My Husband's Divorce Attorney

Chapter 7

When we came back inside, I found Robert opening the cupboards in the kitchen. I found it humorous because that man had cooked a grand total of three times throughout the duration of our marriage. He would have no idea what food we had in the pantry to put together a meal.

Though I hadn’t intended on cooking a meal tonight, I went to the stove and turned on a burner. The gas flame licking up with a lovely whoosh, then grabbed a stainless steel pan to put on it. As Robert heard me, he ended his fruitless search in the spice cabinet and turned around to see me pulling chicken breasts out of the fridge.

“Have you not eaten?” he asked.

“I had a sandwich earlier,” I said neutrally, my mind occupied with looking at ingredients to make something quick, “but I’d be up for something nicer.”

“You don’t need to—” his sentence faded as he realized that he had no idea what to make for himself.

“It’s all right, Rob; the boys did you dirty.”

He slid into a barstool on the sleek grey marble countertop and put his face in his hands. His back was rounded, and defeat was emanating from him. His posture and behavior now completely opposite of what it had been during the meeting.

Whatever hurt he had caused me today had been quickly re-delivered back to him with the boys’ actions. I should think he deserved it, but I honestly didn’t like seeing Robert hurting.

I butterflied the chicken breasts so they would cook quickly, and I threw some garlic, thyme, butter, and a little olive oil in the pan. Once it was hot, I turned down the heat and added the chicken breasts. After washing my hands, I grabbed some mushrooms and the cutting board.

“Give the boys some time. They will come around, eventually,” I consoled him as I sliced.

“Maybe for you, they would, but the boys have never loved me like they love you.”

I paused to look at him. His brown-green eyes were devoid of their usual cocky confidence. Robert wasn’t a bad guy, truly. He was definitely an asshole, but he experienced great successes at work and rather frequent rejection at home from his own sons. It was a great source of insecurity for him. Whatever image of fatherhood he had been raised to expect was not his reality.

I often felt guilty. Was I responsible for how the boys treated their dad? I had never tried to create this situation; it happened in infancy, and I never knew how to course correct.

“I’m sorry that your connection with them hasn’t been what you hoped,” I turned to flip the chicken and add the mushrooms to the pan but continued talking, “I think they are very concerned about my welfare, but once they see that I’m alright, I believe it will ease their resentment.”

“Are you going to be alright?”

I was surprised he even asked, but this was probably our most constructive conversation since he had given me the divorce papers. My lack of demands in the mediation and my compassion for what the boys did tonight seemed to be pulling him back into a more familiar man, more like the man he had been during the early days of our marriage.

“I found an apartment today down in Old Town. I can start moving in immediately, but it won’t technically be mine until our house sells and I can buy it. I have a meeting on Monday to get my contract in order.”

I had no intention of telling him I was buying the whole building complex, but if we had joint custody of Ethan until he turned eighteen then we would need to know where one another lived.

“Old Town, huh?” He sat up taller. “The historic properties are expensive, Tiff. You sure that’s a good idea?”

“I thought you taught me that risk was an important element for financial security?”

He chuckled, and the defeat seemed to ease away as we chatted. “Could be a good location for an investment property, that is true. If you want me to look at any financials for it, just let me know. I’ll help if you want.”

This was more care and concern than he had shown in a long time. I had mixed feelings about it. But it was ironic that getting a divorce was giving us a situation that felt more like a connected relationship than our marriage did.

“Besides, it’ll be good for me to make a few of my own mistakes,” I said with playful reassurance. “I’ll figure it out, Rob, I promise.”

I pulled some more ingredients out of the fridge to make the parmesan cream sauce and a salad. The normal silence between us fell as I continued to make dinner. When things were done, I plated our food and joined him at the bar.

“Thank you,” he said, “not just for dinner, but for being so understanding. I expected things to go a lot worse. You’re being offensively cooperative.”

“I’m sorry?” I chuckled. Truthfully, it probably hurt his pride that I was not fighting for our marriage, but he genuinely should not have expected it. The ease of this current conversation was not our natural state. We’d been broken for ages, or at least, I thought we had been.

We both began eating our food. He started with his salad, but I started with my chicken. It was a habit from early motherhood: eating warm food with babies was often a luxury. The cold stuff would still be fine cold in ten minutes, so I switched strategies after many unsatisfying meals caused by the demands of tiny humans.

“Do you know my lawyer?” Robert asked suddenly.

I had to consciously keep myself from choking on my food.

“Did he say that we knew each other?”

“No,” he muttered, “but he knew your maiden name.”

This was a significant tell. I had been Tiffany Masterson for twenty years. Aside from my estranged family and a few hometown friends, no one knew me as Tiffany Savoy anymore.

“He looked familiar,” I began nervously. “I think we were at CSU at the same time and maybe had some general classes together.”

The statement was entirely factual but omitted the greater truth of my history with him.

“Huh,” Robert mused. “He must have had a thing for you if he remembers your name after all this time.”

Robert seemed genuinely unperturbed at the idea of another man being attracted to me; another indication of just how necessary the divorce was.

“You know him from the gym?” I queried, trying to turn the topic away from me, but this just made Robert look at me with suspicion.

“How did you know that?”

Mouth full of food, I clasped my own forearms like the two men had at the meeting. Robert chuckled and nodded.

“We push each other at the gym. I just beat his bench PR this week, but I’m a long way off his deadlift. And the man’s an animal with his hip thrusting.”

I started coughing and felt my face flush. Seriously, of all the things for Robert to say. He reached over and smacked my back a bit, but I waved him off.

“I’m fine,” I wheezed, reaching for my glass of water.

As I closed my eyes to gulp the water down, my brain pulled up an ancient memory against my will: I flashed to one sweaty night in my dorm room, when College Joey was on top of me, his broad shoulders filled my view, my hand wrapped around the back of his neck as I pulled his face toward mine. He was my first. And he was the only person that got me there with his–

NOPE. I shook my head to try and dispel the image.

I hadn’t thought of my intimate moments with Joseph ever since the day I found out that I was pregnant with Nyx. That date split my life in half, and it had always seemed like everything that came before it belonged to a different person. Or so I had thought. Now my mind seemed to be giving itself permission to pull up buried memories with the confirmation that Robert was dating.

I must be ovulating, or the fact that it had been six months since I was last intimate with Robert was catching up to me. It certainly was not because I had seen those shoulders earlier this afternoon in a perfectly tailored suit and a tie that I could have grabbed and— Damn it, Tiffany! Pull yourself together!

Robert and I had a functional sex life throughout our relationship in that we each knew how to get what we needed, but it was a bit like showing up for practice instead of actually playing the game. There was an excitement missing from it. It had never been what I had with Joseph, no matter how hard I tried to pretend it was when Robert and I started dating.

“Was dinner okay?” I asked to distract my mind.

“Yeah, thanks again for cooking.”

We continued to talk, riding the wave of constructive communication. Robert even helped with dishes afterward, which was an awkward surprise. I wasn’t used to sharing the kitchen with him and we bumped awkwardly around each other regularly, though I was touched by his willingness to help.

After dinner, the real estate agent rang Robert to let us know we had received another offer on the house, and it was one that he really thought we should take. We talked about a few things and decided to accept it, even with a few conditions.

A trip to the realtor’s office was planned, and the reality of the changes ahead began to materialize. If this sale went smoothly, we would need to be out of the house by April 1st, which gave us about six weeks to move.

This would give me time to do some renovations before moving in. Kendrink and Lila's apartment was lovely, but they had lived there for almost forty years, and updates were needed. Thankfully, my creative background had given me a lot of exposure to trade work.

After cleaning up the kitchen, I went to the living room to find the boys. They were sitting on opposite ends of the couch, playing a video game together. Nyx wasn’t home very often, but with the changes going on with the family, he had come to stay this weekend. If the boys wanted to silently shoot aliens to help process their feelings, I was okay with that.

I made my way to the middle of the couch and proceeded to put my head on Nyx’s lap and my feet on Ethan’s. They made no protest against my invasion, and both seemed to ease at my presence. While they played, I pulled out my phone and created a Pinterest album to begin organizing my design inspirations. There were just so many beautiful things that I could create in my new home, and scrolling through the images made me smile.

“No ‘Live, Laugh, Love’ signs, Mom,” Nyx said, apparently noticing more than I realized.

I laughed and began to show the boys my various ideas; their interest was minimal but growing. After a while, Ethan piped up.

“You are really excited about this new place, aren’t you?”

“I am. I think a new beginning will be good for me.”

“I think— Nyx, you piece of sh—” Ethan started but got distracted by his brother in the game, and Nyx let out a maniacal laugh, making my head shake. “I think I can be ok with all of this if you are happy, Mom.”

“What about you, Nyx?” I asked.

He sighed heavily, “I won’t hold the divorce against Dad. That doesn’t mean he gets a pass for all the other times he has been an asshole, though.”

“I think that’s fair.”

Our silence resumed, and I was grateful for these small moments. Too often in life we expect major decisions and changes to come from some grand scene. As a mother, I saw my sons develop big strides in the in-between moments. Their dad had planned a big dinner to try and resolve the friction caused by the divorce, but shining a light on the situation can often make the darkness of its shadows scarier.

Regardless, this small moment felt like it was critical in helping them move forward, and I was grateful for it.