Page 11 of Sundown Somewhere

I turn back, forcing my most polite people smile. The one my grandmother, the OG Dolly herself, taught me.

“Thank you.”

“I just can’t imagine how you’re feeling right now. What’s going through your head. A girl your age, still unmarried…”

Thank you for the reminder…

“…for your sake, my dear, I sure hope he explained himself…”

Oh, he did…

I inhale deeply, forcing my smile even harder, channeling all the wild mix of emotions still stirring in me thinking about my ex and his “explanation.”

“Can I get you anything else this morning, Mr. Hovland?” I ask, pointedly putting an end to his fishing expedition. I am not about to give him anything more than I already have. Which is exactly nothing.

He shakes his head, still looking a little too smug for my liking. As if he’s sitting there thinking that I may have won the battle, but he will win the war. Only, he won’t. I’ve suffered enough humiliation this last week; I don’t need to pile on top of it with the real reason for my botched wedding becoming the next headline.

Making my way back to the counter, I give my small diner a once-over to make sure that nothing else is needed. We’re busy this morning, but everything is under control. So I slide back to my normal spot, discreetly pulling out my phone from my back pocket and clicking over to my texts.

I don’t know why I feel the need to look at it. The exceptionally short thread is burned in my mind for the rest of time. Word for word, the bubble images so crystal clear it’s amazing I see anything past it when I close my eyes.

Not to mention the searing pain that rips straight through me with each one of my ex’s words.

My text to him last Monday morning when I had finally stopped eating my feelings long enough to form a semi-rational thought—and found my phone that Hux had hidden—was a tad more rage filled than intended. I didn’t quite channel my inner Alanis Morissette from the mid-90s, but the four words I chose made it clear that I wasn’t crying in a corner either.

What. The. Actual. Fuck.

It was his response that sent me reeling though. As if that quickly scribbled message on a hotel notepad wasn’t bad enough, each of his rapid-fire replies inflicted a new wound.

Jeff

It’s for the best.

You are not wife material. Something I think that even you can’t deny.

You’re too independent, headstrong, focused on your own stuff. Don’t even get me started on your wild side…

I take responsibility for my failures here, but this is for the best.

I responded the most mature way I knew how. With a gif of Adam Sandler from The Wedding Singer screaming, “Things that could have been brought to my attention yesterday!”

That was when Hux confiscated my phone back, something that really was for the best. Before I moved into Alanis territory—or worse, upgraded to something else. Like sending him a package of dick-shaped confetti.

Actually, I still might do that. Serves him right.

The moving image plays on a loop as I stare at the thread, Jeff’s list of my “sins” creating a new little papercut-like slice in me over and over. My “wild side.” Psssh…that man knows nothing about my wild side. All he’s ever heard is stories about the stuff Hux and I pulled as teenagers.

And too independent? Too focused on my own stuff? I run a business for crying out loud. Exactly what does he⁠—

“Please tell me that’s just Hux checking in and not the text I think it is.”

I startle, quickly hitting the power button to hide that it is the offending thread, and look up, doing my best not to look guilty. Mission not accomplished.

Standing across the counter are four very accusatory faces. Like they know me or something.

To be fair, Alice Evans, Emily Barrowcliff—my cousin—and Rose Adler have known me since basically birth. The fourth, Margeaux Finnegan, is new to our group, but slipped in so easily you’d never know.

“Hmmm?” Alice follows up, her statement still hanging in the air.