"Sure," I said. "But tell her to bring Trent. I want to see what remorse looks like in sandals. The meeting was set for Monday. I spent the weekend polishing the house, literally.
There's no joy like cleaning a home free from chaos. I rearranged the furniture, added a few new photos of friends and family, even replaced the old rug she used to hate. It felt symbolic, every inch reclaimed. When Monday came, I wore my favorite suit and my best smile. They arrived 10 minutes late, looking like they'd lost a fight with reality.
Clarissa's hair was messy. her makeup barely hanging on. Trent wore a shirt that said dreamers build tomorrow and sneakers that should have been retired two presidents ago. Howard greeted them politely, but I didn't bother pretending. Clarissa: I said. Trent, welcome to adulthood.
She frowned. I didn't come here to be insulted. Good, I said. Then this will be quick. Howard handed her the updated settlement terms.
No changes. She skimmed them, her face falling. You won't even consider helping me get back on my feet. Clarissa: I said, I paid for 15 years of your stability. You used it to buy chaos.
You're on your own two feet now. Use them. Trent looked up from his phone. She's been through a lot, man. I grinned.
So have I. Difference. His mind doesn't involve painting motivational quotes on Driftwood. Howard coughed, trying not to laugh. Perhaps we should adjourn.
We did. Clarissa left in tears. Trent trailing behind like a lost puppy. When the door closed, Howard said, "You sure about not taking the deal. 50 grand and it's done."
I smiled. I don't negotiate with self-inflicted disasters. He raised his glass of water in mock salute. To the unbothered, to the unaffordable, I corrected. That night, Greta called again.
She's back here. He left. I blinked. Left as in. Gone?
Greta said took her last $500 and ran off with some yoga instructor from his art class. I burst out laughing. You can't make this up. She's devastated, Greta said. Keep saying she should have stayed with you.
I grinned. Finally, something we agree on. Don't gloat. Greta warned. I'm not gloating, I said.
I'm celebrating Karma's punctuality. Greta sighed. She wants to talk to you. Tell her to send a postcard, I said, hanging up. Then I poured myself another drink, sat back, and turned on the stereo.
Jazz filled the house, smooth and effortless. Outside, the world kept spinning. Chaotic, dramatic, messy. But inside, peace. Pure uninterrupted peace.
And I wasn't about to trade it for anything. Not love, not nostalgia, and definitely not a second round of Clarissa's fairy tale gone feral. Friday afternoon, the sun was shining, birds were chirping, and I was three sips into a perfectly good bourbon when I saw the shape of a familiar disaster marching up my office hallway. I didn't need to check the security feed. The way my receptionist smile died told me everything.
Clarissa was back. She burst through the door like she owned the place, wearing oversized sunglasses and fake confidence. "I'm pregnant," she announced, arms crossed like she just won a debate. I stared at her for a long moment, waiting for the punchline. When it didn't come, I leaned back in my chair.
It's been 3 weeks, Clarissa. What did you use? Express shipping. Her jaw tightened. The doctor said, "It's possible."
"Sure," I said. "So is time travel, but I don't see you in a Delorean." She ignored me. I'm serious, Luke. I'm pregnant and I need your help.
I raised an eyebrow. Help? What kind? Emotional, financial, or comedic relief? because I'm fresh out of the first two. She slammed her purse onto my desk.
You're not funny. This is your responsibility, too. I blinked. Mine, Clarissa. We haven't been within 6 ft of each other since the great spaghetti betrayal.
I'm not Jesus. I don't do immaculate conceptions. Her voice cracked. You think this is easy for me? Trent left.
He couldn't handle the pressure. I smirked. Pressure of what? Paying rent? Holding a job? basic hygiene.
She glared. You're cruel. I'm observant. I said, "So, let me get this straight. You had surgery three weeks ago.
Your boyfriend bailed and now you're telling me you're pregnant. What's next? Virgin births and crowdfunding." Her lips trembled. The baby's innocent.
I nodded slowly. "So is my checking account, and I intend to keep it that way." She gasped like she expected me to leap across the desk with a declaration of eternal support. Instead, I poured myself more bourbon. Clarissa sniffled.
I thought you'd at least care. Care? I said. You spent months treating me like your financial plan B, Clarissa. Now that plan A is gone, you're suddenly sentimental.
She looked down, voice shaking. I made mistakes. I leaned forward. You made a PowerPoint of mistakes. Multiple slides with animations.
For a moment, she said nothing. Then she pulled something from her purse. a sonogram photo. I blinked. How the hell? She sniffed.
Early scan. I squinted at it. Clarissa, that looks like static. You sure that's not a picture of your self-awareness? Her face hardened.
You're impossible. And you're still lying? I said, but hey, thanks for stopping by. My lunch break's over and I've got actual adults to meet with. She didn't move.
You can't ignore me forever. I can't, I said. And I'm very good at it. That's when my security guard, Daryl, a 6'4 in ex-Marine with the patience of a monk, appeared at the door. "Everything all right, Mr. Morrison?"
"Just fine," I said. Mrs. Morrison was just leaving. Clarissa's eyes went wide. "You're throwing me out." I smiled politely.
"Technically, Daryl's doing that. I'm just supervising." "Luke, please," she cried. "Don't do this." Do what?
Enforce boundaries. Oh, no. Call Oprah. Daryl held the door open. Ma'am.
Clarissa stomped out, muttering something about karma. When she was gone, Daryl grinned. Damn, boss. That was intense. Yeah, I said, finishing my drink.