#the ending is abrupt bc no one wants to see me butcher the legality of prenup for 6 thousand words

[corinnejmorris]

↷ CORINNE MORRIS |MAKE SURE YOU HIT HIM WITH THE PRENUP

       The apartment is quiet as she overlooks the cobblestone streets of Tribeca. Alessia relishing in the fleeting moments of extra asleep, Logan at the ‘brush your teeth and grumble about manhattan’ stage of his morning routine. Yet Corinne is a silent intrusion into their way of life; mostly because Logan is her brother and he knew first hand the fit she’d throw being shut out from his life, secondly because she was a free and adoring babysitter. She stands in front of the floor to ceiling windows, softly swaying with Cain propped against her hip. As espresso heats up on the stove top, Logan can’t help but smile at his older sister. Delicate fingers wrapped around his son’s tiny fist, her face lit up like he’s never seen it before— some call it motherly glow, but in this case it was pure unadulterated love. And although he’d love to give her this moment forever, they’ll be a day late and a dollar short if they don’t get moving soon. He pulls the toothbrush out of his mouth and pipes up, “We’re leaving in 15 minutes tops, subway, walk, or car?” he asks before opening a cabinet to grab a travel mug, coincidentally with the name of his firm printed across it as if it wasn’t already obvious that he was the epitome of Manhattan finance bro. 

       The little moments like these were the ones that she cherished most. She couldn’t wait for the chance to do the same with a child of her own. In her very own kitchen, maybe not the one she lived in at the moment— too many tight corners and sharp edges but, one day. Maybe a house in Alexandria, along the river, with a backyard  reminiscent of the one she grew up with, but just close enough to D.C. that if she was needed at the office she could make the drive. Yet it was all just a fantasy for Corinne, she was playing a game to see whether she could live vicariously through her brother or go mad. So far so good, though. Every baby being inherently cute, was a universal fact in the same vein as the concept of an infinitely expanding cosmos. But Cain was different, his teeny fingers, his cheeks chubbier, and the joyous expression in his sweet blue eyes made her heart melt at the mere sight of him. She presses her forehead against his and closes her eyes softly. She takes a moment's pause to revel in that newborn smell and whispers “good morning” in response to her nephew’s giggle. She returns the smile only to be interrupted by her brother who stood at the opposite edge of the galley kitchen. A kitchen she wasn’t particularly fond of, for reasons beyond the decorating— rather, a long, tall, strip of marble masquerading as an island that Cain was sure to split his head on when he finally gets the hang of zipping around their apartment. It’s a day she sits and waits for with anticipation, not for her nephew to get stitches but, for the day he can safely stand on two feet and run to her, shouting “Cor! Cor!” The day he’s able to express his feelings for his aunt is the day she might just keel over and die from the explosion of happiness in her chest. 

       She turns slowly, still bouncing Cain on her hip. She flashes her brother the smile reserved for clients and television cameras. Sweet, caring, yet unnaturally still, as if there’s no one really behind it. “Whatever you prefer,” she says softly, careful as to not allow any inflection in her tone as to not disturb the small human in her arms. She pads her way across the floor to her brother whose arms are outstretched ready to pull his son into his chest with the same bright smile Corinne had shone earlier. People often said despite the thirteen year age gap, they looked incredibly similar. If that was even remotely true, she hoped the nurturing smile her brother displayed was the same one Cain saw when he looked up at her. He pulls his son close to his chest before sticking his toothbrush in his mouth and pointing at Corinne with his free hand. “Corn, I’m ready in five minutes, We’re walkin’, and then taking the subway to his office, and we’ll stop for a coffee on the way— don’t take any of that shit that’s on the stove it’s Alessia’s and it tastes like garbage,” he says which earns him a pointed glare for Corinne. “What? You’re worried about him? He knows I swear,” he says with the shit eating grin he’s perfected over the years before disappearing around a corner. Corinne is left alone with the hum of the streets of Manhattan and shrill squeak of  a stove top espresso machine. 

      In that very moment she remembers why she’s even in the city in the first place. It was all she could think about as Nicky drove her to the airport, all she could think about as she knocked back a martini in the airport private lounge, eyes expertly trained on the flights touching down and lifting off to destinations that weren’t her’s— places she’d much rather be than where she was headed. It was all she could think about as she met Logan at the airport and he placed the small suitcase she brought with her into the trunk of his S.U.V. But when she saw the little carseat in the back— that’s exactly when all the bad thoughts washed away. She would see her nephew, and all would be okay. But now as she stood at her brother’s front door, purse slung over her shoulder fingers tentatively play with the dainty rings she chose to accessorize with, purposely skipping the ring finger on her left hand. “You put a ring on that finger, before you’re engaged and you’ll be cursed for life,” her mother used to say when she was a little girl, sitting at the vanity table as her mom brushed through her long blonde waves with precision. Corinne even at such young age, idealized this beauty, vanity, gratuitous accessorization. The bows in her hair, and look in her mother’s eyes when her eight year old daughter applied lipstick with razor sharp accuracy. She was a doll. Her mother’s doll. When she got older, when she dressed herself, tried lip gloss instead of lipstick; her mother didn’t want to play anymore. 

        She’s brought back from the recesses of her memories when her brother approaches. “Go go go, I can stand bein’ fuckin’ late,” he says opening the apartment’s front door. They take the elevator in silence as he taps away violently at the screen of his cellphone. “Fucking clients whatta’ they know,” he scoffs before sliding the sleek, caseless device into his pocket— she’d prod about that later. She offers a polite wave and “good morning Stan,” to the doorman which contrast sharply from the dap up her brother gives. Clearly she was the eldest, momma would have liked the way she conducted herself and would have reprimanded Logan and that’s all that really mattered. They begin their walk down Watts St. She wobbles slightly on the cobblestone in her four inch heels. The added height does nothing as she still just a hair under Logan who claims to be six foot, but just cleared 5’11” and 3⁄4. “You look like a baby Giraffe,” he snorts and gives her the once over. “Fuck off, it’s the cobblestone,” she retorts with a playful swat at his shoulder. They turn onto Canal St. and Corinne thanks the city planning gods for pavement. “You know all that fucked up walking coulda’ been avoided if youd’ve just met the man in fucking Raleigh right, Corn?” she winces at his words as they shuffle down the steps alongside the rest of the morning crowd. “Yeah, and stay with momma? In that big ol’ fuckin’ house? Not see you? Or Alessia? Or my nephew? Ya’ I don’t really mind cobblestone streets all that much,” her tone is short as she’s squeezed between him and some other financial analyst, clearly a new guy if he’s still walking around with the banker bag.

      His sigh is loud and exasperated as he and the rest of the passengers are jostled by the movement of the subway cart. They stare at one another in the loud ambience has come to know is native to the streets, and subsequent subway tunnels of New York City. “Stand clear of the closing doors please,” sounds the crummy speakers that probably haven’t been changed since the 70s. It’s only after a few people shuffle off the train that Logan opens his mouth again. Idiot, you never did know when to shut up. She thinks back to the times when he was four or five and would cry and whine to their mother if she so much at looked at her brother the wrong way. “He’s just a baby Corinne,” her mother would snap as she coddled her angel son. The origins of the rage that brindled within her at moments like that is still unknown, maybe it was because she knew he’d forever get off scot free or because she knew his fakery earned her a night in the hallway closet. “I’ll never understand why you don’t like her—” There’s thirteen years of pain you’ll never understand. “she’s not even that nasty of a person—” Not to you, she loved you. “Maybe if you called once in awhile, and fuckin’ visited you wouldn’t have any issues,” he berates her as the knuckles wrapped around the handle of her purse turn white. She wants to snap, but she’s in public and she’ll control herself. There’s also the possibility that she might get all choked up and make a fool of herself as the tears stain her face. “It’s not that I don’t like her Logan, we have opposing views and she’s unbearably judgemental.” Her tone is controlled as the doors open and they step out onto the subway platform. 

      Up the stairs and they step out onto wall street, where a million different men dress and act like her brother. Their conversation has been postponed until further notice as Logan ushers her along with his index finger. “The place I go to makes North American style Turkish coffee,” that just sounds like an oxymoron in itself, she thinks to herself quietly. They dodge angry callers, bird scooters and blind texters as they weave down the street. They turn into a quaint coffee shop with standing tables only, inundated by patrons too focused on their own business to even look up at the door chime. The stereotype of New Yorkers not giving a fuck, was most definitely a real one. They approach the cash and Logan greets a man— boy? who’s name is Mattias. The exact kind of person she’d picture who’d work at a North American style Turkish coffee place. Logan orders and Mattias proceeds on with Corinne who orders a simple turmeric tea. They move off to the side and sit— or rather stand at the edge of a long communal table. “So let me get this straight,” Logan starts “You and momma don’t talk, so she calls Mr.Clark who calls you, who then proceeds to call me, to ask if you can crash?” She sways her head along to the rhythm of the story, “Well I mean yeah...kind of?”

— ⟡ ▒ ONE WEEK EARLIER ▒ ⟡ —

      It’s a little after 1pm on a Wednesday and Corinne strolls back into her office after having changed into her Lululemon yoga attire for afternoon yoga at the office. She sits at her desk and pulls her ringlets back into a bun, as her eyes inspect the report she’s been forwarded. The moment her hands drop from her head the LED on her desk phone flashes. “Cor? I’ve got a Mr.Clark on the phone for you, from Raleigh,” Nicholas sounds worried, as he always does when a 919 number called Corinne. He knew very little about Corinne’s family but knew that she rarely called them and they seldom called her unless it’s to return one of her phone calls. “Oh?” Her immediate reaction is one of confusion and fear. She remembers her mother’s lawyer and his office in their little town center. A stone building with a gold plate by the front door that read ‘Clark & Brennan Legal Offices’. Corinne both loved and hated that office, with all its dark wood and leather, the smell of stale paper and what a 10 year old could only define as alcohol on Mr.Clark’s breath when her mother would force her to greet him with a hug. What she did love was his secretary; Kelli, a twenty something brunette, with long legs accentuated by pencil skirts and a kind smile. Corinne always sat on her desk, ate Chupa Chups, and read Judy Blume novels. But, the only reason Mr.Clark would call her is, if something dire had happened— but surely, Logan would have called her first if her mother had died, right? “Yeah send him through Nicky,” she says leaning back into her desk chair. 

“Hello, this is Corinne Jessica Morris speaking,” she answers in her most professional tone, she had a feeling he still thought of her as that 10 year old girl whose legs used to dangle off the edge of his secretary’s desk.

“Connie—“ A nickname she hates, Connie is short for Constance, not Corinne. “It has been an awful long while since I’ve heard from you, how are you doing miss?”

“Mr.Clark! It has been far too long, to what do I owe the pleasure of hearing from you?”

“Connie, Connie I know it’s been awhile but you needn’t call me Mr.Clark, please call me frank—“ she wouldn’t. “I’m actually calling on your mother’s behalf,”

“Oh, well in that case...Frank, I’m interested to hear what you have to say,” It’s gotta’ be inheritance, Logan is for sure getting more.

“It’s about your prenuptial agreement, I think some congratulations are in order sweetheart,”

“What? A prenup?” She retorts sitting up straighter.

“Yes, a prenup if you’d prefer, there’s one from ‘95 but, surely it needs to be updated to include your new home and the like?” He continues, not even acknowledging Corinne’s surprise.

“Mr.Clark, I don’t think you understand. I’m not engaged— I’m not even seeing anyone at the moment,” She reiterates.

“Is that so?” he pauses and there’s a silence on the line. “Well it wouldn’t hurt to look it over, I’m sure a gorgeous girl like you has many options.” She visibly winces at his words, you haven’t seen me in person since I was 16, creep.

“I guess so,” she says quietly— it’s not that she hasn’t thought about the suspicious lack of ring on her finger, there were other things she wanted to accomplish first.

“Well I’m in Raleigh til’ Friday but, I’ve got an early mornin’ flight to California so I’ll be out til’ Tuesday and in the New York offices until Saturday—”

Corinne quickly interrupts, “I’ll be in New York. Can I meet you on Thursday?” She slides the phone between her shoulder and ear as she grabs her cellphone to send Nicky a text. Flight to NYC. Next tuesday. Red eye. Call Logan.

“Oh well in that case, I’ll be delighted to meet you in New York Connie. My secretary will be in contact,”

— ⟡ ▒ — ⟡ ▒ —⟡ ▒ —

“And that was it?” Logan asks as he finishes the last of his Turkish cortado, which inherently isn’t Turkish coffee the second milk was added. 

      Corinne responds with a nod before taking a sip of her tea. Before Corinne can even open her mouth Logan starts again, hands upheld as if to say hold the fuck on— “Corn are you even ready to get married? Do you even want to?” His expression is a mix of shock and concern. Unable to meet her brother’s eyes she looks down at her left hand and plays with the ring on her index. Of course she wants to get married; she’s been planning her dream wedding since the day she kissed R-D. Was she ready? now that was an entirely different question, she’s perfected the art of living alone, eating alone, drinking alone but, rotating a colourful cast of friends in lieu of feeling lonely. 

“God Logan, I think I know myself enough to know what I want. I’m just waiting—”

“When was the last time you were in a relationship,” he blurts out, cutting her off.

She counters hastily “God, what does it matter to you?” 

“How do you know what you want if you haven’t been in a relationship since you were in fuckin’ college!”

“How’d you know Alessia was the girl you wanted to fuckin’ marry after banging her at fuckin’ mixer?” 

      Logan simply smiles back at her, and she hates it. She hates snapping at him, she hates his smug grin but most importantly she hates this conversation. 

      “Look, I really don’t need the lecture Logan I’m just gonna go, listen to what he has to say and that’s it,” as she finishes her sentence, his cell phone pings. “Shit its work,” he says reading the preview off his lockscreen. “Look, I gotta go, just keep walking south on Broadway you’ll be at his office in two minutes,” he hugs her quickly before heading off to his own office.

      Corinne walks slowly, following the directions her phone gave her. She stops in front of a massive building, a far cry from the old stone of North Carolina. She greets the information desk attendant with her nicest smile. They give her the floor number and direct her to the elevators where she clambers in alongside a dozen or so corporates. It’s only as the numbers rise does she wonder how much business a small firm from North Carolina does to warrant a New York Office. Once the elevator chimes for the thirty-sixth floor she squeezes past those who remain in the elevator and out into a sleek reception area. As quietly as she can manage she makes her way over to the gatekeeper. “Hi I have an appointment with Mr.Clark at 8:30? I’m Corinne. Corinne Jessica Morris.” her voice is soft as she makes eye contact with the receptionist who was clearly not expecting to be bothered this early. She types at lightning speed before handing Corinne a security pass and informing her he’d meet her in conference room 5C. 

      She scans her pass and electric glass doors whirr open. Nice touch, we should get those. The office is quiet besides a few early risers who eye her as she walks past, heels clicking on faux marble tiles. Another automatic glass door lets her into the conference room. She’s greeted by a bouquet of flowering dogwoods, white roses and a box from Ladurée with a little note taped to the top— lovely to see you again Connie. “Thank you,” she says to no one in particular as she pops the top off and fingers hover over the rows of delicacies. With a bite she sits and sets her purse down on the table besides her. 

      At exactly 8:40am Mr.Clark strolls around the corner, with a younger man holding a legal pad and a stack of papers in toe. She can’t help but think of Alex who’s timeliness was uncanny and it brings a smile to her face. “Connie,” his tone is sing songy but sounds as though he smokes Cubans at least once every few days. “Mr.Clark,” she says replicating his sing songy tone. He greets her with a kiss atop her knuckles and she struggles to keep her smile from faltering. With his free hand he claps a football player sized palm on the shoulder of his companion. “This here is Garrett, he’s easily one of the, if not the smartest legal minds in the New York office, He’s gonna’ be my running back on this matter,” Garrett greets her with a simple nod and a “nice to meet you,” as he sets his materials down on the table.

      They each receive a copy of her original prenup and Corinne quickly leafs through it. She wonders if her mother envisioned her marrying Ryan-Dean and that’s why she had this made. Corinne wonders if he was even still a possibility. For a brief fleeting moment she wishes she had this meeting in North Carolina, just to ask her mother about the context of this document but alas, she was going to do this alone. “You’re a very attractive woman both on paper and in person, are goal is to protect you and all your assets in the event of a separation,” Clark starts. “Let’s start with the disclosure first,” Garrett pipes up taking a highlighter to the document. “It’s my understanding that you are not yet engaged, right?” He pauses, glancing at Corinne expectantly. She returns his glance with a nod. “So we’ll just be updating the framework of this agreement and retcon any specifications in the event of an engagement,” he says nonchalantly as he scrawls on his legal pad.

      It’s hard to hear of love spoken in such a calculative fashion but, she understands the reasoning behind such a thing. “Let’s begin with the disclosure of assets,” Garrett says. Mr.Clark begins listing off numbers, “Approximate net worth of eight million U.S. dollars which is comprised of property in Adams Morgan, Washington D.C. at an estimated value of 1.7 million U.S. dollars, A 2018 Audi S7 at an approximate value of 92 thousands U.S. dollars, a Roth IRA with a current value of Approximately 1 million U.S. dollars, a 15% share in Morris Consulting Ltd which roughly translates to about 3.2 million U.S. dollars and finally an investment portfolio with an estimated value of 1 million U.S. dollars,” he finishes with a quiet sigh, and Corinne looks between the two of them to see if that’s a good or bad thing. Garrett offers a simple raise of his brow as he goes back to writing on his pad of paper. “Does that sound about right to you miss.Morris,” he asks nonchalantly.  “Yes, it concurs with the information I was given by my financial advisor,” her hands are crossed politely on the table. She wonders what his expression meant. One of surprise at her financial value? Commendation for her self made company? An evaluation of her?

     “Well whoever the guy— or lady, may be, they’ll be one lucky son of a bitch,” he looks up from his writing and smiles. Corinne returns a bashful grin before Mr.Clark interrupts. “But we’ll make sure he’s not too lucky,” He flips to the next page. “One of the main concerns your mother brought to me was your inheritance—” I fucking knew it.”She assumed it’d be a point of contention in the divorce filings so she’d like it included in the prenuptial agreement,” Well that’s probably the most seemingly logical thought she’s had in decades. “Oh, I don’t see why that’d be an issue,” she shrugs and smiles at Mr.Clark who offers her a smile in return. Veneers. For sure. “So the clause we drafted states that your partner receives 10% of the differential between the day the prenuptial is validated and the day the divorce is finalized,” she nods. “You can always fight for less but this felt like an agreeable number,” She nods again. “No, 10 is fine,” in reality she’s lost in her own thoughts— who could theoretically receive all this money? She makes a potential husband shortlist in her mind.

CORINNE JESSICA MORRIS-??? HUSBAND SHORTLIST

???

Ryan-Dean Marks

Luka ???

Gavin Moir

     The list is short with reason, yes she would if asked but, they’re all hypotheticals. They’re also all people she wouldn’t mind sharing a life with nor an amicable divorce. Which is a terrible thought to think but its a genuine fear she has. Isn’t the statistic something like 50% of marriages end in divorce? Her parents had their trials and tribulations but, lasted through it all. She knew too many couples that didn’t make it through though, and that’s what really scared her. She always quietly mentions to herself— you’ll be different. you’ll make it work. “Now there’s also alimony, which is sometimes waived but, It’s beneficial to at least set up a framework; less headaches down the road.” Garrett’s voice interrupts her thoughts, and she snaps out of her gaze and turns to him. “Do you plan on having children?” He asks. “Of course,” she replies, sitting a little straighter in her seat. “An increasing number of women are opting not to,” he says almost defensively. “When you have children, child support trumps alimony. It’d be fruitless to define the terms of child support so early on, do remember this is simply a framework.” Mr.Clark adds and both she and Garrett nod in unison.

     “For alimony we’re suggesting the differential of 45% of your net income and 30% of your partners net income.” Garrett says. Is that enough? Is that too much? She doesn’t imagine herself marrying someone so wildly out of her tax bracket but it’s all about protection right? “This seems like a lot of money going out,” her voice is quiet as she inspects the papers before her. “It’ll make the process easier,” “It’s just a framework,” Mr.Clark and Garrett’s voices overlap as they both look at her and she’s frozen in place. Mr.Clark gives Garrett a sideways glance before clearing his throat. “An attractive prenuptial agreement is beneficial for all parties sweetheart, and like Mr.Howard said it’s only a framework, we’ll most definitely do alterations down the line at you or your spouse’s request, alright Connie?” He smiles again, teeth too white and too straight. Corinne returns an uneasy smile and quietly utters “okay,” and that’s how they proceed. For the next hour and a half, outlining the details of the money she’ll split with an invisible suitor. When they finish and walk her to the door, bouquet in one hand and a box of macarons under the other, she thanks them for their time and they thank her for her’s. After a hug from Mr.Clark and handing off her security card to Garrett who says he’ll take care of it she’s left alone with her thoughts.

     She steps into a surprisingly empty elevator and as the doors close with a soft click, she feels a tear roll down her cheek. She uses the back of her hand to wipe it away before the elevator is inundated with more passengers. She’s exhausted, she wants to be back home in D.C. Alone in her bed, with the lights off. She opts for a taxi rather than the train and sits in silence as the financial district passes by her window. She greets the doorman with a strained smile before taking another elevator up to her brother’s apartment. In the silence of the tiled hallway she leans her head against their front door and stifles more tears before taking a deep breath and wiping her tears away as best she could. She unlocks the front door and is greeted by Alessia and her nephew. She can’t help the smile that replaces the tears. “Hey, didn’t know you were back so soon,” Alessia says as she passes Cain off to an awaiting Corinne. “We were just about to go on a walk, you down?” She asks absentmindedly as she packs a diaper bag. “Okay, I’d love to. Lemme’ go change my shoes,” she says softly as she plays with her nephew’s tiny hands. you’ll be different. you’ll make it work.