Page 1 of Comin' in Hot
prologue
. . .
Jeffrey, fuck off.
“Hey, I’m signing right now,” I say, answering the call from my sister with all the pep I feel. And it’s a lot.
Do I have the kind of audacity that typically only comes with being a man?
Yes. Do I care one iota what my, in two more strokes of my pen, ex-husband and his band of loser lawyers think?
Absolutely fucking not.
Sure, taking a call in the midst of signing divorce papers is unorthodox. But I don’t have any shits to give. I gave them all away over the course of twenty years.
I glance up at all the shocked faces in the room just as Moonbeam chuckles on the other end.
“You’re an icon. He’s so mad, right?”
“Mmmhmm.”
Speaking of that devil, my soon-to-be ex, Jeffrey, levels my name as I look at the mediator and point to the next spot on our divorce papers.
“Here?” I whisper, and she nods, trying not to show her amusement.
“Margot…seriously?” Jeffrey presses, but I ignore him, choosing to speak only to my sister.
“Yeah, that’s him. I know, he’s still a bitch. Honestly, how did I do it for so long? Hindsight is crazy.” I hear his discontent, but it’s like glorious fuel to my inner fire. “But like I said, I’m signing now, so I should be wrapped up and on my way to you in about three hours. Give or take a long security line at the airport.”
She squeals. “I cannot wait. This is your discovery era, babe! You are a modern-day Aphrodite, a Calista. And you better have taken a million dollars for every inch he lacked. That’s what karma would want.”
With a swoop of thetat the end of my name, I say, “Well, he was about three inches under average, but that wasn’t enough, so I added time and suffering for never having enjoyed myself.”
The sound of my pen hitting the table mixes with Jeffrey’s grumble and someone coughing to hide their laugh.
Moon claps. “The power of twenty-three will set us free, baby.”
I laugh. She’s wild.
My sister, Moonbeam, formerly Sloane Campbell, is a yoga instructor and true bohemian hippie. A moon-howling free spirit to my practical, buttoned-up cliché.
She’s married to a pro surfer, occasionally lives on the beach in Hawaii, braids shells into my niece’s hair, eats more granola than any person should, and rarely showers outside of the ocean.
And she’s my best friend. Especially this year.
Jeffrey always tolerated her, but I knew he secretly disliked her. Probably because she saw him for who he was: selfish and insecure.
She laughs louder. “God, I bet his whole face is pinched up like the asshole he is.”
I push the papers toward the mediator, looking directly into his eyes as she passes them to him.
Two very opposite memories play out.
The first: our wedding day. The other: our breakup.
God, we started out so happy, probably because we were twenty, and everything seemed like a good idea at that age. When the officiant declared us Mr. and Mrs., he dipped me back and kissed me. I thought my fairy tale had finally begun.
That’s the thing about fairy tales: The story ends before life really begins.
