Tinsley

When I married Logan Bradshaw six years ago, I thought I had found my soul mate. My Prince Charming.

Foolish.

Naive.

Stupid.

He first caught my attention in a country bar. I couldn’t resist the tight jeans, cowboy boots, and black cowboy hat. He looked like your typical country boy, which was hot on its own, but then, he opened his mouth to ask me to dance, and his deep voice with that slow southern drawl disintegrated my panties on the spot.

For the entire year we dated, and the first five years of our marriage, he was the perfect man—so attentive and romantic, always making me feel loved and wanted. Then he changed—in a very big way.

Five years after we were married, I published my first novel, and within two months, it hit a best seller list. I was so excited, and naturally assumed he would be too. He had been so supportive throughout the whole process, and constantly pushed me to keep going. Until he realized I made more money in a month than he had in six. That was when things changed. Instead of encouraging me to start another book, he began to put me down—attacked my character, my talent, my abilities. He lashed out, talked down to me, said, “The fact that your little book hit the best seller list is just a fluke. That will never happen again. Never in a million years.” That was the first time I saw the complete asshole Logan could be.

And asshole Logan didn’t leave. He began getting home from work later and later each night without even a call or text to say he would be missing dinner. When he did finally get home, he’d head straight to the shower, grab a beer, then plop down on the sofa to watch television. There was no conversation. Not even so much as a, “Hi, honey, how was your day?” This went on for three or four months, then his actions became bolder, harsher, less caring, until one night, he didn’t bother coming home at all. Around two in the morning, when my worry became all-consuming and my mind conjured all sorts of scenarios like him getting into an accident or lying in a ditch somewhere, I decided to use the Find My Phone app to see where he was.

The dot on the map showed him about five miles away, and I jumped in my car. When it led me to a popular strip club, I couldn’t stop the furrow of my brow, or the unsteady thump of my heart in my chest. My stomach knotted as multiple emotions battled a war inside me. I didn’t have an issue with strip clubs. I understood the allure of a beautiful woman dancing. I even understood why Logan would want to hang out here with his buddies. What sucked was the lack of phone call to tell me he was still alive and the fact that it was now three in the morning and the place was closed.

I pulled into the vacant lot, the reflection of the flashing neon signs dancing over my windshield as I parked next to Logan’s F250 in the very back, almost behind the building. My stomach clenched as I got out of my car and moved closer to his truck. I rolled my head on my shoulders while trying to keep my breathing under control. I knew I wouldn’t like what I was about to find and this was not the time for a panic attack.

Loud music pumped from inside the cab through the rolled-up windows and my stomach plummeted while I hoped with everything inside me he was drunk and just passed out. I knew that wouldn’t be the case, the signs had been right in front of me for months, but I didn’t want to believe it. My hands shook as I tried to even the palpitations in my chest. With one last steeling breath, I reached for the handle and pulled the door open.

My eyes closed automatically as a fire burned in my chest and bile rose in my throat. I swallowed it back and forced my eyes open, only to take in my husband sitting in the passenger seat, his jeans and boxers pooled around his ankles, a naked redhead with an enormous rack saving a horse and riding my cowboy. I let the heat run through my veins as I clenched my jaw, but maintained my calm. Deep down, no matter how much I didn’t want to admit it, I already knew this was what I would find tonight, and I resigned myself to the outcome as the pair continued, completely oblivious to the fact that I was standing there.

After snapping a picture with my phone, I closed the door and walked back to my car, my stomach tightening and tensing with each step forward as my resolve crumbled. His face, contorted in pleasure, her high-pitched moans, his groans, the smell of her heavy perfume—everything swarmed into my mind as my face got hot and my stomach heaved. My palm shot to the side of my car for balance as my control waned and I lurched forward, vomiting all over the asphalt below me.

When there was nothing left, I got into my car, drove back to my apartment, packed up everything I wanted to keep, and went to a hotel. Before going to bed, I sent Logan a text with the picture I took attached and typed out: fuck you.

I was done, and if he had anything to say, he could come to me. He could call me with all his lame ass excuses and empty apologies. I was certain he’d promise to never do it again and tell me it meant nothing. Six days, four hours, and twenty-eight minutes. That’s how long it took before he reached out. There were no excuses. No apologies. No pleading for forgiveness. Without any emotion in his voice, he told me he’d fallen in love with Kiki and wanted a divorce so they could get married right away. Kiki, the redheaded stripper’s actual name—not a nickname or stage name.

That’s how I ended up in this room with a divorce attorney. These last four months would not have been bearable without Lawrence Cahill’s help. I’ve heard horror stories from people about their divorces, from their lawyers to fighting over everything, down to who gets kitchen mats. Fortunately, Mr. Cahill is a patient man, seems to understand the type of prick my ex and his lawyer are, and has done everything within his power to ensure this divorce is nothing like that, and it hasn’t been.

All Logan wanted was the apartment and the ability to marry Kiki. Since, I could care less about either, it was easy to oblige. Logan is not the man I thought he was, so I will happily send him and his stripper off to live their happily ever after. There are two things I will not forgive: cheating and abuse. Growing up, I saw the pain cheating caused and the devastation it left in its wake, and it’s not something I want to deal with. If you want to play the field, don’t get married. It’s that fucking simple.

The door opens and Logan’s lawyer walks in, followed by Logan and Kiki. My body stiffens as my gaze shoots down to see their hands clasped. I reposition myself in my seat and square my shoulders, seeming for all the world cold and aloof even when a little piece of my heart withers away. Seeing him alone is bad enough, but now I have to look at her too.

That moment of self-pity is quickly replaced by anger—an anger I’ve held onto throughout this whole process. Who in their right mind brings their girlfriend to their divorce hearing? Their girlfriend…who’s wearing a skin-tight top that barely covers her nipples and a skirt so short, she’s one seam malfunction away from knowing whether she tames her bush or lets it all hang out.

Mr. Cahill places his hand over mine and gives me a tight smile. I offer him a close-lipped smile in return. This is tacky, but could I expect anything more from these two? He’s a two-timing lowlife and she’s a stripper who’s going to marry said two-timing lowlife.

“Let’s get this over with,” Logan sneers from across the table. Kiki smirks at me and I resist rolling my eyes, wondering how she likes his stubby pencil dick. I suppress a laugh while gleaming on the inside. I can’t believe she thinks she’s getting a good deal here. “Just show me where to sign. All I want is my apartment. Kiki and I have a plane to catch.”

“We’re going to Vegas to get married,” she says in a singsong voice. She holds her hand out, showing off the pitiful excuse for a ring. I’ve seen nicer rings in those little quarter machines at the grocery store. I keep my mouth shut. There’s no point. If I react, he’s going to think he’s getting to me—they both will—and I’m not going to give them the satisfaction.

Mr. Cahill slides the papers across the table and Logan snatches them up, quickly signing without reading a word. When he’s done, he all but chucks them in my direction. I take them and sign my name. As I sign the very last page, I expect to feel sad…or maybe hurt, but it’s more like a huge weight has been lifted from my shoulders. In the span of fifteen minutes, all the anxiety, anger, and self-pity disappears, making me wonder why I had been so tense and upset in the first place.

A large smile crosses my lips as I stand from the table, reach into my handbag, and pull out my engagement ring—one bigger and worth about ten times more than the little chip on her boney finger. I toss it in her general direction, not really caring if it bounces off her nose. Unfortunately, it lands right in between the twin peaks on her chest.

“That may be lost forever,” I say with a chuckle. Straightening my back, I hold my head high and walk out the door without another glance back.