Page 25 of Promise

“Item one. The house. True, it’s yours.” I drop my gaze for a second, then pop it back up to meet her eyes. “But it’s also mine. Ours,” I correct.

“Dart.” My name strangles in her throat, and her lip quivers. “You gave it to me in the divorce.”

“Item two. The divorce.” I swallow. “About that . . .”

I’d been served the papers at the track during practice laps.

The delivery guy caught me unaware.

“You’ve been served,” he said, handing over the manila envelope.

“Served what?” I’d joked, completely blindsided, even when I knew it might be coming.

Deep down, I couldn’t blame her. I’d been the one to step away. I’d wanted her to understand my reasoning, but I couldn’t explain myself. Explain how unworthy I felt, and how desperate I was to prove I was still good at something. Thinking if I did something to change who I was, it would change us.

However, she couldn’t comprehend what even I didn’t know at the time. And she ignored my calls and didn’t respond to my texts, so we couldn’t even try to talk. Let the distance be the physical break we needed, but allow us to re-open lines of communication.

She’d been my rock, and she was no longer there to steady me. I’d slipped off a boulder and landed on the wrong side of a mountain. I had no idea if she blocked me and my messages went into the abyss, or just filled up her DMs and voicemail. When the silence grew like the miles between us, I anticipated this moment happening while I still foolishly hoped it wouldn’t.

“Are you fucking serious?” I’d asked the guy after pulling out the papers and reading the first few lines.

I glared at him, crumbling the packet in my hand.

“Don’t shoot the messenger.” He held up a hand, contrite, yet doing his job.

He scrambled away from the pit while I tugged off my wedding band in anger and chucked it down the track, lost to the black asphalt that steamed from the heat of the day and the temperature of the cars, one of which raced over the black surface.

When I went to look for the ring, seconds after feeling the nakedness of my finger, it was gone.

Melted into the asphalt? Stuck to the hot tread of a tire? Catapulted to the grassy infield?

Who knew? But my finger was bare, and my heart split in two.

She hadn’t asked for anything other than my signature. Not my earnings. Not the Chevy Camaro, or my truck.

She really wanted nothing to do with me.

But I’d given her everything. I paid off the mortgage with my first big win and sent her the deed to the house.

My leg begins to bounce again beneath the table, and I clench my hands into fists, hoping it will stop the jostle. It doesn’t.

My heart joins the parade of my body’s uncontrolled movements, marching harder, making my breathing shallow.

A bead of sweat trickles down my back.

“The thing is . . .”

She tilts her head, eyes narrowing.

“We aren’t divorced.”

The rush of information rolls out of me like exhaust puffing out a tailpipe. Poof, and I feel clear.

I hold up my hand, emphasizing the silicone ring I wear since the original band is gone.

“You and I are still married.

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