Page 41 of Legally Yours
I hear the line ring. “Hello? Leslie, hello.”
“Liam?” she says.
“Indeed, Leslie, I presume?”
“Yes,” she says, sounding apprehensive.
“Look, you’re Cassandra’s best friend. I just…” I sigh. “I just want to know why. What did I do wrong?”
I hear her humming on the line, contemplating whether or not to share this with me. “Liam, you did everything right. I swear.”
“Then what is the issue? Why couldn’t we be together?”
“Are you drunk?” she asks.
“No,” I say immediately. “A couple drinks does not make me intoxicated.” I shake my spinning head.
“Your mom intimidates her. She is often cold to her, and she has been since she first met her. Considering she wanted an arranged marriage and all.”
I nod as if she can see me. “That’s all?” I feel a bit of resentment. Why couldn’t my mother be more kind and reciprocating?
“No, well…”
“Leslie, please.”
“She’s scared! She is terrified to fall in love again. She is terrified she will get hurt, and she is terrified of making another mistake like David.” I hear the anguish over her friend in Leslie’s voice, and it almost sobers me up.
She is scared to be vulnerable.
34
LIAM
Istare down at the document on my desk and pick up my pen. I flick it up and down, over, and over, and I stare.
Sighing, I point the ballpoint at the paper. I press down hard, and the ink flows. My usually swirling signature holds anger today. The pen carves out mean edges – theAand the lastNtake a beating.
I sign on the dotted line, fold back the front cover, and fold the document in thirds, letting the sky-blue legal cover page show. Then I slide it into my jacket pocket, and it rests there like a ten thousand pound stone.
I place both hands on my ink blotter. My right hand removes the fake wedding band from my left. I drop the ring. It twirls for a time on its end, then it falls with a plunk.
It’s over. I’m giving Cassandra what she wants. A divorce.
I lean back and push my chair as far away from that ring as I can get. I stare at it like it’s an enemy now. It’s mocking me. I know it.
I lean forward, open my center drawer, and shove the beast inside with the use of that God awful pen. And then I throw the pen inside, too. And I lock the drawer.
I get on the phone to my secretary. “Joana, can you order me another Mont Blanc? Mine died.”
“I can take it out to get it fixed, if you’d like?”
“No. I hate this one. Please get me a new one.”
“Yes, sir.”
I lean back in my chair again. I turn to the window. I look out and see nothing.
She tells me she needs space and I know I can’t force her to stay. That would erase any feelings she has for me at all. But it’s killing me to let her go.