“He could. But I’ve been trying to give that up for years now.”
Rick laughs. “I know you and your dad don’t see eye to eye. One day, you two will patch up your differences.”
“Maybe.” I clear my throat. “So can you help me out with the divorce papers?”
“Of course. I’ll have them drawn up tomorrow.” He shuffles some papers on his desk as he says offhandedly, “Getting married is a pretty big deal.”
I fidget. “It was a dumb, drunken mistake.”
“Maybe so. But it’s a pretty big mistake, even for you.” He looks up from his desk. “Does Macey feel the same way you do about this?”
“Of course. Macey and I are always on the same page.”
But as I leave his office, I flash back to last night in Vegas.
After we exchanged vows, Macey smiled at me in the back of the taxicab. “You know I love being with you. You’re the best part of my life, Logan.”
“You’re the same for me, Mace,” I said as she rested her head on my shoulder.
“And yet we date other people,” she said in a tone that almost sounded sad.
“True. But we always circle back to this.” I touched her cheek.
“Because we’re happy together.” She snuggled into my side. “Just you and me.”
I kissed her head. “Just you and me.”
In that surreal moment in a Las Vegas taxicab, despite our broken families and all the pain we’ve witnessed, a piece of Macey and me was whole. For one night, we were just an ordinary couple who wanted to be together.
28
Seven Weeks Later
* * *
Macey
* * *
Find Your Mr. Darcy. I read and reread the four words painted in gold block lettering on the wall behind The Cowherd’s jail cell.
Ugh.
I’ve been standing in front of the one hundred and fifty-year-old locked cell in The Cowherd liquor room for over five minutes, putting off the inevitable. The set of papers I need to sign are laying on my desk behind me, but I don’t sit down yet.
Instead, I clasp the worn steel bars of the jail cell with one hand and hold the large antique gold key in the other, wanting so badly to unlock the door and pretend I’m setting free a ghost I know is just make-believe, anyway. Because this year is the hundred and fiftieth anniversary of the town’s founding, it marks the supposed deadline for Jane Austen’s ghost to be liberated. So, my parents are extra antsy about what will happen to our profits after July fourth.
I turn around and cross the few steps to my desk where I put away the key and take a seat.
Time to make it official, Macey.
The divorce papers stare back at me where they’ve been sitting, gathering dust on top of my desk. I can’t believe I still haven’t signed them.
I never thought I’d get divorced. My motto has always been “Do everything the opposite of Mama,” and no divorce was at the top of that list. But so was no marriage, and I blew that to bits already, too.
I pick up a pen and then drop the cover onto my lap. Which reminds me that these cut-off shorts are the same ones I was wearing the night Logan and I married. And this half-shirt is the one he put his hands underneath three years ago. Clearly I need to buy some new clothes.
My gaze lands on the photo of the red bluffs with a brilliant blue background propped on the corner of my desk. I flip over the postcard from West Texas and reread Logan’s scrawled—Hey Bartender and Future Author, Wish you were here, the weather’s fine—for the umpteenth time. The only time I’ve heard from him, and that was weeks ago. He’s probably flying through the desert on his motorcycle right now, heading out to paint the sunset until the hot red sun disappears over the horizon.
