Page 49 of Echoes of a Southern Song

Chapter Eighteen

Jinnie

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I FINALLY GET A DAY off, and it feels weird. Not in a bad way, just unfamiliar after busting my ass for over a week. My manager’s back, which means I’m not running the show anymore. Part of me is a little relieved, while another part misses being in charge. I actually liked it. Felt good knowing the bakery ran well because I was steering the ship.

But I don’t have time to dwell on that too long, because today isn’t just about relaxing—it’s about prepping for the trial.

Yay.

I’m so glad to have this thing moving along but also dreading it falling apart because Sam pulls some shit. I just wish he would sign the damn papers. Getting money out of me is the equivalent of water from stone or blood from a turnip. I don’t see how a judge would ever allow him to blackmail me into paying the guy when he walked out on me.

Unfortunately, I have to go through this whole stupid exercise in humility.

I tug on a nice sweater, something I hope makes me look more “put together” than I feel. I check myself in the mirror. I’ve got on jeans. When it’s time for court, I’ll dress in something a little nicer. But this is just me and my attorney.

“Okay, Max. I’m off. I’ll be home later. I’m picking up more food for you. Should I get you a special treat?”

He flicks his tail, which I’m going to take as a yes.

I head out to the lawyer’s office. By the time I park, my stomach’s doing little somersaults. It’s not nerves exactly. Or maybe it is. I don’t even know anymore. I don’t know what to expect. The assistant said we were going to be prepping. I didn’t know how to prep for something like this. We got married. And now I don’t want to be married. It’s pretty simple.

The receptionist gives me a polite smile and offers me water while I wait. I decline. If I drink water, I’ll have to pee. If I have to pee, I’ll overthink everything while I’m in the bathroom and probably never come back.

So. No water.

The meeting starts right on time.

“We’re just going to run through some basic background, all right?” David Langley says, tapping a few keys on his laptop. “Factual stuff. Nothing heavy today.”

I nod, smoothing my hands over my knees. “Okay.”

And then the questions start.

“What date were you married?”

“Uh... May twelfth.” I blink.

He nods, not reacting. “Where was the ceremony?”

“In Las Vegas. We were spontaneous. Or stupid. Take your pick.”

He gives me a look like he hears that kind of thing more often than anyone should.

“Let’s stick to the facts,” he says.

“Sorry.”

“Do you remember the name of the officiant?”

I wrack my brain. “Reverend Jerry. I only remember because he wore a sparkly white suit and had sideburns that made me question all my life choices. I think he was supposed to be version of Elvis. Not the handsome Elvis.”

David actually smirks at that one. “Classic Vegas.”

“Yeah,” I say. “He handed me a plastic rose and told me to treasure love like it was a slot machine jackpot or something like that. Our wedding package included some tokens or something to use at some rinky-dink casino that we never used.”

He nodded, but I could tell he wasn’t interested in the details. Facts only.