•1•

“Ben! Yo, big Ben!”

I opened an eye. Blurred white-and-red shapes resembled marshmallows someone had stretched till they bled. A blink resolved them into Budweiser cans.

Pain shot through my groin and head simultaneously. A deep growl resounded in my ear and a paw dug into my groin. I slammed my eyes closed and elbowed the dog off my nuts. “Dammit, Butler,” I croaked. And fuck you, Bobo. I wanted to yell at the asshole banging on the front door, but my mouth was too dry.

The Dalmatian sprang to his feet, taking another shot at my balls before he leaped over the back of the couch and hit the floor. The jolt sent the cans tumbling. Some fell to the floor while others rolled over the busted remnants of my laptop and cell phone. I winced when the big dog bounced off the crate that functioned as an end table before he launched his eighty pounds at the door. It hurt like hell to move, but I managed to catch the lamp before it followed the beer cans to the floor.

Wincing, I swung my legs off the couch and struggled to sit up, blinking at the amber trail running across the piece of marble parked atop the iron base of my grandmother’s Singer sewing machine.  Since when does Bobo knock?

My head spun, and for a moment, the room went dark. When my vision cleared, I lifted my eyes to the portrait above the blocked-up fireplace.

Kira’s smile radiated happiness and mischief danced in her eyes. Her skirt was around her waist, showing off white thigh-highs, killer stiletto pumps, and a garter. I stood with my back to the photographer, my pants around my ankles, smoking a cigarette.

My gaze fell to the makeshift table again.

I snagged a leaking beer can. Draining the remaining sip of bitter liquid, I crushed the can and hurled it at the portrait.

“Ben! Dude, you okay?” Bobo’s fist rattled the door. Butler howled, a sound of agony and fury that echoed in my chest like the notes of a familiar hymn.

I rubbed some of the fur off my tongue by dragging it over the roof of my mouth.

“Fuck off, Bobo.”

Despite my thumping head, I hoisted myself to a standing position. Stumbling over strewn cans and empty pizza boxes, I made it to the door. Nudging the dog aside with one unsteady knee, I flipped the deadbolt latch, then made an about-face. “Butler, come!”

I staggered to the refrigerator, pausing to let the damn dog out the back door before he cocked his leg on a chair.

Thank God. Two beers left. I snagged the plastic rings and yanked one free. The cool liquid soothed my aching throat. In the immortal words of Kristofferson, the one I had for breakfast wasn’t bad, so why not have one more for dessert?

Dumbass. Why keep driving the knife in deeper? Never listened to that old man sing before I met Kira.

I didn’t want to remember the night we met, but the memory overwhelmed me.

The guys wore khaki pants and button-downs or polos. The girls’ skirts were longer than I wanted to see on a Friday night. Just a bunch of Willies and Connies—students at Wofford or Converse Colleges.

“We ain’t gonna get lucky in this college crowd.”

Bobo rolled his eyes. “Didn’t come to get lucky. Came for the mosh pit.”

There was a spot a few miles down the road that played the same bullshit music and catered to the underage crowd, but I could tell by the set of his jaw, he wanted to pit his strength against older guys.

We waited until a big group of people peeled off the side of the building and headed to the front door. Despite our jeans and T-shirts, we tried to blend with the crowd in hopes the guy on the door might get lazy, but to my surprise, no one was checking IDs.

Meant the bartenders did that chore. Bobo slapped my shoulder. “Get us a beer.”

My fake ID was better than his and I’d just gotten paid. With a sigh, I worked my way across the room to the bar.

“Two Bud drafts, please.” Sweat collected on the back of my neck while I flashed the license I’d stolen from my brother-in-law. Sometimes, the expired date tipped ‘em off, but this guy was too busy checking out the girl seated to my left to do more than give the card more than a cursory glance. She spun on the bar stool. Her knees crashed into my thighs.

“Sorry.”

Dark hair didn’t quite touch her shoulders. I’d never seen a woman with hair that shiny anywhere but on TV. Short nose, pretty lips, small, pointed chin. I thought her long lashes surrounded blue eyes, but when she smiled, the jolt that rippled through me scattered my ability to focus. The bartender slammed the plastic cups down. Foam sloshed over the rim. “Four bucks.”

I dragged my eyes from her to peer into my wallet and forked over a hard-earned ten. “Keep the change.” A bartender who didn’t scrutinize my ID needed to be encouraged.

“Excuse me.” She tried to slide past. I didn’t step back, although there was room. Her foot landed on my boot and she lifted her eyes to my face again. The five inches of height I’d added since school started in September made her seem awfully short. I was seized by the urge to pick her up and carry her somewhere safe. Never before had I been tempted to walk away from a paid-for beer. Especially not one scored on a fake ID.

Watching her lips move sent another jolt through me, this time to my groin. Her thigh pressed mine and the view down the front of her scoop-neck sweater held me riveted.

Then she was gone. What had she said? I replayed the lips’ movements in my head.

Sorry. I have a headache.

Though the damn band was upstairs, my head was already throbbing, too. I handed the beer off to Bobo. He gulped his down while I sipped mine, scanning the crowd, trying to figure out where she’d gone. He snatched my cup from my hand.

“Asshole.”

He gave me the one-fingered salute, then pointed toward the stairs. “Goin’ to lay the beat-down on some rich boys. You comin’?”

I shook my head, but he was too busy slamming back my beer to see. “Gimme your keys right this fuckin’ minute.”He’d only had his license for five months and already had a speeding ticket. They’d take his license till he was eighteen for an underage DUI.

He slapped them into my hand. I turned for the door. I’d been shot down by the college girls in this town a few times and was in no mood for a repeat.

She stood just outside the door, looking up and down the street like she expected a taxi to cruise by.

“Need a ride somewhere?”

“Converse. It’s not far.”

I took her by the arm and led her to the liquor store across the street. Moving the truck was a good idea, since Bobo left the damn thing hanging off the curb. In a curve. Dumbass.

“Rides better than it looks.” I couldn’t miss the concern on her face as she scrutinized the lowered Nissan truck.

The trip took fewer than five minutes. Of all nights to catch every light. Her head was hurting, so I didn’t bother trying to make small talk.

“Which dorm?”

“Dexter Hall.”

My heart sank. She was an upperclassman. “Sophomore?”

“Yes.”

I made the turn off Pine Street and pulled up in front of the five-story building.

“Thank you. Sorry, I didn’t ask your name. My head’s splitting.”

I leaned over and punched the button on the dash compartment. Reaching in, I tugged my box of Goody’s powders free. “This’ll help.”

She pried open the top of the box and slipped out a folded wax paper the size of a stick of Juicy Fruit gum.

I lifted the Mello Yellow can in the console, noting the way she turned the envelope in her fingers. “Just unfold it till you’ve got a vee shape. Tip your head back. Pour the powder onto the back of your tongue. Then wash it down with this.”

She continued to fiddle with the envelope.

I sighed. “I reckon you come from a place where the guy who offers you a ride has a roll of duct tape, a razor knife, and some plastic bags in the back, so when he drugs you, he can tie you up and do stuff to you they won’t even write in the newspaper?”

The lights from the dorm outlined her hair, letting me see her slow nod.

“Spartanburg ain’t that place. The duct tape’s to hold the bumper on till I can find a replacement in the junkyard. I use the razor knife to cut sheetrock. Plastic bags are the things I drag to the curb on trash day or cut holes in to make a poncho so I can keep workin’ in a downpour. In my world, a roofie’s the kid who just got hired. We make his ass run the bundles of shingles up the ladder while we stay on the roof and get the job done.”

She unfolded the envelope. The gagging sound she made when the powder hit her tongue made me laugh, but I slapped the drink into her outstretched hand. She tipped the bottle up, swallowing several times.

“I guess they do exist.”

“What’s that?”

“Nice guys. Thought your breed was extinct.”

“Nah. You’re just buying tickets to the wrong zoo.”

She pressed her lips to my unshaved cheek. A sweet, unfamiliar scent teased my nostrils, blotting out the stench of greasy fries and sweat.

“What’s your name?”

I pulled away, gripping the gear shift and staring out the windshield. “You’ll never graduate if you waste time learning stuff you won’t be usin’ later.”

A whine prompted me to let the dog inside.

I squinted through the kitchen window, trying to make out the weird shadow on my neighbor’s siding. The house sat less than twenty feet away, just on the other side of my driveway. Where are my fucking glasses? I focused on a closer view—the window itself—and instantly wished I hadn’t.

Dust lined the strips of clear glass I’d installed at Kira’s behest. I had no trouble seeing the less-dusty spots on those damn shelves. The geometric shapes were about the size of my thumb—circles, rectangles, ovals—footprints left by Kira’s perfume bottle collection. The portrait and the ghostly prints were all the proof I had left that she’d lived here.

Bobo’s voice was far too loud. With a start, I realized he’d taken the chair right behind me. “Dude, you sure tied one on last night.”

“So?” Cool air from the refrigerator sent goose bumps rioting down my bare thighs. I twisted and tossed the empty toward the overflowing trash can.

Bobo spread his hands. Something dark smudged the fingers of his right hand. He worked a security job, but was always cleaning some greasy car part. I popped the top on the second can.

“Just sayin’.” He tipped his seat back and crossed his boots atop the Formica-topped table. I eyed the mud on his Timberlines. Camo pants bloused over the top of the boots.  “Came by to be sure you were gonna make it to court on time.”

Court. I wrenched my gaze from the window to squint at the red numbers on the microwave. I had ninety minutes to shower, put on my suit, and make it to the courthouse on Magnolia Street. Since that was only a few blocks away, I sagged against the counter.

Bobo cocked a brow and laced his fingers together across his stomach. “Go puke. You’ll feel better. Before you know it, this’ll be done. We’ll go out tonight. Work on findin’ you a new queen for this piece of shit doublewide.”

The mill house where I’d grown up wasn’t as nice as a double-wide. Bobo only said that to rub my nose in the fact that he’d just bought a new manufactured home and parked it out in Boiling Springs somewhere. To remind me I was still stuck in the village. He’d lived next door to me all my life. Six months back, he sold the house and used the cash to put down on the trailer and land.

I pushed off the counter and slapped the back of his head on my way to the trash can. His ragged laughter ended with a whoosh. The mild violence made my head feel better. “Why aren’t you at work, dumbass?” I picked up the aluminum can and shoved it into the waste bin.

He snorted and narrowed his eyes. “She’s always had you fucked up in the head, since the goddamn day you two met. First day of deer huntin’ season, asshole. You know that.” My heart beat two painful times before he added, “Before Kira, you used to go with me.”

Jagged pieces of the previous night sliced through my brain. Bobo, at the front door, holding two cases of beer. Bobo, slouched in the old chair Kira had taken a class to learn how to reupholster, his boots crossed on the piece of marble atop the Singer base. Me, not yelling at him to get his greasy pants off the expensive tapestry she’d selected.

The crowing note in Bobo’s voice disappeared, replaced by solemnity. “You’re the dumbass. She’s a fucking Connie, man. What’d you expect?”

Bobo had never forgiven her for luring me out of the redneck mold I’d been destined to occupy. Or trying to, anyway. Some roots just ran too deep.

“So why aren’t you ten feet up a fucking tree stand, then?” I lifted the second beer to my lips. “Already bag your limit?”

His chuckle made me lower the can. He rubbed a hand over close-cropped brown waves and raised shaggy brows. “Been and back already.” He leaned down and scooped something off the cracked linoleum beside one chrome table leg. My glasses. I slid them on. Still wondering what that snaking shadow on Bobo’s old home place might be, I moved to the sink and took a second look.

Rust-colored graffiti marred the brand-new siding. Carpet Manchez?

A woman a few years older than us had purchased the house. Two women moved in. They kissed in the front doorway when either left the house. I’d seen them do a bit more than kiss in the back yard. Bobo’s chuckle unthawed my brain, shaking loose a memory of regaling him with the story last night.

Not Manchez. Carpet munchers.

I knew in my heart, Bobo defaced their new siding.

My stomach rebelled. Bitter acid rose in my throat. I spewed into the sink.

“Want me to let Kira’s dog in?” Bobo jumped out of his seat and pounded a fist between my shoulder blades. “Wouldn’t want you to be late for court.”

I swiped the back of my hand across my mouth and turned on the water to rinse the sink. His gaze darted to the window. He didn’t try to hide his smirk.

Bobo could be an ass. Kira disliked him on sight. Living next door to him hadn’t improved their relationship.

But Kira left me and Bobo was still here, wasn’t he?

“He’s my fucking dog.”

He barked with laughter. “Remember who you’re talkin’ to? Me, Bobo James? We was headed for Chesnee to buy that blue-tick hound you busted your ass to save up for, but you couldn’t shut up about Kira and how much she wanted a Dalmatian. Next thing I know, you kick my ass outta the truck at a gas station to buy a newspaper and we’re on our way to Enoree instead, jackass, so don’t tell me it ain’t her fucking dog. Get your ass in the shower. I’ll feed him and stick him in the pen. I parked in Jason Dobson’s driveway. He and I are gonna work on my carburetor, but he got the chance to work some overtime this morning.”

The Dobson’s house faced Farley Street, but the lot backed up to mine.

Twenty minutes later, I scooped my cell phone off the kitchen table. Flipping the cover up, I gaped at the busted glass.

Damn her pretty ass, why’d she have to text me last night? One hundred and seventeen days go by without a word, but she wants to yap about history the night before the divorce is final?

“Fuck you, babe.” I tossed the phone onto the table, vaguely recalling stomping the damn thing the night before. Striding through the front room, I saluted the portrait and yanked the door open. My headache had eased, thanks to a Goody’s powder, but I still squinted in the bright autumn sun. I wanted to be early.  I jammed the key into the ignition. Music blared, but only one song would do today. I poked the button on the stereo until the bass notes of Stonecutter’s Blues filled the cab and lowered the volume.

Local boys hit the big time with the song, about a quarry worker getting his heart stomped on by a Connie. I’d played the song so often in the last year, I’d almost forgotten I once liked rap.

Was it weird that it’d taken a Converse gal to make me like country music?

I pressed the clutch and shifted into reverse. There were only eight houses on Manning Street. Three were abandoned, their windows boarded, but I glanced into the rearview before I bumped over the potholes in the drive and reversed into the street.

The spray-painted slur seemed more obscene from this angle. The lesbian couple had spent some money on the house. Green metal roofing and new tan vinyl spiffed up the small house that Bobo had let go downhill. I’d given them an estimate on doing the work, but they went with another guy, because he could work on the job full-time, while I could only promise to work after hours and on weekends.

One of the gals, Hester, parked her green Kia on the street. The car seemed canted at an odd angle. I spied the problem. Flat front tire.

Goddamn you, Bobo. So what if they’re lesbians? It seemed a special kind of stupid to take money from these women and then vandalize the work he’d been too lazy to do when he lived there.

Fuck it. I’d planned to get to the courthouse early, in hopes I could figure out what to say to Kira to get her to come home.

Bobo was right about one thing. I needed to accept this. It’d been a year and I’d seen her once. She hadn’t even come to Aunt Polly’s funeral, and Polly had loved her as much as I.

I pulled forward, then reversed into the driveway. Crossing the yard, I squatted to inspect the tire. Rubber pooled onto the asphalt like melted ice cream. Had Bobo let the air out, or something more sinister? I recalled the sharp knife he took on hunting trips and ran my fingers across the sidewall.

Hearing the squeak of a door hinge, I looked over my shoulder to see Hester standing on her front porch. “Oh, no.” She clutched her purse in one hand and the other covered her mouth.

“Just saw this as I was leaving.” My nails caught on the small cut. “I think I have a can of Fix-a-Flat in my toolbox.” I swallowed, tasting the sour puke from earlier, despite brushing my teeth and gargling with Listerine. Straightening, I returned to my truck, lifting one side of the big toolbox that stretched across the bed.

“Why aren’t you at work already?” Hester rushed down the stairs. “Oh, no, Ben. Did someone die?”

I realized she stared at my shirt and tie. “Gotta be in court.”  She and I crossed to the car at the same time. “The divorce is final today.”

Sympathy shone in her brown eyes. “I’m so sorry, Ben. I know how much you love Kira.”

“Yeah? How so?” I wrenched the top off the can and sank to my knees.

“Good-looking, hard-working man’s wife leaves him and he never brings another woman home in twelve months? That’s a no-brainer. By the way, you’ve restored my faith in men.” She pressed a hand to my shoulder and gave me a gentle squeeze. “Maybe God will grant you a miracle.”

Hester had no clue. I’d already had my miracle.

I jammed the dispenser over the valve stem and shoved the can forward with the flat of my palm. “Someone cut this tire last night, Hester. They sprayed graffiti on the side of the house, too. Sorry I didn’t hear anything. I got drunk and passed out.”

She ran around the side of the house. Her pained cry made me want to yank Bobo up and punch him in the mouth.

“Hello, operator? I need you to send a policeman to two-nine-six Manning Street. I need to report a hate crime.”

Fuck. Hate crime? I reckoned what Bobo had done was no different than when some KKK member sprayed slurs on a black church down on South Church Street last year. The guy charged with that was doing three years at Cross Anchor Correctional. Some guys on my construction crew thought the sentence was too stiff for a prank.

If he faced a similar fate, Bobo’s prejudice could cost him everything he owned. I tried to feel sorry for the jackass, but I had problems of my own. I felt like I’d been hit by a freight train. The tire was as good as it was gonna get, and I had to go get divorced. I hurled the empty aerosol can into the back of my truck.

“Why does it matter who I sleep with?” Hester shoved the phone into her purse. Tears glinted on her cheeks. “All that should matter is that Violet and I love each other.”

It’s Adam and Eve, not Adam and Steve. These little lesbians just ain’t met a man who’ll fuck ‘em right. The words in my mind were stated in Bobo’s voice, another memory fragment from the night before.

I wanted to tell her that love didn’t overcome everything. That you could love the ever-loving hell out of someone and still come up short. Instead, I gave her a half-hearted wave, put my ass into my truck, and roared off.

The red brick smokestacks were all that was left of Switzer Mill, once the largest employer in the county. Production scaled back in 1986, before my birth in 1993. In 2001, they closed the doors for good.

A few of us stayed, older folks like Polly, who’d grown up here. As the older folks died, their heirs sold or rented the small houses, originally build by the mill in the early 1920s. More windows were boarded than not. Bullet holes riddled the siding on several houses. 

Kira never belonged here.

•2•

I jerked away from my sister’s attempt to fix my tie. A few feet away, two lawyers gossiped.

“… heard she’s off her meds,” the female attorney announced. The guy in the pinstriped suit had a braying laugh. The glint of his wedding band wasn’t as bright as the gleam in his eye. I’d gotten out of the shower less than an hour before and already felt I needed another.

I caught a glimpse of a slender figure, topped with shiny, dark hair outside the double glass doors. My heart took a leap.  

“Ben, dammit, it’s crooked.” Susan reached for me again. She didn’t care about my tie. She wanted to make sure I didn’t turn at the approach of Kira, my about-to-be ex-wife.

I gave in, because Susan’s not the kind to quit when she gets fixated on something. Worse, she has no problem making a scene.

“Ding dong, the witch is dead,” Susan muttered when Kira swept past us in the wide courthouse corridor. “I cannot wait for this judge to bang her gavel and end that bitch’s spell on you once and for all.” She slipped the knot at my throat so tight, I grabbed her wrist, glaring at her gloating expression.

From the corner of my watering eye, I watched Kira disappear through the door to Courtroom C.

The only line of Shakespeare I recalled sprang to mind. Though she be but little, she is fierce.

Her dad didn’t come. If he’d known the end of our marriage was at hand, Jack D’Amato would’ve set up a full bar on the courthouse lawn. Maeve, Kira’s stepmother, would be at his side, filling helium balloons stuffed with fifty dollar bills. Party’s on me, folks. My daughter finally came to her senses.

One pound of dread slipped from my shoulders. Two pounds of guilt took its place. Kira had protected me from Jack’s gloating. I wished I hadn’t let Susan come for moral support.

 Our divorce should’ve been no different from our marriage—me and Kira against everyone else. I felt stupid for not realizing that sooner.

Not that stupid. After all, Kira wanted to add a stanza to those ‘me and you against the world’ lyrics.

“Got time to grab a cup of coffee?” the well-dressed man asked.

The woman lawyer waggled her fingers at her colleague. “I sorta have another case. Can I have a rain check?” She followed my wife’s faint trail of Anais Anais—the only perfume Kira wore—into the courtroom. I thought about all the times I’d rushed out to hunt a bottle of that damnably scarce scent. 

I readjusted my tie so I could breathe.

“Ready to be a single man again, Ben?” Susan’s tone was far too cheerful.

I’m never going to be a single man again. No paper can tell me she’s not my wife.

Stepping into my first-ever courtroom that wasn’t traffic court, I faltered, expecting something bigger. Wooden pews lined a short aisle. The commercial tile underfoot and the walnut paneling reminded me of the tiny Baptist church on Green Street where I’d been baptized.

Susan slid her arm through mine and led me forward. “I think you sit there.” She pointed to one of two gleaming tables. I eased into a wooden chair. I told myself not to look, but my eyes did their own thing.

Across the aisle, the woman from the hallway occupied the chair closest to mine. She blocked my view of Kira, but I could tell my wife wore lavender. The color did wild shit to her gray eyes, but she refused to look at me. Her shoes were fuck-me pumps if ever I’d seen a pair. While I stared, she crossed her ankles and tucked her feet under her chair.

So ladylike. So unlike the view the night before you left. I tried to blink away the other—unwanted—image of Kira’s ankles, to no avail. Some nights, I felt the image of Kira and Bobo’s buck-wild cousin Jericho was printed on the ceiling above the bed.

Images flashed through my brain like bullets. Jericho and Kira laughing, looking at me. Kira deliberately raising a finger to his chin, turning his head toward her. Jericho, kissing my wife. Kira sliding her fingers through his hair and locking her ankles behind his back.

Bobo walking into his new kitchen.

Me walking out and leaving Kira there.

Bobo calling to say Kira left his place with Jericho.

Kira, arriving home a day later, only to pack a suitcase and walk out again.

The harsh words I said while she wrapped those little perfume bottles.

The one I smashed that’d belonged to her mother.

I rubbed my thumb across the scar at the base of my middle finger, where the fragile glass sliced deep.  

She sat straight, eyes toward the judges’ bench. Soft mahogany waves tumbled down her back. The color was more subdued than I recalled. The red highlights were missing.

She hired a lawyer? We’d downloaded the forms online and split the filing fees, talking only by text. I’d assumed the divorce would be like everything else in my life—strictly do-it-yourself or do without.

While the bailiff cautioned everyone to turn off their cell phones, I flashed through a mental slideshow of Kira’s hairstyles, to clear my mind of the other images. The chin-length cut she’d sported when we’d met. The longer version the year after. The bright headscarves she’d favored her senior year. The adorable curls rioting behind her wedding veil. The way she’d dyed it burgundy for our second anniversary and her laughter when I confessed taking her to bed was like fucking a different woman.

I shut down the next memory. That one led directly here, even if it did take a meandering path. My stomach churned. Bongo drums sounded in my skull.

Another man stepped into the room through a door to the left, beside the spot I supposed the judge would sit. He launched into a sing-song chant. “All rise, Family Court of the State of South Carolina, County of Spartanburg, Seventh Circuit, the Honorable Judge Bonita J. Emory presiding, is now in session. Please be seated and come to order.”

A mocha-skinned judge swept through the same door. I jumped to my feet. Like Kira, Judge Emory wasn’t tall, but they shared the imperious air of queens. She landed in her seat and scanned the courtroom. I felt certain her gaze lingered on me. Driving a finger between my collar and neck, I jerked. Sweat pricked my armpits despite the room’s frigid temperature.

“You may be seated.” The judge flipped a file folder open. “In the matter of Collins versus Collins. I’ve reviewed this file extensively.”

The judge lifted the glasses dangling around her neck and perched them on her nose. She stared over the narrow lenses. “I have some questions for the petitioner.”

I didn’t know whether she meant me, so I turned toward Kira. Her attorney friend half-rose from her seat. The judge waved a hand. “Sit down, Ms. Hamrick. I just need your client to clear up a few things.”

My heart hammered. What was unclear? The internet site said all we had to do was fill out the pages, file them at the courthouse, pay the fee, then wait the twelve months.

The judge’s gray brows knotted as she scowled at Kira. I tensed.

“Mrs. Collins, I want to be sure you understand that you’ve waived any claim to the property you hold in common with Benjamin Collins.”

Kira scooted her chair back and stood tall in her high heels. Now I could see the profile I used to wake at night to stare at. Her spine was plumb-line straight.

“Yes, Your Honor. I understand.” Her attorney twisted to glance behind her, giving me a better view of Kira. My wife fanned her fingers and rested the tips of her nails on the table. The sensation of those nails raking my back sent a shot of heat to my groin.

The goddamned shoes were fucking with my mind.  She left me. Get over it. Get over it.

“Were you coerced in any way? Did anyone threaten you to make you give up your rightful claim?”

Outrage thundered in my chest. Threatened?

“Oh. No, Your Honor. Absolutely not.”

Before I could empty my lungs in relief, the judge’s scowl deepened. “You must be aware there’s considerable equity in your home. You’re giving that to the respondent, even though you worked full time during your marriage and contributed fifty percent to the upkeep and utilities?”

Her voice trembled, but Kira’s words rang clear. “Yes, Your Honor. The home has been in Ben’s family since 1941. His grandfather worked for the mill and bought the house. They raised six kids in that two-bedroom home. His unmarried aunt continued to live there after his grandparents’ deaths and she took Ben in when he lost his parents. Polly deeded the home place to us when we married. She did put it in both our names, but I have no desire to take it from him.”

Though I didn’t want to hear it, I detected pain in Kira’s voice. This isn’t my fault, goddammit.

Judge Emory demanded, “Do you feel you have effective counsel, Mrs. Collins?”

“Um… Ms. Hamrick’s not technically my lawyer. She and I graduated from Converse together. She’s just here to hold my hand, but I understand the ramifications of my decision.”

“You may sit down, Mrs. Collins.”

Beads of sweat popped out on my forehead. The judge turned vulture-like eyes on me. “Hmm. And what do you say about this, Mr. Collins? You’ve accepted her renunciation?”

I got to my feet, feeling like the air had been punched out of my lungs. She’d renunciated something bigger than a four-room house. “I was always willing to give her half, Your Honor. I listed the property for sale.”

“So, what happened? Did you receive no offers?”

One offer—from Hester, actually. That was the last time I’d seen Kira, the night she arrived to put her signature on the contract for sale, and ended up talking the couple into buying Bobo’s house instead.

“I took the home off the market at Kira’s insistence.” Would she order me to cough up half the home’s value? I’d have to mortgage the place to do that. Banks weren’t thrilled to loan money on Switzer Mill Hill these days.  My headache returned full force. I was going to end up with nothing after all.

I already have nothing. But at least I wasn’t sleeping in my truck.

Judge Emory folded her hands and leaned back in her chair. “Take your seat, Mr. Collins.”

Long seconds ticked by, then minutes, while the judge scowled from me to Kira. I fidgeted with the end of my tie and wished I were anywhere but here.

What I really wished was that our second wedding anniversary celebration had never happened. She’d given me something unforgettable, but I wished I’d foreseen the consequences of accepting.

“Mrs. Collins,” the judge barked. “You simply got up one day and moved out after three years of marriage? Even though Ben Collins never subjected you to any kind of cruelty, isn’t addicted to drugs or alcohol, didn’t abandon you?”

Kira jumped to her feet again. “Yes, Your Honor. I just got up one day, packed, and moved out.”

Get out! Get the fuck out of my sight and don’t come back. My words. My headache kicked up like a hurricane.

I prayed the judge wouldn’t ask what had happened. I had no desire for anyone else—like my sister—to know what had driven a wedge between us.

I’d tossed and turned every night since. I always came to the same conclusion. Some rules were inviolate. I’d never demanded anything of Kira she wasn’t willing to do. She was unreasonable. Spoiled.

“Did you love him when you married him?”

“I did, indeed, love him, Your Honor.”

“Do you still?”

“Much more than he loves me, clearly.”

That remark earned me another hard look from the judge. Even the court reporter looked up from her machine to sneer.

I don’t love you. Get out. Pack your shit and go.

My tongue dried out again, but all the moisture seemed to go to my palms.

Behind me, Susan muttered, “Oh, my God. Drama queen.”

Kira’s lawyer buddy got to her feet. “Your Honor, I don’t see the point in this—”

“Sit down,” the judge barked. “I’m entitled to ask questions. You’ve already admitted you have no standing before the court in this matter, Ms. Hamrick.” Her lips thinned and her glare turned sly. “If you prefer, I can have her sworn in and question her under oath.”

The woman plopped into her seat.

The judge rapped her desk with her knuckles. “My grandparents had to establish residency in another state to get married, since my grandfather was white. In fact, their marriage wasn’t technically legal in South Carolina until after they celebrated their thirty-fifth wedding anniversary. My gay son would love to have the right to make the commitment you’re so casually throwing aside.”

 “Your Honor, I object!” Kira’s attorney jumped up. “This isn’t about—”

“Duly noted. And overruled,” Judge Emory snapped. “As I was saying, there are many people who’d love to have the chance to marry their beloved. If the problem between the Collins’ is not one of the major grounds for divorce in this state, then based on my twenty-seven years’ experience, it’s either sex or money. I’ve reviewed the financial statements. Without a mortgage or rent to pay, despite their ages, I fail to see how money could be an issue.” She lifted a piece of paper. “Says here you don’t even have credit card debt. And both vehicles are paid for?” She raised her eyes. “Then the problem must be sex.”

My cheeks ignited. The court reporter gave me another snide glare. Clenching my fists, I dug my nails into my palms.

“It’s up to me whether or not to dissolve your marriage. I’m not satisfied this marriage can’t be saved. Therefore, I’m ordering the petitioner and respondent to spend one final weekend together. It goes without saying that I expect you to spend the time working directly on the issue, not avoiding it.”

A forty-eight hour do-over.

Or a repeat of a two-day argument.

The Hamrick woman sprang up like a Jack-in-the-box, but the judge held up a tiny hand. I struggled to inhale.

I can’t do this.

“An off-the-books weekend, counselor.  Monday morning at ten a.m. I want to see the couple back here. If the issue has not been resolved to the satisfaction of both parties, the time spent together won’t count against the petitioner, nor can the respondent use any marital congress that might take place against her. I stipulate that the twelve month separation requirement has been met.”

“Can she do this?” Susan gripped my shoulder. “Your Honor, I object!” Susan and Kira’s lawyer yelled simultaneously.

“Who might you be?” the judge snapped.

I sagged in my seat, picturing Susan and Bobo sharing a cell down at the city jail. I’m gonna let them both rot there.

The Hamrick woman’s comment to Kira was loud enough for me to hear. “A South Carolina family court judge has broad powers. This is within her discretion. But Jesus H. Christ, what a precedent to set.”

Maybe God will grant you a miracle, Ben.

I decided on the spot, I’d replace my neighbor’s damaged siding for free, since surely Hester’s prayer on my behalf had caused this. I’d beat the fuck out of Bobo for free, too.

“Don’t like my ruling, Ms. Hamrick? First, get yourself hired by the petitioner. Then?” The judge smiled like a stray dog who’d spied a fresh cut-steak. “Take it up on appeal. Bailiff, please escort the woman in the pink shirt out of my courtroom.” She jabbed the handle of her gavel toward Susan.

“I’m Susan Collins, Your Honor. Ben’s my brother. If her friend can talk, why can’t I address the court?” Dad used to say Susan would argue with a sign board and knock it down if it refused to argue back. Not to mention, she’d seen every episode of Law and Order, twice.

I plonked my elbows on the table and dropped my head into my hands. “That… that witch already broke his heart. Don’t let her talk her way back through his door. She’ll just break it again.”

The heart can’t break. It’s a muscle. It can shred. It can be crushed. It can have holes punched in it. Be sliced to ribbons. But a heart cannot break.

Ergo, mine wasn’t broken.

The burly man strode across the room. “One more word and you can spend the weekend in jail. Get your purse and let’s go.”

“This is an outrage,” my sister spluttered.

“The only outrage here is trotting off to church every time the door opens, yet not being down with what the judge is trying to do.” Kira stretched her legs underneath the table, but she didn’t look over her shoulder to see the effect of her words. “What God hath joined and all that.”

“Ben, don’t do this.” Susan yanked the back of my jacket. “You deserve the chance to have kids.”

I winced internally, but I spun in my seat. Shoving my face close to Susan’s, I snarled. “Go. Go now. This isn’t about you. And don’t ever say that again.”

Talking wasn’t our problem. We talked. That was the thing I loved most about Kira. I could talk to her about anything. I’d shared every dream, every hope, every fantasy with her.

Which in turn, led us right here. I turned my back on my sister in time to see the judge’s scowl.

“Outside the borders of our fair state, a cultural revolution is taking place. Yet our States’ Attorney is on the record saying he intends to follow the state constitution in the matter of same-sex marriage. I’m going on record, too. If marriage is so sacred that the State cannot expand the institution of marriage and the rights it confers to all, then I intend to see that those who do have the privilege do not cast it aside lightly.”

She lifted her gavel, watching the court officer wrestle my sister out of the room. I wished the tile could swallow me.

The heart’s a muscle. It can’t break.

I unfurled my fists. My hand shook like my grandpa’s after he’d gotten palsy.

Kira’s voice was steady now, the way it’d been at our wedding. I’d been the one with the shakes that day, too. “I’d be delighted to comply, your Honor.” She—finally—turned toward me. The eyes I adored held a challenge. How much do you want me?

I want you. Just you.

The judge had no idea what she was asking, but I understood the dare in Kira’s eyes. I didn’t think I could give her what she wanted any more today than I ever had. But I had forty-eight hours to talk her out of the notion and out of the divorce. That was more than I’d had when I opened my eyes.

The tiny chapel where we’d married sprang into my mind. I’m down front, sweating through my tux. There’s a pause in the music, right before the string quartet launched into the Wedding March. Kira and her father are coming around the back of the tiny building. Jack’s voice came right through the wall.

Kira, he’s just a kid. You think he’s a man because he’s got that freaky deep voice and wide shoulders, but baby, you’re miles ahead of him in maturity. Let’s get the fuck out of here. This marriage ain’t gonna work.

Shut up, Jack, and take me down that aisle. Get out of my way or get out of my life.

“Mr. Collins? What say you?”

I pushed my glasses up my nose. Turning toward Kira, I faked a grin. “Your place or ours?”

The judge interrupted before she could respond. “Excellent. I’ll have my clerk pencil you in on my calendar first thing Monday.” The judge banged the gavel on her desk. “So ordered. To be clear—walking away before the weekend is done constitutes contempt of court, which will result in thirty days’ jail time. Ms. Hamrick, as an officer of the court, I’m assigning you to supervise.”

 The magnitude of what I’d agreed to do slammed into me. I clenched and unclenched my fists, then fanned my fingers wide, trying to rid myself of the shakes.

The Hamrick woman’s combative tone disappeared. “Delighted to assist, Your Honor. Mrs. Cox is renting a loft in my building anyway. And if I may be so bold, you’re going down in history as the judge who put the big “O” in divorce.”

Laughter pinged around the room, but I stared at the grease staining the cracks and cuts in my hands. She’d had my heart since we met, and she’d been none too gentle with that. Now, she’d have my pride and honor, too.