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.
“Did you file the marriage certificate?”
“Yes. There was a little chapel—we signed all the papers right after the ceremony. The place had a neon heart above the door and smelled like cotton candy and liquor.”
He types something. “Name of the chapel?”
“Lucky Love Weddings.” I sigh. “Couldn’t make that up if I tried.”
The questions keep coming—dates, locations, how long we stayed in Vegas, where we lived afterward, whether we shared bank accounts. It’s all technical. Clean. Clinical.
But even though he’s not asking about emotions or betrayal or fear, it still makes me feel like I’m being slowly lowered into a tank of ice water. Every answer chips away at something inside me, even the dumb little ones like what airline we flew or where we stayed for the weekend.
When it’s finally over, David gives me a small smile.
“You did great,” he says. “We’ll go over the more sensitive stuff next time, but you’re well-prepared.”
“Thanks,” I say, trying to smile back. “I’m just ready for this to be over.”
“I know. You’re doing the right thing.”
I nod, but his words bounce right off the armor I’ve built up. I’m not doing this because I feel brave or right. I’m doing it because I have no choice.
The room feels smaller now. Mr. Langley leans forward slightly, his elbows resting on the desk. He looks at me in a way that’s part professional, part parental.
“Alright, Jinnie,” he begins with more of a personal than professional tone. “When we get into the courtroom, there are a few things you need to keep in mind—mostly about how you handle yourself. Judges don’t just listen to what you say; they watch how you say it. Your body language, your tone, even how quickly you respond—it all matters.”
“Okay. So... what do I do?”
“First,” he says, holding up a finger, “stay calm. No matter what Sam or his lawyer says—no matter how ridiculous or infuriating it is—you don’t react. You keep your face neutral. No eye rolls, no sighs, no muttering under your breath. You’re a statue.”
“A statue,” I repeat, trying to imagine myself carved out of marble.
“Exactly. If you react emotionally—if you get defensive or angry—it can come across as instability. And that’s not what we want the judge to see.”
“Got it,” I say, though my stomach twists at the thought of sitting there while Sam spews whatever nonsense he’s cooked up.
“Second,” he continues, holding up another finger, “when the judge speaks to you—or when I ask you questions—you answer clearly and concisely. Don’t ramble. Don’t overexplain. Stick to the facts. If it’s a yes-or-no question, answer yes or no. If it’s more complicated, keep it short and direct.”
I nod again, but my mind is already racing ahead, trying to anticipate every possible question and how I might mess it up.
“Third,” he says, holding up a third finger now, “if Sam or his lawyer tries to bait you—and they will—don’t take it. They’ll twist your words if they can.”
“So what do I do?”
“If they ask something that feels like a trap,” he explains, “don’t answer right away. Look at me first. I’ll either tell you how to respond or object if they’re out of line.”
I swallow hard and nod again.
“Finally, remember that this isn’t personal—not for the judge. They don’t care about the drama or the history or who wronged who. They care about the law and whether all the boxes have been checked. So don’t try to appeal to their emotions or make them feel sorry for you. Just stick to the facts and trust me to handle the rest.”
“Okay.”
He smiles. “You’re going to do fine. I’m only giving you the worst possible scenario. I don’t see this as being a big deal, but just in case.”
“Thank you. I’m fine. I’ll do fine.”
After going over a few more details, the meeting is done.
I walk out feeling a little out of sorts. I should go home and start laundry. But I don’t want to. I need a breather. Something simple. Normal.
I drive to my parents’ house.
My dad is outside digging in the garden like it’s a buried treasure site. The sight makes me smile. I pull up and wave.
“Hey, Jellybean!”
Ugh. The nickname. I used to hate it. Okay, I still hate it. But he says it with such goofy affection that I can’t help but grin.
“Need a hand?” I ask.
He looks up, squinting at me through his smudged glasses. “You? In the garden? How long has it been since you got your hands dirty?”
“Too long,” I reply.
And I mean that in every way. That’s what’s been missing my life these last few months. I need to be grounded in every sense of the word.
He pats a mound of soil. “Come on. I was just getting ready to plant another row of lettuce. I think we’ll have just enough time to harvest it before the snow arrives.”
I kick off my shoes and crouch beside him. “It’s been too long since I’ve done this.”
“It’s in your blood, sweetheart. My green thumb is your green thumb.”
“My green thumb is black. Like the death of every houseplant I’ve ever tried to keep alive.”
He just laughs and shows me how deep to make the holes, how to gently nudge the seedlings in like I’m tucking them in for bed.
I get dirt in my hair. Almost fall into a rose bush. Somehow sit directly on the little rake thing and nearly do some serious damage to my ass.
And my dad is howling the whole time. “Maybe you’re not a gardener,” he says, breathless. “But you’re damn good comic relief.”
“I try,” I mutter, flicking a chunk of dirt at him.
He flicks one back and then we’re basically having a soil war until my mom’s voice calls out from the porch.
“Dinner’s ready! Wash your hands before you come inside!”
“Yes, ma’am,” my dad says.
We head in. The warmth of home wraps around me, chasing away all my fears and concerns. My mom’s made roast chicken with mashed potatoes, green beans, and her famous honey cornbread. It smells amazing.
We eat at the kitchen table, passing dishes and teasing each other, and for a while I can almost pretend I’m not caught in the middle of a legal storm cloud.
My mom looks at me a little too long. She’s got that look that says she’s seeing more than my face. “You seem... off.”
I pause with my fork halfway to my mouth. “I’m fine.”
“You’re not fine,” she says gently. “You look tired. And your laugh doesn’t quite reach your eyes.”
I swallow hard. “I’m just worn out. Long week.”
She doesn’t press, bless her heart, but her eyes soften. “You know you can talk to us about anything, right?”
“I know,” I say, smiling as best I can. “Thanks.”
And I do know that.
But I also know that if I tell them what’s happening—about the marriage, the annulment, the trial —they’ll look at me differently. Not with hate or disappointment, but with that soft, sad pity that would break me faster than anger ever could.
So, I stay quiet.
We finish dinner, clear the table, and my mom packs me leftovers like she always does, even though I say no every time.
I hug them both tightly. Maybe tighter than usual.
“You’ll be okay,” my dad says, pressing a kiss to the top of my head. “Whatever’s going on in that big ol’ brain of yours, you’re stronger than it.”
I nod, trying not to tear up. “Thanks, Dad.”
When I get home, I set the Tupperware in the fridge, change into something a little more comfortable, and stare at the ceiling for a long time.
I should go to bed.
I’m off work. I could sleep early for once. Catch up on rest. Be responsible.
But instead, I find myself walking to the mirror and fixing my hair. Putting on a little makeup. A black top that makes me feel sexy. Jeans that hug just right. A swipe of lipstick that says I care, even if it’s just for one night.
Because Jack’s playing tonight.
And I want to see him.
Not just to hear his music or watch him on stage, though that’s part of it.
I miss him .
Even with the weirdness lately—the distance, the uncertainty, the way he seems to be drifting away. I still want to be near him. Hear his voice. Watch him do the thing he loves.
I grab my jacket and keys, head out the door, and drive toward the bar.