My Husband's Divorce Attorney

Chapter 2

When we were in school, Joseph Kavinsky wore glasses. He didn’t anymore, and I found myself missing them. The glasses had framed kind eyes, but now he looked a bit imperious without them. Despite his authoritative posture, those eyes were clearly surprised to see me.

"Tiffany," Joseph said, and I flinched at the unexpected tenderness in his voice.

“Yes,” I said, trying to keep my tone more neutral, “I am Mrs. Masterson.”

The office phone rang, the sound much louder than I anticipated. My body unconsciously turned towards the sound to see the secretary answering the phone.

“RTK and Associates, how may I direct your call?” she answered automatically, but her attention was still on Joseph and I. Her eyes shifted from him to me repeatedly, suspicious of our interaction.

“I will let him know, thank you for calling,” she said, hanging up the phone and addressing Joseph, “Your client is delayed for this meeting.”

I was comforted by the fact that the secretary also didn’t refer to Robert by name. However, the words ‘your client’ seemed to jar Joseph, his jaw visibly clenched as she said them.

“I see,” Joseph said, shaking his head before he turned to address me again. He seemed to have recovered from the momentary shock of our reunion, and spoke to me in a professional tone. “Would you like to wait out here until your attorney arrives, or would you prefer to wait in the meeting room?”

“I don’t have an attorney, so I will wait in the meeting room.”

While he had already been standing still, my statement seemed to make him go rigid. As he took a measured breath, the buttons on his tailored shirt shifted in a way that I tried not to find distracting. Breathing wasn’t sensual, so why was the way his chest moved making my mouth feel dry?

His eyes flicked up and down quickly, then glanced over at the receptionist, who was still watching our every interaction. Unfreezing, he moved to the side and gestured down the hall behind him.

“This way, please,” he said, his voice was collected but slightly robotic, much like his body language, “third door on the right.”

I didn’t love the idea of him walking behind me. Two decades had not let me forget how fond he had once been of my backside. So, I walked towards the hall but stopped directly in front of him. I smiled as politely as I could and said, “Lead the way.”

Making eye contact while standing directly in front of him was oddly exposing, but it seemed to be more uncomfortable for him than it was for me. Hardly a second had passed before he turned to walk down the hall. Arriving at the door, he reached for the knob and held it open for me, a familiar gesture. Once upon a time, he had always opened my doors for me.

The old gesture was a little different now, since his body filled up more of the doorway than it once had. My shoulder lightly brushed across his chest as I silently passed by him, the contact resulting in my face feeling fevered. Desperate to avoid his gaze until the heat passed, I chose to focus on the room instead.

The meeting room had a rectangular table with four chairs, paired on opposing sides, that were situated perpendicular to the window that ran the length of the far wall. I wondered if the view of the city ever distracted people during meetings because I was immediately drawn to look out.

I let my leather bag slide into the extra chair as I made my way to the window. Joseph’s presence in this exhausting life experience made me feel more fragile than I wanted to admit.

Thankfully, letting myself have a moment to be distracted by the view grounded my emotions. This was the modern part of the city that butted up against the historic district, a place of distinguished vibrance. From this view, I could see a historic building where I needed to go after this meeting was over.

While I had been looking out at the city, my focus shifted to the reflection on the window. Joseph was still standing in the doorway, just watching me. How long had I been standing here? Had he been watching me the whole time? I turned my neck, giving a slight profile view to indicate I knew he was still there.

Joseph cleared his throat, then asked, “Would you like any water or coffee while you wait?”

“I’m fine,” I said, turning to look back out the window as if I was ignoring him.

But that was impossible. Instead of looking out, I watched his reflection. He continued to watch me as his fingers silently tapped against the doorknob. I recognized this old habit, his distressed fidget that showed up when he was studying something he didn’t understand. The anxious movement came to a stop, and he closed the door without a word.

As I stood there I realized that my husband had gotten stupidly lucky today. While I knew the divorce was coming, Joseph being Robert’s divorce attorney added a new layer of hurt that I hadn’t planned on. Robert couldn’t have picked a more ironic attorney if he had tried.

But he couldn’t have done this on purpose because I never spoke of Joseph. The wound he left was one I went out of my way to ignore. This accidental reunion was an unplanned detour to face the cut again, only to find that it had festered.

There had been a moment, a few years into my marriage, when it seemed like Joseph was trying to reconnect. I never told Robert, but not out of guilt. Joseph and I never once spoke about our summer romance or our old feelings. Even though I had wanted to berate him for what he’d done, it seemed an unimportant thing for a married woman to be upset about.

It just seemed like Joseph wanted to be friends.

And I had always lacked bonds of friendship in my life.

But it was short-lived, he disappeared after a week.

While I had been unsurprised by this conclusion, I couldn’t help but feel upset that he kept doing this to me. But I was the one who kept letting him, and that made me feel responsible for it. I never once tried to hold him accountable for how this behavior hurt me.

While looking out the window, I saw Robert cross the street to the building. Now was not the time to muse about Joseph and his magical vanishing act. I needed to focus on my divorce.

A few minutes later, the receptionist escorted Robert into the meeting room.

“Traffic?” I asked as I made my way back to the table.

“Work” was his singular answer.

Ah, yes, work. It was always work. Robert used work as a shield to hide from the diminishing returns of his domestic life.

Joseph walked in, and Robert immediately went to clasp his forearm, “How are you doing, my man? Good to see you.”

My silent chuckle went unnoticed. I recognized the forearm clasp as a greeting that Robert used with all his gym mates. I could just imagine them spotting each other during lifts as Robert talked about wanting to get a divorce and Joseph passing on a business card before the session ended. An accidentally-benign alliance that would compound the punishment to my emotions.

Looking at them together, I realized my path with Robert likely began because he looked a lot like Joseph. The same jawline, the same dark hair, the same broad shoulders. However, while they shared physical similarities, I knew they were nothing alike.

We all wordlessly situated ourselves at the table, but I was caught off-guard when Joseph took the seat directly across from me. I had expected Robert to sit there and suddenly felt the added pressure of avoiding his eyes at inopportune moments.

“Where is your attorney?” Robert asked impatiently.

“I don’t have one,” I said flatly. Any attorney worth their salt would desperately try to talk me out of my plan.

He shrugged nonchalantly; this was good news for him. Truthfully, he would be receiving a lot of good news during this meeting. I can hold a grudge, and if I wanted to make this the most horrifying divorce experience, I absolutely had the information to do so.

But I wasn’t going to do that. I didn’t want to be a wife who clawed at her husband’s money on her way out the door.

At the end of it all, I just didn’t care that much anymore, specifically about Robert. This past week, I mourned the destruction of our family unit, but not for him. I had been avoiding the slow dissolution of our marriage for years, and now that it was here, I wanted it to be over as quickly as possible.

With my forearms on the table and fingers laced together, I put on the sweetest demeanor a discarded woman possibly could have.

“Gentlemen, how can I help you today?”

Robert rolled his eyes. His irritation was evident in the flare of his nostrils as he spoke.

“Is this the angle you are going to play?”

“Play?” I said, borrowing the receptionist’s fake smile, “Come now, Robert, divorce is no game.”

Joseph cleared his throat as his eyes moved between Robert and me. I’m sure he had heard his fair share of marital disputes, but he seemed to itch at the immediate tension. He shifted through a few papers and spoke without making eye contact.

“The primary areas that we need to address are custody, splitting physical and financial assets, and spousal support. We have prepared terms that I believe to be fair given the length and nature of your marriage.”

The length and nature of my marriage, huh? I was deeply irritated that Joseph had this sort of insight into my personal life. My emotions manifested in the quiet tapping of my heel under the table, the movement growing with my feelings until I accidentally brushed Joseph’s leg.

I recoiled. I would have apologized, but he didn’t seem to notice.

Instead he pulled out a thick packet. His eyes barely caught mine as he slid it across the table. Putting my thumb on the edge of the stack of papers, I bent the corner up, listening to the slight snapping sound the pages made as they hit the table.

“Hefty,” I said, not taking the effort to inject sugar into my voice, “maybe this will be easier if we start with mine.”

I pulled out a single sheet of paper with my requests on it and placed it on the table. On it was written my short, strict list of demands, the things I needed to take control of my life.

I stared Robert in the eye. "These," I said, "are non-negotiable."

I needed to start over again.

On my terms.