“I’m not going to peel it off.” She huffed. “Since a real divorce doesn’t suit either of our interests—at the moment—it doesn’t mean that we can’t go ahead and divvy things up.”
He heard her and his brain replayed what she’d said, but it still wasn’t making a lick of sense.
“Split everything in half,” she clarified at his look of confusion. “Fifty-fifty.”
Matthew crossed his arms over his bare chest and leaned against his bedroom’s doorframe. “You don’t think people might notice? I mean, the tape clashes with the furniture.”
“Then we won’t invite anyone over,” she settled, turning on her heels and marching away.
“You’re joking, right?” He started after her.
“No.”
He reached the top of the staircase just as she bolted from the bottom of it. “Can we please talk about this like two rational adults?” he shouted.
“I’m through with being rational.”
“Obviously.”
Chanté stopped and glared up at him. “I’m tired of this lie—this life. I’m tired of...”
He sucked in a deep breath as his eyes narrowed on her. “Go ahead. Say it.”
Chanté clamped her mouth shut and stormed away.
Matthew descended the stairs two at a time, ignoring the ugly silver tape down the center. “Say it, Chanté.”
She ignored him and continued toward the kitchen. It, too, had been duct taped in half. The sight of it ignited his anger.
“You have something to say, Chanté. I want to hear it.”
“Since when?” She rounded on him.
He stopped within inches of her. “I’m standing right here.”
Their glares fused as they stood in a stalemate.
“What else are you tired of, Chanté?” he asked.
“You.” She lifted her chin, now that she’d said the word. “I’m tired of having to deal with you. Satisfied?”
“Quite.” Matthew turned and stomped out of the kitchen.
Chanté watched him leave with a wave of regret and relief. She had no explanation as to why she baited him. She also didn’t understand why she was so angry all the time. She could psychoanalyze herself. After all, she was a professional; but the truth is: doctors made terrible patients.
Why couldn’t she just say what was really on her mind? Because it would destroy him. She shook her head and turned toward the sink and filled a glass with water, where she proceeded to take her morning vitamins and pills.
The phone rang and Chanté snatched the cordless from the kitchen’s wall unit. “Hello.”
“What on earth did you do?” Edie asked in a high, strained voice. “No, scratch that. I know what you did. I need to know why you did it.”
Chanté sighed as she pinched the bridge of her nose. “You’re talking about last night’s program?”
“Are you kidding?” Edie’s voice rose another octave. “That’s all everyone is talking about. My boss has left six messages on my voice mail. She’s worried how all this is going to affect your book sales.”
“Edie—”
“Not to mention, my assistant has fielded calls from the big three networks. Even The Enquirer called and stated they’re going to run a story about you two not sleeping in the same bedroom.”
“How did they—?”
Something loud roared from outside. Chanté lowered the phone. Was Matt doing something in the yard? She placed the phone back against her ear.
“—we’re going to have to do some damage control on this thing.”
“Edie, let me call you back.”
“No. We need to talk about this now.”
Chanté peeked out of the kitchen window and didn’t see her husband.
“Seth and I have a few ideas. What do you think about going on Larry King Live?”
“What? Are you sure all of this is necessary?” Chanté headed toward the front door.
“Vital. If this doesn’t work, we’ll have to sell our souls to get you on Oprah.”
Chanté opened the door, screamed and dropped the phone. “Stop! Stop!”
Now dressed in protective clothing, Matthew headed toward his wife’s brand-new Mercedes with a chainsaw.
“What are you doing?” she yelled.
“Divvying our assets, hon.” He smiled as he lowered his goggles and proceeded to cut the car in half.
“Stop, stop!” she screeched, but the loud buzz of the chainsaw drowned her out. Chanté raced toward the car, but jumped back before sparks showered onto her flammable outfit. “You’re crazy,” she shouted and stomped her fluffy pink house slippers.
Matthew didn’t spare a glance in her direction, but he smiled like a kid in a candy shop as the saw cut through the car like warm butter.
Chanté charged toward the garage, looking for something—anything. From the corner of her eye she spotted a pile of steel pipes on Matthew’s workbench and quickly grabbed one before returning to the yard.
The chainsaw jammed halfway through the Mercedes’ roof and Matthew climbed down, wondering if he had something stronger to finish the job when he saw an angry pink blur rushing toward him and he removed his goggles.
With a firm grip on the steel pipe, Chanté swung at her husband’s head like Barry Bonds going for another home run record.
Matthew ducked and felt the air swoosh past his head as he dropped the chainsaw.
The force of the swing twisted Chanté around in a complete circle and before she could adjust, her husband charged and tackled her to the ground.
This time the air was knocked out of Chanté’s lungs as the steel pipe bounced out of her hands.
“What the hell were you trying to do—kill me?” Matthew barked.
“Damn right,” she growled and tried to twist away and reclaim the pipe.
“Oh, no you don’t.” Matthew scrambled above her and pushed the pipe further out of reach. “You’re absolutely certifiable. You know that?”
“Me?” she shrieked. “Look what you did to my car!” Chanté squirmed and then started pelting
