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ETHAN

Istare at my now ex-wife, Willah, across the conference room table, wondering what I ever saw in her. I know what she saw in me, since I’m ten years younger, and in what most would call my sexual prime, but whatever attracted me to her isn’t there anymore. She’s still beautiful, and once upon a time, she got me hard in every way that mattered, but now it’s like I’m staring at a complete stranger. A stranger who had an affair, is now very pregnant, and practically begging me to waive the fidelity clause in our prenup. Sure, Willah knocked me off my feet when we first met — literally — but I’m not dumb. My father made sure I was covered when I got married, and as he sits beside me now, I’m glad he did. He had his reservations about Willah, but I was too young and too smitten to see what he did, a fact he has yet to throw in my face. I doubt he will, though. He’s always wanted what’s best for me, trusted that I can make my own decisions and when I’ve screwed up, which hasn’t been often, he’s been there to help me fix it. But only after I’ve learned my lesson.

“Be reasonable,” her attorney, Richard, says, looking between me and my father. “You can’t allow her to be destitute in her condition.”

“I’d agree with you if my son was the man responsible for her condition,” my father huffs. “But he’s not, and Miss Lavigne is hardly destitute. She was independently wealthy before she married my son, and we think selling the restaurants they bought together, both here and in France, and reimbursing the exact amount Miss Lavigne invested from the sale is more than fair. I can easily drag this out and make sure she gets nothing, but it’s Ethan who has requested this be done quickly, and in a manner that won’t leave Miss Lavigne high and dry.” As much as I hate closing my restaurants, I’m ready to let them go. I opened them with Willah at my side, cheering me on, and the sooner I can be done with this circus, the better. At least she didn’t fight me on the name change, I don’t want her attached to the Woods name, and neither does my father. Richard puckers his lips like he’s tasted something sour. Or maybe he needs to take a shit. I don’t know. He’s just not pleased with what my father is proposing. When it’s obvious to everyone my father won’t budge, Willah glances at me, her eyes growing wet. Great. Here come the tears. It takes more effort than I care to admit not to roll my eyes at the show she’s putting on. I’m too familiar with her manipulation to fall for it again. Every fight we’ve ever had has ended in her crying, and me caving because of it. “Please, Ethan. I’m on my own, and I’m about to have a baby. I have no family here in America, and going back to France is…” She swallows. And I stare, still wondering what got into my head when I married this woman. By societal standards, Willah is classically beautiful. Short blonde hair, a slender build, brown eyes I used to get lost in and an air about her that is loud, and confident. Now it’s too loud, and I hate the sound. Of course, my ego is also bruised. We spoke about children — I do want them someday — and she encouraged me to open the restaurants first, saying she was okay with starting a family afterwards. Until those same restaurants took up all of my time, and she found comfort in the bed of another man. My only saving grace, aside from having my father representing me, is that the man isn’t someone I know. And as soon as he found out Willah was expecting, he ran like the hounds of hell were snapping at his heels. He doesn’t want anything to do with her, which is one of two things he and I have in common. The other being that we both slept with Willah. My father opens his mouth, a rebuttal at the ready, but I place a hand on his forearm to stop him. “I want to empathize, Willah, but you fucked another man while we were married, got yourself knocked up, and had the audacity to expect me to stay. Is that a French thing, expecting your husband to stay after you’ve been unfaithful and raise a child that isn’t his? Because I must be honest, that’s a new low, even for you.”

She sucks in a breath, and before her attorney can accuse me of slander, or something equally ridiculous, I say, “You can take what’s in the apartment. I don’t want any of it. Not the bed, not the couches, nothing. The sale of the restaurants are already in progress, and as soon as they’ve sold, my father will be in touch. That’s about as much as you’re getting from me.” I’m angry, and irritated, and so disillusioned. My marriage was supposed to be the forever kind, but we lasted a measly six years, and they were actually more bad than good. “In fact,” I add, “you take the fucking apartment, and sell that to buy a one-way ticket back to a gutter in Paris. Where whores belong.”

“Ethan!” My father snaps. “Enough.” He turns to Willah, who’s crying, and her attorney, who’s furious. “Apologies, my son is clearly upset, and for good reason.” He clicks his pen, and starts making his notes. Unlike me, he doesn’t lose his cool. “Miss Lavigne can have the apartment she lived in with Mr Woods on the condition that she sells it, and relocates to France. Her spousal visa is already in the process of being rescinded,” Willah and her attorney gasp, but my father continues, “because an extramarital affair, especially one resulting in the conception of a child, is a breach of the prenuptial agreement Miss Lavigne entered into with Mr Woods four years ago this coming January.” The switch in my father is severe, but I’ve always known he’s a shark. It’s what makes him so successful. Some might say having him represent me now is a conflict of interest, but no one will look out for me the way my old man does. It’s been just the two of us since I was six, and even thirty years later, he’s still protecting me, making sure I’m not going to be taken for a ride a second time.

“You can’t do that, Andrew,” Richard hisses. “You don’t have that power.”

My father’s expression is the same one he uses in court. “I don’t, no, but should I remind you who I do know who has that power, or will you hurry the fuck up and sign so my son can move on with his life?” Willah sniffles, and tries one last time. “Ethan, why don’t we talk in private, s'il te plaît?” You know, I used to be a sucker for her accent, especially when she asked me to fuck her in French. But now it grates my last nerve, makes me want to slam my fist through a wall. We had a good life, kind of, and she literally fucked it up. Certainly not up the ass, otherwise she wouldn’t be pregnant.

“No, Willah. We’re done. Sign the papers, and let me move on. You owe me that much.” This process has been dragged out a week too long, which is saying something because we only started the divorce proceedings a week ago. I didn’t want it dragged out, and my father didn’t want that for me either, but we needed some time to put it all together in such a way that I’d walk out with everything I wanted. Fortunately, our prenup didn’t allow room for delays, but getting her to even come proved to be a challenge. She’s here because she was ordered to be here. Willah huffs, and her attorney gives her a pithy look. He knows we have her in a bind, and that he’s lost to my father. Not for the first time, either. “You don’t have much of a choice,” my father tells her, gentling his tone just a bit. It’s because she’s a woman, and an expectant mother. “My son deserves to live his life after what you’ve put him through, and what we’ve proposed over and above what’s in your prenuptial agreement is far more generous than you deserve, Willah. Take it. Go back to France.”

She narrows her eyes, and glares at me.“I hate you,” she bites out. “I really hate you.”

I stand, button my suit jacket, and shrug. “That’s fine, but hate me from afar. You’ve done enough damage, and I’m fucking done.” I nod at my father, trusting that he’ll take care of it from here. I’m exhausted, and I need a drink. The limousine outside my father’s law firm is idling at the curb, and as soon as I’m inside, I ask the driver to take me to the apartment that will be mine from now on. My father and I were prepared for everything that happened today, planned for it even, including giving Willah the apartment that was once ours. We just needed to play the game and make it seem as though we were being more generous than we were. And it worked. Now to start the fuck over.

Iwake up with the world’s worst hangover, courtesy of a thirty-year-old Glenfiddich single malt whisky. The whole bottle. How I’m not sitting in the bathroom with my head in the toilet is a mystery, but I still feel like shit. I look around the sterile apartment, and only for a second am I confused. Then I remember, and all I want is to find another bottle of my father’s whisky and down that too. Maybe poison myself with alcohol. I groan, and fall off the bed when I hear, “Jesus, you look like shit.”

The floor is unforgiving. And hard. “I thought I was alone,” I mumble, lifting myself up one arm at a time. “You scared me.”

My best friend, Rowland, snorts. “No shit. Hate the new digs, by the way. Much preferred the old place.”

“Dad gave it to Willah yesterday, and is forcing her to sell it.” I lean against the side of the bed, and knock over — why are there three bottles? “He took away her spousal visa,” I snort, obviously still a little drunk. “She has to go back to France.” I never asked my father how he got that right, he simply told me he’ll “handle it.” That’s code for “ask no questions, hear no lies.” He may not have the power to do something like that, but he has friends who can, and with a strong enough motivation, they will do it for him. I don’t doubt that he had to pull some strings to get it right, but I’m fucking glad he did. The thought of running into Willah in the city makes my stomach roll all over again. I’d rather not, and I’m certainly not leaving New York just to escape her. Though being back here certainly has its own perils, like running into what I left behind for France. And trust me, I’ve thought about her a lot since I got back, but getting divorced took priority. Rowland steps further into the master bedroom, and lowers himself to his haunches. “Yesterday?” His tone is confused, and then amused. “Ethan, you’ve been unreachable for eight days. I spoke to your old man, and Willah left the day after your divorce was finalized. That was six days ago.”

Huh? I lift my head, and wince, opening only one eye to look at Row. “The fuck have I been doing?”

He chuckles, and shakes his head. “Drinking yourself into a hole by the looks of it. And feeling sorry for yourself.” He whistles when he lifts the bottles on the floor. “These will cost you a pretty penny to replace, dude.” He stands, and pulls me up by my arm. At six-six, he’s built like a tank, and easily outweighs me by fifty pounds. “But this shit ends today. We’re going shopping.”

Shopping? Really? I can’t think of anything worse. “For what?” I ask, allowing him to drag me into the master bath, clothes and all, and shove me under the shower head before he turns the taps. I growl when the water hits, and brush my hair from my face just in time to see Row grin. “This place needs a fucking makeover,” he replies. “And that kitchen needs deliverance.” He turns before I can argue, and goes about getting me some clean clothes. Turns out, a hot shower is exactly what my body needs to regurgitate the three bottles of whisky I’ve consumed, and feel a little better at the same time. God. I’m never dinking again. Or getting married again. If I thought getting hitched was expensive, getting divorced is worse. No wonder my generation prefers being single. I take longer to get myself showered because my head is swimming, but I eventually step out, towel off, and change into the clothes Row has laid out on my bed. He’s gay, so I trust his sense of fashion better than I trust my own, but he’s also a chef, and he’s fucking around in my kitchen. “Right,” he turns to face me, and pushes a plate towards me. “Eggs Benny, the way you like it.” He pushes a glass towards me next. “A Bloody Mary, too. Can’t have the egg attached to your neck cracking open later.” Fucker’s got jokes. “How did you get in here?” I ask in lieu of thanks. Row knows better than to get all butt hurt over it. In our profession, there simply is no room for feelings. That too was learned the hard way. For me, at least.

“Your dad called me, dumbass. He was worried because you weren’t answering, but was too afraid he’d find a corpse if he showed up, so he sent me.” Row and I have been friends since first grade, when he was picked on for being queer. He wasn’t built like a brick shithouse yet, but I was tall for my age with a bit more braun. So I saved his ass. Little did we know we’d end up in France together years later, both studying culinary arts. I stayed in France a while longer, and met Willah, and you know how that ended. Hell, Row was my best man, even when he told me he hated my bride-to-be, and didn’t say a word when I let him know I was getting a divorce. And he’s here now, which also says a lot considering he’s got two Michelin star-rated restaurants of his own to run. “Not dead,” I moan around a mouthful of food. Row was always a great chef, talented as all hell. “Where’d you get the food?” I know for a fact there was nothing in the fridge when I moved in. I don’t even think the fridge was plugged in.

“I came prepared, Ethan.” Row rolls his eyes, and leans on the counter, watching me eat. “I knew you’d be a fucking mess, but the good news is, Willah the Wench is back in Paris. You might be a few restaurants poorer, but man, you’re richer in good juju because that bitch is gone. And thank fuck you’re not her baby daddy. Then you’d be screwed for life.”

I grunt, trying not to think about it too much. What’s done is done, and I know I’m going to feel like shit for a while, maybe even be bitter about it, but Row is right. I have nothing tying me to Willah, and she has no leverage against me — like a child. She can’t manipulate me, hold me over a barrel, or make demand after demand for the next eighteen years. But that doesn’t mean I’m in any shape to open another restaurant. Or dive into a new relationship for that matter. Because as good as it feels to have Willah gone, she took my love for food, for cooking, with her. And I’m not sure I’ll get it back. The one restaurant I do still have I opened on my own, but that’s still boarded shut, and can stay that way until I’m in a place to decide what’s next. When I’m done with my food, Row packs the plates in the dishwasher, and out of nowhere, whips out a pen and a note pad. “What are you doing?”

“Making a list, what does it look like?” He can be a real sarcastic dick sometimes.

“A list of what?”

He raises a brow, and looks at me like I’ve grown a second head. “Of shit you need, obviously. This place needs some life, maybe even some color, and the kitchen needs…” he glances around and then back at me. “Everything.”

I’m not sure what he means because this place, as large as what it is, has everything. I don’t need anything else.

As if reading my mind, he sighs, ever the drama queen lumberjack. “We’re going shopping, Ethan. I’m not giving you a choice. Besides, you need to get into the out. The rate you’re going, you’ll turn into a real hermit.”

God help me. Not only is my best friend gay, but he loves to shop, too. Why couldn’t I just get one of the two? I don’t care if he’s gay, really, but his predilection for shopping will be the death of me. Also, why can’t he just fucking wait until January? ’Tis the fucking season right now, and I don’t want to people if I can help it.