On The Mend

Adam’s face when I open the door is priceless. He’s got a beer in his hand and is wearing a white t-shirt and jeans -- typical attire for someone whose team should be in the playoffs but is not. When he sees that it’s me his eyes go wide and he drops the bottle of beer causing Princess to run over and investigate. She notices that I’m there but doesn’t do anything about it; that dog has always hated me.

I push my way inside, stepping over the beer, and rest my purse on the dining room table near the door.

“Nice place,” I say genuinely. Unlike the first time I saw one of his bachelor pads, I am not disgusted at the sight of Maxim magazines everywhere and Playboy posters on the walls. Instead, he has photos of mountains and nature decorating the light green paint that wraps the room (as apposed to brisk white from when I first met him) and the couches don’t look stained. I’m proud of him. Honestly.

“What…what are you doing here?” he finally speaks.

“Oh, please,” I scoff with a laugh. “You know why I’m here, Adam.”

“Did something happen? Did someone die? Oh, God. Did my brother get locked up again and send you to get me to save his ass?”

He shuts the door and takes his shirt off to start cleaning up the beer. If he thinks that’s going to impress me he’s dead wrong. From what I can tell, Adam has really let himself go. Well, as much as an athlete can let themselves go.

“No, twinkle toes,” I call him by the nickname Versteeg and I gave him two years ago after he twirled around on the ice like a girl after losing a bet. “I’m here because you’re an asshole.”

“You couldn’t have just called me? You had to fly all the way to Dallas?”

I’m losing my temper. Quickly.

“Dammit, Adam.” I throw the manila envelope tucked in my purse directly at his face. “Will you please just sign your damn name at the X so I can go home?”

“Oh. So that’s what this is about.” He slowly begins to pull the papers from the envelope and sits down in one of the chairs by the table. It takes him five minutes to look over one sheet alone and he keeps sighing while he does it. Then, after I’m ready to kill him, he stops and looks at me with a smile. “Hmm, no.”

“What do you mean, no, Adam?” I growl.

“Yeah, I’m not signing these,” he drops everything down on to the table and stands up, walking over to me. He corners me against the closest wall and stares into my eyes. “What was the last thing I said to you, Sophie?”

“I’m going to knee you in your jewels if you don’t back up, asshole.”

“Now, now. I’m sure that’s not what I said.”

“Adam, I’m being serious. Do not tempt me.”

“Sophie, I’m being serious. What was the last thing I said to you?”

I’m trying not to admit it to myself but this is extremely turning me on. Adam’s always had the power to do that to me -- a single look and I’m ready to cream myself. And him pushing me against a wall and having our chests pressed together for the first time in over a year? I’m surprised that I haven’t already done so.

“You called me about the pipes,” I breathe out. “Something about how…about how the apartment was leaking or something. Which by the way it totally wasn’t because when I went up there after Kaner kicked you out everything as fine. You were probably just being dramatic as usual and -- ”

“No. What did I write on the note that I left you on the day I left?”

It takes me a minute to think back that far and when I do I narrow my eyes at him. “Adam, I swear to God if you make this harder than it needs to be I will make your life hell.”

He backs up and my chest feels cold without his pressed against it. “I look forward to it,” he says with a grin that I can only associate with deviance.

I should have known Adam would pull something like this. Everything always has to be a challenge and Adam always needs to win. But no. Not this time -- I’ll make sure of it.


For the first time since I’ve been laid off, I am thankful that I don’t have a job. Had I still been employed, I would have had to leave Dallas last night, two days after my first confrontation with Adam, and went back to work tomorrow. But because the state of Illinois is corrupt I don’t have to leave and can stay here for as long as I need to -- I’m still unsure of whether or not that’s a good thing.

I’m not going to be myself for the next few days and it’s taken me a good day to come to terms with that. Normally I am reserved and will hold my opinions back even if you’re really getting on my bad side. I can’t afford to be that way in this situation. I’m going to be a bitch and I’m not going to play fair. I’m going to cross the line more than a few times. I’m going to make Adam want to divorce me.

This, if anything, will be the one thing that will tear Brody and I apart. And that scares me more than anything.


Princess growls at me when I let myself in to Adam’s apartment with my new key from the landlord. You’d be surprised at how easy that was -- all I had to do was tell him that I left my keys inside. The man had never seen me before but gave me the spare anyway. Maybe it was because of the outfit I’m wearing: it’s hot as shit in Dallas, believe it or not, and I’ve had to compensate my normally classy wardrobe for something Kim Kardashian would wear in Barbados.

I sift through the mail on the kitchen table and notice something that pisses me off even further: all the bills are addressed to both Adam and myself. We’ve been legally separated for over a year and he’s still claiming that we live under the same roof. I quickly stash two of the envelopes into my purse and continue examining the apartment.

When I get to the bedroom and open the door, I stop dead in my tracks at the sight in front of me. This has to be a joke, I think, because there’s no other way to describe it. Adam has bought the same exact bedroom furniture that our room held (I have since bought new dressers and things because I don’t have nearly enough clothes to fill the three that were ours) and his bed set matches the one that was on our bed. It’s not like he can deny it: I bought the damn thing and made the bed every day, I would know more than anyone what it looked like. There are pictures of us on our wedding day on the walls and I know that I’ll soon be getting rid of my copies by use of fire to pave the way for new ones. The urge to vomit forces me to leave the room and slam the door behind me. I make a vow to never go in there again.

Princess isn’t happy with the door slam and growls at me from where she lay on the floor. I flip her off and head to my original destination: the kitchen. If Adam wants a wife, he’s going to get one.


I hear him pause in confusion when he walks into the apartment. I left my purse and shoes by the door on purpose, knowing it would throw him for a loop.

“What the hell?” I hear him ask and then, sure enough, his footsteps begin leading to the kitchen. “What are you doing?” he asks when he sees me.

“Making dinner,” I reply. As part of my act like a bitch plan, tonight I’m making the first meal that I ever cooked Adam after we started dating: spaghetti and vodka sauce with steamed vegetables and Kahlua cake for dessert.

“How did you get into my apartment?”

“Your landlord gave me a key.”

He opens the fridge and grabs a beer from a shelf. I can feel him looking me over; I am still in the Kim K Barbados collection and, since I’ve been standing over a hot stove for an hour, am glistening with sweat. It’s making my legs slick and my chest sparkle -- if I didn’t know that it’s driving him crazy I would do something about it.

I hear him set the glass bottle down on a counter top and turn around to face him before he can wrap his arms around me from behind. It surprises him that I remember his game.

“You don’t get to do that anymore,” I say with authority.

“We’re still married,” he retorts.

“Only because you’re an asshole.”

Adam throws his head back and laughs then puts his hands on my hips and pulls me closer to him. I want to fight him off, oh my god do I want to fight him off, but when your heart and your brain are saying two different things you’re going to listen to the one you’re not supposed to.

“Soph, you’re not going to win this,” he whispers against my cheek.

I want to say you’re probably right but know that that can only hurt my motives, my plan, my fiancée. Instead, I pull my face from his and look into the eyes that I once loved with more feeling than Sam has for Frodo.

“You’re wrong,” I say, and convince myself to believe it.