32. Declan

32

DECLAN

I stood in the room surrounded by the top executive staff of Wolfe Hotels and Resorts. We’d just wrapped up our annual weekend retreat and were at the final sendoff mixer. In past years, I’d enjoyed this event, looked forward to it even. But right now, all I wanted to do was get on a flight and go to Firefly Island. It had been five weeks since I’d seen my wife, and I missed her.

My wife .

Over the past five weeks, I’d been to three countries, six states, and fourteen cities. I still had eight states and twelve cities to visit before I was back in Georgia for the Christmas party. After that, I would be home until I signed the papers on Christmas Day.

But then what? Then, there was a countdown to our divorce—a ticking clock to the time when Ashley Thompson would no longer be my wife.

With each day that passed, the hope that Ashley would continue our marriage beyond December 25th increased. As sure as I was that I couldn’t give her everything she wanted, I was equally sure that I could be a good husband to her. Or at least, I was sure that I would spend every day trying to be the best husband I could be to her.

Last week, I sent Mr. Purrfect a new cat jungle gym. The night before, Ashley was telling me about her day and how she had spent it binge-watching Love Island with Nadia and then going down a rabbit hole of cat jungle gyms. She’d found one she loved and mentioned the website. The next day, it was delivered to the house.

It’s not that I was trying to buy her. I knew that she wasn’t for sale. It’s just that I wanted to do everything I could to make her life easier, to make her happier. To give her anything and everything she ever wanted or needed.

Not that she made it easy. Today’s gift, for example. A few days ago, her car broke down when she was picking up Luna from school, which is unacceptable. In no world should she be driving an unreliable vehicle, much less transporting Luna or Mason in one. When I asked her what her dream car was, she evaded the question, telling me that I’d already done too much, and that Suzie Q would be fine once she was fixed. I had to enlist the help of Hank and Skylar, who gave me the inside information I needed. Today, a used white Range Rover Sport topped with a red bow was sitting out in front of her house.

I wanted to buy a new car, next year’s model preferably, because I only wanted the best for her. But I also knew that there was no way she’d be able to enjoy a new vehicle at the current price point. She’d feel too guilty. So I’d compromised. Wanting the best for Ashley meant wanting what was best for her. And those two things weren’t always aligned. So, I’d purchased her dream vehicle, which meant it was used.

“Hi, Mr. Wolfe.” I glanced up and saw Fatima walking toward me, a martini glass in her hand. “How are you?”

“Declan, please. And good, Fatima, how are you?”

“Great.” She held the glass out to cheers. “I hear congratulations are in order.”

Despite not having a drink, I smiled and lifted my hand in an imaginary cheers.

“To the newlywed.”

“Oh, right. Thank you.” For some reason, I just assumed she meant congratulations that I was going to officially be taking the reins of the business.

“I have to say, when I initially heard the news, I was shocked. I would never have put you two together. In fact, when I saw you both that night at the bar, I thought there was no way anything could come of it. But then the more I thought about it, the more it made sense.”

“Does it?” If Fatima knew the answer to how we made sense, I would love to hear it. I was still trying to figure out exactly why I couldn’t seem to get her out of my mind. I kept telling myself that the reason I couldn’t stop thinking about Ashley was because she was my wife and not for any other reason, but I knew it was more than that. I couldn’t stop thinking about her for six months when I thought her name was Carrie, and I’d only spent a few hours with her.

She nodded, and I could see by the exaggerated motion that she was clearly feeling the effects of the martinis. “Ashley is this nurturing, free spirit who flies by the seat of her pants and moves across the country on a whim, act-now-figure-everything-out-later, hopeless romantic, who has an issue with authority. You are… never mind.” Fatima lifted her drink to her mouth and downed the contents.

“I’m what?”

“I can’t.” She wiped her mouth with the back of her hand. “You’re my boss.”

“It’s fine.”

“Nooo,” She drew out the vowel as her eyes widened, and she shook her head slowly back and forth. “I really can’t.”

“Yes. You can.”

“Are you sure?” Her face scrunched up like she’d just bitten into a sour lemon. “I don’t want to say anything that?—”

“I want to hear what you have to say. I won’t be offended. I promise. You can speak freely.”

She blew out a puff of air. “Okay. You are a control freak who is difficult to get along with and always has to get his way.” She leaned forward and spoke in a volume quieter than a whisper. “You have issues with germs and are allergic to spontaneity. You need structure, schedule, routine, and total compliance.”

Everything she said was right, which led me to ask, “So how does that make sense?”

“It’s Paula Abdul, baby.” She snapped her fingers and then began to sing. “It ain’t fiction, it’s a natural fact. You come together ’cause opposites attract.” She hopped like a bunny past me, then moonwalked behind me. “Two steps forward, two steps back.”

She was starting to draw attention from the rest of the room—attention I didn’t want. “Right. Okay. Got it.”

“It’s a classic case of opposites attract.” She stopped dancing, and her tone grew serious, matching my own tone. “She is the yin to your yang. The calm to your storm. The light to your darkness. The sun to your moon. It’s balanced duality. Contrasting forces.”

I stood silently, digesting the things that Fatima had just said. Even in her tipsy state, she was making sense.

“You know what I mean,” she continued, “she’s the peanut butter to your jelly. The salt to your pepper. The gravy to your mashed potatoes. The cheese to your macaroni. The bun to your hot do?—”

“I got it,” I cut her off.

“Now I’m hungry. I’m gonna hit the buffet table.”

I nodded as Fatima headed to the back of the room.

Was she right? Were Ashley and I so different that we were perfect for one another?

I thought about what life with her would be like. Her life was filled with clutter. Literally. That was how she lived. My life was clutter-free. She was passionate and fiery and brought out a side of me that I wasn’t even sure I liked. Around her, I wasn’t myself. I couldn’t control my base instincts. It was unnerving. How would that work?

Not that any of this was even worth deliberating. Ashley wasn’t interested in continuing our marriage. She didn’t wear her ring. No one, other than Nadia and the Comforts, knew that she was even married.

In just a few weeks, this entire thing was going to be over. I would officially be the majority shareholder of Wolfe Enterprises, and Ashley and I would be getting a divorce. I’d known this was going to be the outcome all along, but somehow, the thought of not sending her morning texts and checking in with her throughout the day, of not hearing her voice before she went to bed, of not making sure she had everything she needed, that she was taken care of, was not sitting right with me.

Would I have to go cold turkey? Was there a world where we could be friends? Is that what I wanted? Could we even be friends? What if she started dating someone?

Then I’d have to hear about her and another man. I’d rather get my balls tattooed than hear about another man touching her, kissing her, or hell, even just making her laugh or smile.

Why did she need love to be married? Why was that the end all be all in a relationship for her? Why couldn’t she see what a marriage could be without that?

Or maybe the question I should be asking myself is, why couldn’t I see what a marriage could be with that?