Love and Neckties - Lacey Black Page 0,86

crap out of me. It works too.

After a fast shower, I return to my bedroom to get dressed. I opt for a loose pair of shorts and a T-shirt. I rarely wear them, especially this early in the evening, but there are times when I just don’t feel like putting on a suit and tie. Not often, but it does happen.

I run a comb through my hair and finally return to the living room. Six fifteen. She should be home any minute. I grab the flowers and dinner and take them into the kitchen. I find a vase beneath the kitchen sink and fill it with water. I realize I’m humming a happy tune as I place the daisy stems in the water, carefully arranging the white and yellow blooms as if I knew what I were doing.

Turning the oven warmer on low, I place our food one two plates and stick them inside to stay warm. Then, I grab a bottle of beer from the fridge and pop the top open, my hip resting against the counter as I wait.

A few minutes turns into another fifteen, then twenty, and I start to worry. Freedom’s rarely not home by six thirty, unless she’s working at the massage parlor. I know she’s not, though. She was filling in this afternoon with Harper, whose employee had dental work done, and since she’s been a little tired lately, she didn’t schedule anyone this evening.

I’ve noticed her exhaustion. She may not realize I’ve picked up on it, but I have. That’s why my plan for tonight was dinner, a relaxing bath, and bed. I can keep my raging libido caged for the night just so she can get a little rest. I’m not that much of an animal.

Deciding to head back to the living room and check the driveway, a stack of papers catches my eye. They’re lying on top of the countertop, directly above my mail drawer. It’s sticking out slightly, so I use my hip to close it. Freedom must have put today’s mail in there. She’s notorious for leaving a drawer or a door open. Drives me crazy.

Grabbing the papers, I smile when I see what it is. Our marriage certificate arrived. My heart starts to sing as I stare down at our names. Something about seeing this document makes our marriage, I don’t know, official. Sure, I’ve found the receipts and the rings, but with no true memory of the wedding taking place, I guess it never really felt…well, real.

Smiling, I decide to pick up a frame tomorrow after I leave work. I can frame this and possibly display it on the wall or our dresser. I know she’s been itching to decorate my bedroom, so maybe this is a great first step at making the space ours.

I set the license down and realize what else I’m holding. The divorce papers. The ones I had shoved in the drawer the night before. I can barely breathe as I gaze down at the document in my hand. It’s the last page, and it’s signed. Her name is there in her bubbly, slightly angled signature, and I’m pretty sure my heart actually breaks in my chest. I’ve broken up with past girlfriends, and while it hurt, this is something different. Deeper.

Excruciating.

With the papers still in my hand, I take off down the hallway, stopping in front of the guest room. It’s empty. Sure, the furniture is still there, but all of her personal effects, the life, is gone. I step across the hall and realize right away what’s wrong with my bodywash. It’s alone on the shelf. The pink razor and fancy shower gel are gone. Only my belongings remain.

I already know what I’ll find—or, specifically, what I won’t—but I make my way to my bedroom next. There’s nothing there but empty white walls and clutterless furniture tops. No knickknacks. No sage burning too close to the curtains. No water rings on the nightstand from her glass of ice water.

Nothing.

The entire house feels…lifeless.

My head is spinning. I have to find her. But where would she go? I know her apartment isn’t ready, and even if it were, her belongings aren’t there yet. She’d have no bed, no couch, no real belongings. But then again, that’s such a Freedom move. It’s the only place that’s hers, so why not go there anyway.

Determined to find her, I head for my dresser to grab my phone, wallet, and keys, not even caring I’m wearing old