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 need to do this right.
In the correct order.
We need to end our marriage, and then, maybe we can date.
Officially.
Like boyfriend and girlfriend.
Never in my wildest dreams would I ever have thought I’d be excited to date Freedom Rayne, but here I am, full of hope and anticipation and eager to get home so I can see her. It’s not enough to fall sleep with her in my arms, which is exactly where she’s been since that night I found her massaging some stranger in my living room, or waking up inhaling her hair that’s all wild and crazy from sleep. I want more.
When the long day finally ends, I lock up the funeral home and head out, recalling my conversation with Bartholomew Christmas. He assured me it would be nothing to get a quickie divorce. Of course, the fact we’re living together—albeit temporarily—didn’t make him very happy. That’s why I left out the fact my wife is also sleeping in my bed. Despite the odd circumstances, Mr. Christmas assured me he would get a set of divorce papers drafted soon and sent to me. All we’d have to do is sign and go before the judge. Sounds easy enough.
The drive home is fairly short, even after I stop by an Italian restaurant and pick up dinner. Freedom’s a huge fan of mushrooms, so I grabbed us each a cheese stuffed portabella mushroom with noodles and garlic bread. It’s not my usual, but I’ll give it a try. I’m pleasantly surprised I don’t seem to miss meat as much as I thought I would. She’s never guilted me into not eating it, nor has she refused to cook it, but still. I’m trying to be conscious of her lifestyle and not throw our differences in her face.
The porch light is on when I pull into the driveway. In fact, it looks like every light inside is on too. What the hell is she doing? She’s like a kid who forgets electricity actually costs money. I hop out of my car and grab our bag of food, anxious to get inside to scold her about the lights, and fly up the steps. The first thing I notice when I’m on the porch is my front door.
It’s…different.
I stand there and stare, trying to figure it out. It’s the same door, but it’s been…
Painted.
My front door is a vibrant blue.
“The hell?” I whisper to no one as I slip my key into the lock and push open the door.
Inside, I’m stunned silent. It’s like I’ve stepped into someone else’s house. In fact, I glance outside, just to make sure I haven’t walked into my neighbor’s house by mistake. When I look back at the living room before me, I find my couch and television there, but everything else is essentially different.
“Freedom?” I bellow, unable to move at the transformation.
“Oh, hey!” she singsongs, practically skipping into the living room from the kitchen area.
“My…the…what… Oh, God, am I having a heart attack?” I ask, my heart pounding like a freight train in my chest. It’s so loud I swear everyone within the block can hear it.
“Here, sit down,” she says with authority, her
