Chapter 11: The Papers

I signed the divorce petition at Teagan's kitchen table at six o'clock that evening.

It took four minutes.

I had printed it at the library, and I had read every line twice, and when I put the pen to the last page my hand was perfectly steady.

Teagan sat across from me with a glass of wine and Mustard in her lap.

"Witness line," she said, and signed it with a flourish. "Teagan Barrow, professional bartender and friend."

"Thank you."

"For what?"

"For the ladle."

She pointed her glass at me.

"Go file it," she said. "Then go wherever you're going, and don't come back to this apartment before breakfast."

"You don't even know where I'm going."

"Willa. I am a bartender. I know where you're going."

I filed it at the county clerk's window at ten to seven, five minutes before they closed.

The clerk stamped the page and said, "Good luck, hon," without looking up.

I stood on the courthouse steps in the soft evening light and felt like someone had taken a coat off me.

Then I walked to Marlin Street.

Elias opened the studio door before I reached the landing.

"It's filed," I said.

He didn't say anything.

He stood with one hand on the frame and looked at me.

"Come here," I said.

He crossed the room in two strides.

His hands cradled my face, and his mouth came down on mine, slower this time and deeper, with six years of wanting in it.

I pulled him inside and kicked the door shut.

We didn't make it to the bed right away.

He backed me against the wall by the clothesline of prints, and the paper swayed and rustled over our heads.

I got his shirt off over his head and threw it somewhere behind me.

His chest was warm and lean under my hands, with a long pale scar curved over his ribs.

"What's this?" I murmured against it.

"A fall in Lisbon. I'll tell you later."

"Tell me now."

"Willa." He laughed, rough and breathless. "I can't think."

"Good."

I kissed the scar, and then the center of his chest, and I felt his whole body tighten.

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