Love and Neckties - Lacey Black Page 0,63

how my house suddenly feels different. Sure, there are splashes of color in the living room I’ve had to adjust to—throw pillows and some potpourri shit that smells like lilacs—but it’s more than that. It’s the panties I find drying on the shower curtain rod, the chipped coffee mug in the sink that I would have long thrown away, and even the tofu and kale in my refrigerator. It’s all part of her, part of her quirk, her passion.

I like it.

A lot.

I’m also completely torn as I flip the switch and the embalmer starts to do its job. I’m even more confused by the crazy pull I feel toward Freedom than ever before. It’s like I’m not really me anymore. Well, no, that’s not exactly true. It’s like I’m a different version of me, and I believe I might like this new version too. Maybe even better than the old me.

I pull off my gloves, toss them in the trash, and wash my hands. Once they’re dry, I dig my cell phone out of my trousers front pocket. It takes me a few seconds to find the name I’m looking for, but when I do, my finger hovers over the call button. Part of me wants to shove my phone back into my pants and move on with my day, with my life. But the other part is like a flashing reminder of how wrong we’ve gotten it.

How wrong I’ve gotten it.

You can’t get married in Las Vegas and expect to live happily ever after for the rest of your life. Not with your sister’s best friend after a night of too much drinking. Not when there’s no foundation of a real relationship. Trust. Compatibility. Love.

That’s why I push the call button and bring the phone to my ear.

“Anthony Hurliman, please. It’s Samuel Grayson. Yes, I’ll hold. Thank you.” Anthony’s secretary puts me on hold to see if my attorney can speak with me. I’m really hoping he’s available, but if not, I’ll leave a message.

“Samuel, it’s good to hear from you,” my former classmate says when he picks up the line.

“It’s been a while,” I say, adjusting my necktie nervously.

“It has, but in my world, that’s not necessarily a bad thing,” he replies with a chuckle.

“That’s true,” I state, clearing my throat. “Listen, the reason I’m calling is to ask a question.”

“Okay, shoot.”

“I was hoping you could recommend a divorce attorney.”

I’m met with silence on the other end.

“Anthony?”

He clears his throat. “Uhh, yeah, I’m here. I’m sorry, I must have misunderstood you. I thought you were asking about a divorce lawyer.”

Closing my eyes, I sigh. “I am.”

Again, silence. After several very long seconds, he finally asks, “So, let me get this straight. Samuel Grayson needs…a divorce lawyer? Are you serious?”

“As a heart attack.”

Then, the sound of laughter fills the phone line. I knew I should have called someone else.

“Jesus, Samuel, what did you do?”

“Long story short, I made a mistake. In Vegas.”

“Am I being punked? Is this some sort of joke? Samuel Grayson got married? In Las Vegas, of all places?”

“Listen, Anthony,” I exhale loudly, the weight of my mistake still weighing way too heavily on my shoulders. “I had too much to drink and may have made a mistake.”

“May have?”

“I did, okay? Can you recommend a good attorney or not?”

“Settle down, I can help you. I have a colleague who’s a real viper in the courtroom. She goes for blood and doesn’t stop until she has it.”

“I don’t need that, Anthony. I just need a quickie divorce,” I tell him, hating the thought of putting Freedom through the wringer. Besides, there’s nothing to fight over, really.

“Okay, well, I have another guy who should fit the bill. He’s hovering past retirement age, but I think he’ll take you as a client, if I put in a call.”

“I appreciate it,” I tell him, a sense of relief filling my chest.

He promises to pass my phone number along to his colleague and hangs up without any fanfare or small talk. Satisfied with the call, I slip my phone back into my pocket and head back to work.

After finishing up my work on Mrs. Gomez, my mind drifts back to Freedom. Specifically, dating her. It’s something I’ve never considered in the past, yet here I am, mentally working out the logistics, as if she were a business proposition. Would she be so obliged to officially enter a relationship with me? I mean, I know we’re married, but that’s going to end soon.

I