The Callaway building rose above a block of banks, medical offices, and small professional firms, its dark windows reflecting a low ceiling of clouds. I parked in the garage across the street and sat with both hands on the steering wheel for several minutes. My phone showed two messages from Marcus about a crew finishing a retaining wall before the weather turned. I answered him, then opened the door and stepped into the rain. Ordinary responsibilities had become ropes I could hold while moving across something much less stable.
Dana was waiting in her office with the documents arranged in careful stacks. She offered coffee; I declined because my stomach felt as though it already contained enough acid to power a truck. We reviewed the agreement, the schedules of property, and the payment instructions once more. It was not the final judgment of divorce, Dana reminded me. It was a binding settlement we intended to submit as part of the legal process, subject to the required procedures and approvals. I was grateful for that distinction, even though emotionally it felt like the morning our marriage would end.
"Are you sure about the figures?" she asked.
I looked at them again. Clare would retain her car, her personal accounts and belongings, and her agreed share of the funds accumulated during the marriage. We had accounted for improvements made to my premarital house and resolved that issue without a trial. My grandfather's traced inheritance and the cottage purchased from it were separately documented, while any questions about contributions or other relevant legal rights had been addressed in the negotiated terms. I had not tried to make the numbers hurt her, and I wasn't going to start now.
"I'm sure," I said.
"Then remember something. You don't have to explain your feelings to anyone in that room. You're here to finish a financial agreement, not win an argument with your former life."
At nine fifty-five we heard voices in the hallway. Clare came first, wearing a new coat the color of cream-colored coffee and carrying a small leather bag. Her hair was professionally styled, but there were shadows beneath her eyes that concealer hadn't hidden. She looked around the room before she looked at me. For a second the familiar expression on her face almost made me stand up to help with her chair, and I hated the involuntary tenderness of the impulse.
James followed her, wearing dark trousers, an expensive quarter-zip, and a smile that seemed practiced in front of a mirror. He shook hands with Clare's attorney, glanced over Dana's desk as if assessing its value, and then extended his hand toward me. "Ethan," he said warmly, in a voice a man might use when meeting his partner's brother for the first time. "I know this is difficult. I appreciate us being able to handle things like adults."