historical Society of Southern California. It’s always been my dream to get coffee and take notes for busybody housewives who use charities as excuses to host tea parties.
“Penelope, you’re sure you don’t want both dogs?” My father peers at me over the brim of his reading glasses from across the table. He’s got a stack of divorce papers next to his half-eaten slice of pie, and I’ve got a knot in my stomach that hasn’t managed to untie itself since the appetizer course. This going page by page through Smith’s divorce filing is about as painful as plucking out my eyelashes one by one. “Your mother and I are more than happy for you to keep both of the dogs here while we figure out living arrangements.”
“Smith and I agreed that we’d each keep one of the dogs.” I push my plate of uneaten pie to the side. “They’re puppies, and it’s too much work for either of us to take care of both of them. Plus, a lot of apartments in the city only allow one pet.”
“Why would you need to look at apartments, Penelope?” my mother asks. “We have everything you could possibly need here.”
“You know how to perform an exorcism, Mom?”
“You don’t need an exorcism.” She scowls.
I will if I stay here long enough. Already my mother has become obsessed with planning our calendars for next year. She thinks if I stay busy, then I won’t have time to be upset about the fact that my marriage fell apart. Little does she know that I’m usually too exhausted during the day to be sad, because my insomnia makes sure that I don’t miss a single midnight thinking about how I lost Smith.
“Fine. One dog each.” Dad scratches his beard, examining one of the hundreds of documents my divorce has amassed. At this point, I’m fairly certain that the number one threat to the rainforest is divorce paperwork. “Now, your attorney noticed that you’re also entitled to shares from that magazine you were writing for with Smith. What’s it called again?”
“Digital Slap.”
“That’s a terrible name for a publication.” My mother shakes her head. “Sounds like some sort of online bullying group. You know that’s on the rise right now. I saw it on Live with Kelly. Do you watch her show, Penelope?”
“I don’t, Mom.” I sip my now-cold coffee. “And Dad, I know about the shares.”
“So you know you can cash them out? I’m not sure what the value is, but I could look into it. Seeing how fast these online start-ups crash and burn, I’d suggest cashing out now.”
“I’ll think about it.”
“When?” my father presses.
“When what?”
“When will you think about it? You only have two more weeks to file a response with the judge, and there’s still so much we have to cover. This is the problem with elopements. Two kids get so caught up in the idea of being in love that they let Siegfried and Roy walk them down the aisle before they’ve had a chance to think about a prenup.”
