2. Halle
HALLE
The Bar is exactly what it sounds like. It’s a squat building on the edge of Cedarbrook with a gravel lot, lights bright enough to find your car at the end of the night, and its name—a giant purple neon sign that blinks outside by the road.
In a town like this, that’s enough—more than enough. The place is packed by nine every Friday, like people have been holding their breath all week, just waiting for an excuse to come grab a drink.
Cedarbrook is an agricultural, sleepy town in the western part of Arkansas. It’s your typical small-town America. The kind of place you either never leave or can’t wait to get back to, depending on what it did to you the first time around.
I’m still figuring out which one I am.
By the time I push through the back door, tying my washed-out black apron around my waist, I can already hear it—the low hum of conversation, the clink of glasses, the occasional burst of laughter that’s just a little too loud for it to be coming from someone that’s completely sober.
“Showtime,” I mutter to myself, rolling my shoulders once before stepping behind the bar.
“Look who decided to join us,” Uncle Matt calls, already halfway through pouring a draft beer.
“Miss me?” I shoot back, sliding in next to him to handle the dirty glasses in the sink.
“Like an annoying headache.”
“Aww.” I press a hand to my chest. “You always know just what to say to make my day.”
Aunt Aria snorts from the other end. “Don’t encourage him. He’s been insufferable all night.”
“I’m always insufferable,” Matt corrects.
“At least you’re self-aware,” I chime in, moving to grab the stack of clean glasses and putting them back where they go.
This part? It’s easy.
Not life. Not relationships. Not figuring out who the hell I am now that I’m not someone’s wife.
Just...this—pouring drinks, talking shit, and existing in a space where the biggest expectation is whether or not I can make a decent whiskey sour, or how fast I can pop the top off an ice-cold bottle of beer.
I do a quick scan of the room—it’s all the same faces of people bellying up to the bar after their long weeks. Their conversations are damn near identical every single time.
And weirdly enough? I like it.
My phone buzzes against the shelf under the bar for the fourth time—that I noticed—since I got here. I don’t need to even see the dozen text messages to know why Zach is bothering me.
I glance anyway.
Six previews are stacked on the lock screen.
Zach:
We need to talk about this.
Zach:
Halle. Call me.
Zach:
I know you saw this. Pick up your fucking phone.
Zach:
You really think this is how we do this? After everything?
Zach:
CALL ME.
Zach:
Fine. Don’t. But you’re going to have to talk to me eventually and you know it.
I turn the phone face down on the shelf.
He was served the divorce papers today. I mailed them off the other day—certified, which meant a signature was required, and he couldn’t pretend that this marriage wasn’t over anymore.
Aunt Aria thinks that leaving his number unblocked is “leaving the door open,” but honestly, it’s more like leaving a window cracked just so I can prove to myself I won’t climb back through it.
Growth, or whatever the fuck people say.
I slide the phone to the back of the shelf without looking at it and turn back to the well. “Rum and Coke, draft Bud, and whatever that guy at the end ordered,” I call over my shoulder to Aria.
“Whiskey sour,” she says, without looking up.
“Whiskey sour.” I grab the bottle.
Over at the far end of the bar, the usual group of older guys are already settled in like they’ve claimed the place by seniority alone. They’ve been coming here longer than I’ve been legally allowed to drink, and definitely longer than I’ve been working behind this bar.
“Speak of the devil,” one of them calls when he spots me. “There she is.”
I roll my eyes but can’t stop the smile before he sees it. “Easy, Boyd. You’ll throw your back out getting that excited.”
“Worth it,” Boyd shoots back without missing a beat. “You get prettier every time I see you.”
“Wow,” I deadpan. “What a coincidence. You manage to get uglier.”
The table erupts in laughter.
“Still got that mouth on her, just like that aunt of hers,” another one—Hank—adds, shaking his head.
“Yeah, and somehow, you all keep coming back for more. There’s a name for people who are into that,” I say, grabbing their usual beers without even asking.
“That’s ‘cause this is the only damn bar in town,” Boyd says.
If I’m being honest, he’s right. So, it’s not so much that they choose to be here, rather that they just stumble in every week because there’s no other place. But that’s the beauty of it.
Aunt Aria, with the help of this bar, taught me how to spot when someone’s had too much, how to shut down a situation before it gets ugly, and how to stand my ground without making it a whole thing.
When I came home, those guys were some of the first to offer to put Zach’s head on a spike for me—besides Aria and Matt—for what he put me through. Giving me support I never knew I could find in the dim lights of The Bar.
They flirt, I roll my eyes, and somehow, we all survive.
“Careful,” I warn, setting their drinks down, and giving them a stern look. “I’ll cut you off for harassment.”
“Oh, sweetheart.” Walt grins. “You love us.”
“Debatable,” I mutter, breaking into a smile as I walk away.
Aria appears at my elbow. “How many times did he call tonight?”
I glance at her sideways. “You saw.”
She resumes drying a glass. “Every single time I walk over to where you put your phone, the damn screen lights up. So, how damn many?”
“Five. Maybe six. It stopped a little while ago.”
She nods. “He got the papers; I’m sure that’s why the fucker is overreacting.”
I shrug. “I wouldn’t say he’s overreacting. He’s reacting exactly how we all knew he would.”
She sets the glass down and looks at me fully. “Good. He deserves to feel helpless.”
That’s the thing people don’t understand about divorce. I don’t want to hurt him, I just want to be myself again.
A lump forms in my throat, and I force it down, looking back at the bar. “Yeah,” I say.
Moving to your hometown after being gone since college is … a lot. Everyone knows you found a new life, a new love, and then you come back and it almost feels as if you failed.
Most people mind their business, or hear stories from the grapevine, but those brave enough to ask why you’re back, typically hear the word “divorce” and instantly change their demeanor toward me. They tilt their heads, soften their voices, and tell me everything is going to be okay.
Things may not be okay just yet, but I’m not heartbroken, even if I should be. Part of me feels guilty for how relieved I am to be myself again. It’s why I chopped my hair and dyed it pink. I just want to give myself the things I couldn’t let myself before.
Not wanting to keep talking about it, I excuse myself, grabbing a bin for dirty dishes, and head out to the floor to start rounding them all up.
“Hey,” Cash says when I circle back to the pool tables, picking up empty glasses.
“What?” I ask, throwing empty beer bottles into the trash.
“You ever take a night off?”
I snort. “You tell me. Is there a night you’ve come in that I haven’t been here?”
“Can’t say I’ve ever noticed anyone else.” He leans into the pool table and grins. “I tend to only have eyes for one bartender.”
That grin. It’s a good one, I’ll give him that—easy and a little crooked, the kind that’s gotten him out of more trouble than he deserves.
He’s got his cap on backwards, like he can’t be bothered to wear it right, and a piece of red hair sticking out from under the brim.
There’s a sleeve of ink down one arm that he’s clearly proud of and should be, with his forearm braced against the table as he leans down to meet my eye.
“That’s not the line you think it is, Thornwood.”
“No?”
“No. Because the other bartender is your mom’s best friend ... and my aunt.”
I’m not sure what I’m trying to say quite sinks in as he doesn’t take his eyes off of mine and ignores me. “I don’t remember you always being this way.”
“Like what?”
“Closed off.”
I pause, just for a second. “You don’t know me at all.” I pull the rag off my shoulder and wipe down the table next to him, like he isn’t standing there. “You were in diapers when I was on that ranch as a teen.”
“I’m not a baby anymore, Darlin’.”
There it is, that push that most the girls in town fold for. I meet his gaze and suck my teeth in. “And you’ve reminded me of that. Every. Single. Night,” I say simply.
His brows lift slightly. “So, when are you going to give me a chance?”
“Never.”
“Because you aren’t interested in me?”
“Because I’m not interested in anyone,” I correct. “Plus, even if I were, I’ve watched you walk ten different girls out that door this month alone. I’m not in line for a number.”
I expect the smirk. I don’t expect the half-second where it actually drops. “I just can’t seem to find the one, I guess.”
“I know.” I pick up his empty glass. “That’s almost the problem.”
I try not to think about how he always accepts my turning him down so fast and what that means. I have a feeling that it’s not over, but it’s not happening with anyone.
I move on before he can say anything else.
Because I don’t have the patience for that version of nostalgia. Not after spending years being looked at and barely seen.
That’s the thing these men don’t get; I’m not looking for anything. Not closure. Not a rebound. Not some “fun distraction” to prove I’ve still got it.
I don’t need to prove shit.
I just got out of something that took pieces of me I’m still trying to find again.
The last thing I want is another man thinking he gets access to me just because I exist in front of him.
So, yeah, I’m good.
More than good. I’m done.
Which is exactly what makes Cash Thornwood a problem. The boy is handsome—I’ll give him that. With that wild red hair like a warning sign for him. And he’s got that boyish smile that could melt the panties off a nun.
He doesn’t act like the guys from high school, like I owe him something. Doesn’t act like the older regulars, either. He just ... shows up every single night, reminding me I’m pretty, maybe flirting, tips well—as long as he’s not too fucked up to pay—and watches me far too much.
But he’s ten years younger than me. A fuckboy that I’ve watched take home girls like it’s his job. He does it with confidence, too, like he’s not trying to prove anything to anyone.
Then he steals glances at me like I’m not just part of the background noise of this place. But like I’m...something else.
Which is annoying and confusing, and absolutely not something I’m dealing with right now.
I notice him, but I wish I didn’t.
The night moves the way it always does—orders blurring together, names called, glasses clinking, and the sound of pool balls bouncing off each other.
Boyd tells the same story he told last week like it’s brand new.
Tyler and his friend get progressively louder until Matt gives them a look that shuts them up real quick.
Aria hums along to a song that’s been on the jukebox longer than I’ve been alive.
And me? I’m on autopilot, floating between conversations, expectations, and flashing fake smiles.
I joke. I deflect. I flirt just enough to keep tips high and boundaries intact.
Because that’s the line, right?
Give them just enough to feel seen, but not enough to think they actually know you.
I’ve gotten really good at that.
Too good, maybe.
By the time last call rolls around, my feet are killing me and my brain is finally quiet. The good kind of quiet. The kind that comes from being too busy to overthink every decision you’ve ever made.
I make my rounds, cleaning up the high-tops and booths that are empty. When I come to grab his empty glass, Cash stands. “You heading out soon?” he asks.
Ignoring his question, I ask, “Who’s getting you tonight? Dawson or Rhett?”
He smirks. “I’m touched that you care.”
“Well...?”
“Dawson should be here in five.”
“Good.” I take the empty whiskey glass. “Don’t forget to pay your tab.”
He nods while I handle dishes, and Uncle Matt cleans out the lines of the soda gun. Aunt Aria boots out the other stragglers, making sure they all have a way home.
Cash walks over, dropping a few twenties on the bar, nodding at Uncle Matt, before turning to me. “Night, Darlin’.”
Before I can say it back, he’s out the front door.
By the time we flip the last stool, it’s past one, and the bar is ready for tomorrow. Matt does a final sweep, Aria counts the register, and I restock the well for tomorrow.
Starting over at thirty-two is something many women like me have done. We realize that this isn’t the life we planned, but that we have to somehow find our footing while grieving a life we no longer have.
I was a teacher in Dallas for years, but left after the baby. The plan is to go back this fall, but for right now, I’m here, back at The Bar, trying to just put my life back together.
“Drink?” Uncle Matt asks.
I hesitate for half a second before nodding. “Yeah. One.”
Aria raises a brow. “Just one?”
“Don’t push it,” I warn, pointing at her.
She grins and puts her hands up.
Matt slides us each a beer and we stand at the bar, together. “We should toast.”
“To new beginnings,” Aria says, lifting her glass.
“To finally being free of that asshole,” Uncle Matt says.
Aunt Aria and I giggle at Uncle Matt as he’s always been a man of very few words.
These two have always been a safe haven for me.
Whenever life got rocky, they were who I sought out.
Whenever I accomplished something, they were who I wanted to tell first. They are good people who understand me better than my dad and stepmom ever have.
And certainly better than my absent mother ever wanted to.
“To my second chance,” I say simply.
They both smile. We clink.
Thank God for family.