Chapter 7
The lobby was colder than the restaurant had been. That was the first thing I noticed.
The marble held the chill. The front desk glowed with a single warm lamp, and the guard sat behind it in a navy jacket, a space heater humming at his feet. My heels clicked too loud against the stone. I was still in the red dress, the wrap pulled tight against me, and I could feel how out of place I looked under the fluorescent wash of the office tower.
Daniel had parked right behind me in the garage, close enough that his headlights had washed over my car when I cut the engine. He didn't follow me through the glass doors. He stayed by the entrance, hands in his pockets, watching.
My name is Sarah and that night I learned what paperwork he meant.
The guard looked up when I approached. He was older, maybe sixty, with reading glasses low on his nose.
"Ma'am?" he said.
I swallowed. "There should be an envelope for me. Sarah Collins."
He nodded like he'd been expecting me and pulled a clipboard from under the counter. A large manila envelope lay beside it, sealed with a white sticker, my name printed neatly in black marker across the front.
"Been here since late afternoon," he said. He slid the clipboard toward me. "Logged at four forty-seven PM. Need a signature before I can release it."
Four forty-seven. I stared at the time on the log sheet next to my printed name. The handwriting beside it was not mine. Delivered by courier, it said. Recipient: S. Collins.
That was hours before we'd ordered wine. Hours before Daniel had straightened his tie and said good luck.
The pen was attached with a little chain. My hand shook when I picked it up.
"ID?" the guard asked, not unkindly.
I fumbled my driver's license from my clutch. He glanced at it, at me, and nodded again.
I signed. The line wobbled. Sarah M. Collins. The ink bled a little where I pressed too hard.
He pushed the envelope across the desk. It was heavier than I expected. Thick.
"Elevator's off for the night unless you've got a keycard," he said. "You okay out here under the light?"
"Yes," I said. My voice was small. "Thank you."
I stepped back to the edge of the desk, under the direct pool of the overhead light. My fingers found the sealed tab. I had to work it with my nail. The adhesive gave with a soft rip.
Inside were two packets, held together with a binder clip. The first page was on heavy court stock.
I pulled it out.
At the top, in bold capital letters: PETITION FOR DISSOLUTION OF MARRIAGE. Below that, our names. Daniel Reid Collins, Petitioner. Sarah Marie Collins, Respondent.
In the bottom corner, a red stamp hit hard enough to emboss the paper. FILED. And today's date. February 14th. The clerk's initials beside it.
My breath stopped. I didn't realize I was holding it until the guard's heater ticked.
I read the line again. Filed. Not drafted. Not prepared. Filed.
"I'd been thinking it was papers for work," I whispered to myself. A promotion file, a transfer. He'd let me think that. He'd let my boss stand there holding roses while he said paperwork was already waiting for me.
The second sheet was stapled behind the petition. Proposed Interim Terms - Pending Hearing. The language was plain, like he'd wanted me to understand without a dictionary.
It listed the apartment on Elmwood. Primary residence to Petitioner pending sale, Respondent to vacate within fourteen days of service if terms contested. It listed the car. The leased Audi, titled to his LLC, use revoked effective March 1st.
Month end. Two weeks.
I felt the marble tilt. My fingers went white around the papers.
"Ma'am?" the guard said quietly. "You need to sit down?"
I shook my head. I couldn't sit in that dress. I couldn't fold.
I looked up then, past the desk, past the empty lobby. Through the glass doors, Daniel stood exactly where I'd left him. His suit was dark against the night outside. He wasn't smiling now. His hands were still in his pockets, his tattooed knuckles just visible, and he was watching me read.
He'd known what time it was logged. He'd known I'd have to sign for it. He'd known I'd open it here, under this light, while he watched.
May you like
I held the filed petition against my chest. The paper was cold.
He tipped his head once, just enough. Not a nod. An acknowledgment. I understood then. The paperwork was never for my boss. It had always been for me.
