Page 56 of Unruly

The neon beer clock hanging above the wall of liquor bottles says it’s already past one. The regulars have started trickling into the bar, their conversations blending into a low hum beneath the twang of country music and the steady clink of glasses. Someone laughs too loudly at the far end of the counter, and a stool scrapes across the worn floorboards. Normal Saturday sounds, but all I can focus on is the silence sitting heavy in my pocket.

Cash hasn’t texted, hasn’t called, which is weird, considering he texted me well into the night last night, asking me all sorts of random questions.

I hate how much it bothers me. Worse, I hate how quickly my brain fills in the blanks with every worst-case scenario it can come up with.

Maybe he changed his mind.

Maybe he woke up this morning and realized I’m exactly what I warned him I was: a thirty-year-old woman still tangled in a divorce to a man who doesn’t think he does a damn thing wrong. I’m just a complicated mess who’s not worth the effort.

Cash is twenty-two.

Ever since I gave him my number, the day after he ate me out in the back room, he’s taken every opportunity to text me non-stop. But today? Crickets.

Even after he was adamant about this damn date.

I should have figured. Men like Cash didn’t do steady. They do fun and temporary.

I’d let myself catch feelings when I knew I wasn’t ready …

Stupid. So fucking stupid.

The bar hums with low conversation and clinking bottles. For an afternoon, it’s not half bad, but it all feels distant.

I check my phone again. Still nothing. Pride keeps my fingers from typing anything. Hadn’t I tried to warn him? Hadn’t I told him this was a bad idea from the start? If he was pulling away, I wasn’t going to chase. I wasn’t about to beg him to prove me wrong.

The door chimes, pulling me from my spiral. A delivery guy steps in, peering around the dim interior before heading straight for the end of the bar.

“Excuse me,” he said, adjusting the strap of his bag. “Are you Halle Dawson?”

I make my way over, frowning. “Yeah. That’s me.”

He hands over a manilla envelope with no return address on it. I thank him, tucking the envelope beneath the bar, and forcing myself to finish taking care of the next round of orders before disappearing to the back office.

The moment I tear the top open in the office, the contents spill all over the desk.

Shredded paper litters every surface—tiny strips, hundreds of them. The remains of an official document. I dig through the mess, praying this is a sick joke until my fingers close around a folded envelope. Opening it, a stack of official-looking papers stares back at me—copies of the dissolution of marriage documents I’d had served Zach weeks ago, and more. My stomach drops as I flip through them. While everything is signed, even more is in there about division of assets.

But his signature is right there, on every required line.

He signed them.

Then why the fuck did he shred a copy?

And there it is, on the last page, a summons to appear in court back in Dallas to make sure the division of assets is distributed equally.

Is he really choosing to fight me … ? I was more than fair. He’s fucking dragging it out.

Rage flashes hot through my veins. I dig through the rest of the smaller envelope until my fingers close around a folded note in Zach’s handwriting.

Opening it, a message is scrawled inside.

I figured you’d want these back. I signed them like you wanted, but I’m not making this easy on you. See you soon. -Z

For a long moment, I just stare. That fucking asshole. Even now, after the lies, the affair, the years of making me feel small, he had to twist the knife one more time. As if forcing me into court will undo the damage or keep me from moving on. My hands shake as I cram the mess back into the envelope.

“God, I really do think I fucking hate you,” I mutter to myself.

Glancing up at the clock, I realize it’s just past 5 and my shift is almost over, but Aunt Aria and Uncle Matt are nowhere to be found.