Frankie tapped a cigarette out of the pack, his hands steady,a pilot’s hands,but his eyes were bloodshot. He flicked the lighter, the flame illuminating the hard lines of a face that looked ten years older than it did when they'd said I do.

"Sign it, Frankie," you whispered, staring at the gold pen.

"I’m gonna," he muttered, exhaling a plume of blue smoke. "Just... the ink is cheap. It’ll smudge if I do it now. Give it a minute."

It was the fifth excuse in an hour. Before that, it was a missing page that wasn't actually missing, then he needed more coffee. You weren't any better, you’d spent twenty minutes "checking the math" on a split that had been verified by two different lawyers.

"We're pathetic," you said, leaning back and looking out at the yard you used to mow together.

"We're thorough," Frankie corrected, his voice gravelly. He took another drag, staring at the treeline. "You know, if you hadn't spent the last three years turning into a goddamn ghost in your own house, maybe we wouldn't be sitting here counting pennies."

The politeness, the thin veneer of "mature adults," cracked right then.

"Oh, so it’s my fault?" You turned in your chair, the heat finally getting to you. "I stayed in my room because watching you drown yourself in a bottle of tequila every night was exhausting, Frankie. I couldn't compete with the liquor. I got tired of being the only one awake in a house full of empty bottles."

"I was coping!" Frankie snapped, standing up, his chair screeching against the deck. "I was flying missions that would make your skin crawl, coming home to a partner who wouldn't even look at me. You shut me out long before I picked up the bottle."

"Because you weren't there! Even when you were home, you were gone!" You were on your feet now, the volume rising, echoing off the neighbors' fences.

"Calm the fuck down," Frankie said, that low, dangerous tone he used when he was trying to maintain control. He stepped toward you, trying to be the "rational" one. "Just take a breath and-"

You shoved him. Hard. Your palms hit his chest, and he stumbled back, surprised by the raw force of your resentment.

"Don't tell me to calm down! Don't you dare act like this is all on me!"

The dam broke. All the months of quiet dinners and polite "how was your day" vanished. You spun around, eyes landing on the garage door. You knew exactly where his gear was,the flight suits, the helmet, the memorabilia he cherished more than the marriage. You grabbed a Louisville Slugger leaning by the back door, a relic from a softball league years ago, and marched toward his crates.

"Hey! What the hell are you doing?" Frankie shouted, following you.

CRACK.

The sound of the bat hitting his flight helmet was sickeningly satisfying. You swung again, catching the side of a wooden crate filled with his technical manuals and gear.

"This is it, right?" you screamed, swinging again. "This is the 'stuff' we're splitting? Is this what you want?"

Frankie stood there, rubbing his face with both hands, a look of weary disgust on his face. "This is exactly why I asked for the fucking divorce," he growled. "Look at you. You’re unhinged!"

"I'm hurting, you asshole!" You swung the bat again, aiming for a glass-fronted shadowbox.

"Give me the fucking bat!" Frankie lunged, trying to disarm you. He grabbed the barrel, but you wrenched it back with a guttural scream. In the chaotic scramble, the heavy wood slipped. As Frankie jerked forward to stabilize you, the end of the bat swung upward, catching him square across the forehead.

"Shit!"

He collapsed, not out cold, but dazed, hitting the floor of the garage with a heavy thud. You dropped the bat, the adrenaline turning into instant, sickening guilt. You fell to your knees beside him, grabbing his shoulders.

"Frankie! Oh my god, Frankie, I’m sorry-"

He shoved your hands away, blinking through the pain, a red welt already rising near his temple. "Get off me! Just... fuck, you always have to go too far."