The guy in the window

Chapter 1

   
      “Everett!” Melinda yelled from downstairs. “Do you want that hideous green vase in the dining room? I think it was a wedding present from your grandmother.”
I blew out a breath and scrubbed my hands over my face.
      Number one reason people got divorced: marriage.
      Marriage was also the reason I’d have more silver in my hair than brown soon.
      “Throw it out!” I called back, resuming my efforts in my study. I had hundreds of blueprints Melinda couldn’t wait to get out of her sight.
      “I’ll sell it,” I heard her mutter.
      Sure, she could sell it.
      Once upon a time, she’d gushed over the presents my family had given us at our wedding. But over the course of our twenty-five-year-long marriage, the gifts must’ve lost their shine. Now everything was hideous, awful, ugly, and atrocious.
      I was fairly certain she’d looked up the last word in a dictionary.
      That’s the bitterness talking again.

I cringed and slumped down in the chair behind my desk, and I dropped my face into my hands. How had we ended up here? Perhaps the fire had died out, but people our age didn’t get divorced for that. They suffered in silence and at least had someone to come home to at the end of the day. They gathered for holidays and put on smiles for their children. What was so wrong with that? It was easy. It was comfortable.
      Don’t marry a redhead, a friend once warned me.
      I was paying for it now, with this iniquitous affair of divorce and dividing a life into two, in which, oddly enough, I was constantly the villain.
      Deciding to check the listings for apartments and condos again, I powered up my computer and logged in. It’d only been a week since Melinda told me she was “done,” but a week was long enough. I had to get out of here soon.
      “Everett!” Melinda hollered. “The Xbox—”
      “You don’t touch that,” I snapped. It was the one thing I had left that I could share with Grace. When she came home for holidays, she’d teach me some new game, and everything was great for a few hours. My heart hurt just thinking about it.
      “Jeesh, you need to relax,” Melinda replied.
      I rubbed at my chest in an attempt to ease the pressure and glanced at the picture of Grace and me on my desk. It wasn’t my favorite photo. Taken by Melinda at Grace’s high school graduation. My girl had been over the moon. She’d graduated with straight A’s and was on her way to the West Coast, so far away from Chicago, which explained why my smile in the picture was a bit more subdued.
      Where was my favorite picture?

Who the hell was Adam Scott?
      Grabbing my reading glasses off the desk, I leaned closer and read the message. Two of them, actually. The last one popped up just then.
      Hi. I think you’re my dad’s brother. Would you like to get to know me?
      (I know that sounds weird, but it was better than the five-page novella I wrote and deleted before.)

Adam…” I tested the name and rubbed my mouth absently. Adam, Adam, Adam. Could it be? Christ, I hadn’t seen Adam since he was…five? Six? My brother and his wife had adopted him when he was four; I remembered that much.
      I shook my head to myself and closed the window.
      No, I couldn’t say I wished to get to know my nephew. Adopted or not, he was still the son of my late brother, and I doubted we’d have anything in common. Melinda and I hadn’t even been invited to Kane’s funeral. I hadn’t been sure I’d wanted to attend, but we probably would have—out of duty—if we’d had the option.
      Why on earth had the boy reached out to me?
      Boy.
      I supposed he was in his midtwenties now.
      It didn’t matter, though. His side of the family was no longer my own.

Melinda let out a scream of frustration. “I can’t decide what to do with this fucking house!”
      I left the kitchen and joined her in the living room. “Food will be here in twenty minutes.” I scanned the room that looked nothing like it had a little over a week ago. All the pictures had come off the walls. The big floor-to-ceiling bookcase had been emptied. Stacks of boxes took up much of the space.
      “I don’t care about the fucking food, Everett,” she spat angrily. “God—this is you in a nutshell, always so passive about everything. I hate it!”
      I clenched my jaw. “Don’t confuse passive for shutting down. I don’t have to take your tantrums anymore, and I couldn’t care less about whether you’re going to stay here and remodel or get a new place. Now, spare me the goddamn drama and let me remind you that you wanted me to call and order Chinese.” I turned around and left the room again, and I jogged up the stairs to hide out in my study.
      It was essentially what I’d been doing the past several days.
      What else could I do? I’d disassembled some furniture. Otherwise, as I’d come to realize, not much in this house was mine. It was too early to pack up my clothes since I didn’t have a place yet. Photos would have to wait until we’d made copies of everything, and Grace was coming home next week to go through her room.
      I’d taken my work items to my office, leaving my home study mostly bare. I had my desk, my computer, my chair, a picture of Grace and me, and a black plastic bag of trash.
      I opened the second drawer.
had starker features, darker hair, crystal-clear green eyes, pale skin, but she shared the same crooked smirk as her father. She was very cute.
      I scrolled up again and eyed Adam’s info. Twenty-seven years old, Chicago, male—of course he’d gone to Northwestern. As had my brother and our father.
      I’d escaped Illinois and done my undergrad at Cornell, not a popular choice in my family, before I’d moved to the West Coast for my master’s at Berkeley. It was where I’d met Melinda, another Chicagoan on the run. How we’d ended up back here was a mystery.
      Grace was starting fourth grade by the time we bought our house in Evanston, and if I could go back and do it over again, I wouldn’t. Moving back because Melinda wanted to take care of her ailing grandmother hadn’t been enough.
this from?” I didn’t remember the restaurant—or why we had tans.
      She snorted and wiped her fingers under her eyes. Someone had gotten a manicure today. Her nails were an inch longer and dark red. “You don’t even know.” She laughed, even though it wasn’t truly a laugh. “It was the year after we moved back here. We spent a weekend on the lake.”

The knife pressed deeper. “Melinda. Did you cheat during our marriage?”
      “Technically, no,” she spat out. “I met some guys—”
      “As in fucking plural?” I yelled.
      “I never acted on it!” she shouted back. “It was just texting and dinners!”
      “Oh, just that?” I widened my arms and stared at her incredulously. “You actually went out to dinner with other men while you were married to me?” I pushed my fingers into my hair and tugged at the ends, unable to grasp any of the emotions that surged through me. Disbelief, anger, more bitterness—oh fucking God, how bitter I felt.
      “I never slept with anyone,” she said quickly. “Not even a freaking kiss.”
      I chuckled darkly and shook my head, and I took a couple steps back. Then a few more, until I decided I was plain done. I picked up my briefcase and headed upstairs.
      a parent. If Grace had texted me anything longer than a paragraph, I would be overwhelmed with joy. Perhaps I should bestow some wisdom. As a matter of fact, that was exactly what I needed to do. Adam had a daughter; he should prepare himself to be forgotten.
      I took another swig and then cracked my knuckles. Here we go.
      Hello, Adam. I admit to having read your profile, and I couldn’t help but notice you have a young daughter. I have one too. Grace is nineteen now, and she’s on her second year at Berkeley.
      That will be your girl one day. And, if we pretend I’m your uncle for a moment, here’s a little word of advice from me. Don’t let her slip through your fingers. Encourage those five-page novellas. They shouldn’t be deleted. They are far better than two-word responses about whether or not she’s coming home for Thanksgiving.
      I wish you and the family well,
      Everett
      I pressed send before I emptied my drink.
......

Bella climbed up on my back and rested her chin on my shoulder. “Who’s that, Daddy?” She pointed at my phone and Everett’s profile picture.
      I could go with a variety of answers, none of which were suited for a four-year-old’s ears. Although, she wouldn’t know the meaning of distinguished silver fox. On the other hand, after reading my uncle’s message to me, all the flattering comments flew out the window, and there really only was one response left.
      “A jagoff,” I said. “Didn’t I tell you to go brush your teeth, huh?” I leaned back and trapped her between the back of the couch and me, and she squealed. “Come on, double trouble, time to get ready for bed.”
      “I can’t move!” she laughed. “Someone save me!”
      I grinned. “Looks like someone can’t hear you.”