3. Divorce

6 months later

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"Jordan? What the fuck do you mean by divorce... After we've been married for three freaking years with a two-year-old son, you're asking for a divorce? Why... Why? What is the problem? We've never had any issues, I've been taking care of you."

Ashley continues to rant and yell, her hands flying around like she’s physically trying to swat the word ‘divorce’ out of the air. She picks up the paper I handed her a few minutes ago and stares at it like it's a joke she can laugh away. But it’s not. I’d thought long and hard about this. If I want to avoid ending up back in the same situation, if I want to survive this second chance I’ve been given, I need to make sure she’s out of my life...for good.

And Billy?

I'll handle him in my own damn way.

I sat there on the couch in the living room, pretending to scroll through my phone like her voice wasn’t ringing in my ears. I even tried to check tomorrow’s schedule like it wasn’t the weekend. Maybe if I ignored her long enough, she’d vanish. But of course, that was wishful thinking.

"Answer me, Jordan! Can you live without your son?" she barked, voice shrill and sharp like she knew where to stab with her words.

"Chris is staying with me, Ashley," I said, finally standing up. My head was starting to throb again, and her voice wasn’t helping.

"The heck do you mean?" she hissed, walking toward me now. A strand of her brown hair fell on her face but she didn’t bother to push it back. "I'll leave my son with you? Hah... you're delusional, Jordan. That will never happen. I am his mother."

"Ashley. You know this isn’t working."

"What exactly is not working, Jordan Blake? Huh? What is it? We've been happily married... I—"

"You’ve been cheating on me with my—" I paused, catching myself. Not yet. "You say you're going to an event and end up not returning or you return drunk? You think that’s a marriage? Hell, maybe the whole thing was a damn whim to you."

I didn’t plan to say it like that. I’d wanted it to be quiet, clean. I hand her the paper, she signs, we move on. But Ashley never makes anything easy. She never did, and clearly, she still won’t.

"What?" she flinched for a second but her expression quickly hardened. "Now you accuse me of infidelity?" she bawled, her eyes wide, hands clenched so tight her knuckles turned white.

A sharp pain pierced through the right side of my head again. Fuck. I winced. My eyes twitched as I tried to stay upright.

I grabbed the edge of the chair beside me to steady myself and started walking toward the door. My hands slipped into my suit pocket where I kept the pills the neurologist prescribed. Took one out, threw it into my mouth, dry swallowing. I’ve been managing the migraines since I came back, but they seem to hit harder when I’m near her.

"I'm talking to you, Jordan! Let me tell you, this shit can never happen. Divorce my foot!"

I didn’t look back. Her voice faded behind me as I stepped outside, the night air hitting me like a blanket of calm. I climbed into my car, let the AC blast me in the face, and threw my head back. After a few minutes, the pain dulled.

7 p.m.

No way I was going back inside.

I turned on the engine and drove out. I wasn’t sure where I was going, just knew I needed to be anywhere but there. I found myself parking in front of a bar downtown, the neon light humming above the door like it had no worries. Friday night crowd was already in full swing.

Inside was just as chaotic—loud music, the clinking of glasses, laughter, shouting, heartbreak in liquid form. People clustered together in fake happiness or numbness or whatever they were chasing.

I took a seat at the bar, the wood beneath my arms sticky from spilled liquor and time. I didn’t care.

"Whiskey, please," I called the bartender, a lanky guy in a white shirt and black bow tie. He nodded without saying a word and turned away. Came back with a bottle of Jameson and a glass.

Good choice. He knows a good drink.

I poured the first glass full, downed it in one go, and slammed it on the table.

"Ahhh..." I muttered, gritting my teeth at the burn. It hit hard. It’s been years since I tasted anything strong—years in the future, and now here it is again, burning like it’s new.

"That must feel horrible. Is it your first shot?" a calm baritone voice came from beside me.

I turned and saw a man, early thirties maybe, wearing a blue striped suit. I didn’t notice him when I sat down, but yeah... someone had been there.

"Nah. You never get used to that harsh burn of Jameson," I replied with a weak smile, pouring myself another glass. He raised his own for a toast. We don’t even know each other. Why’s he being friendly?

"That’s true," he said. "You may want to tone down the speed you’re gulping it with, though."

I ignored that and drank another shot, again in one go.

"Work or home?" he asked.

I turned, squinting a little. “What?”

"Which one is screwing you over—work or home?"

He was a talker. One of those guys. But not the annoying type. Just... curious.

"You look like the entire world is crashing on you. Let it out and be free," he added, watching me closely like he could read more than my face.

"And what makes you think I’ll be telling you my family problem?" I asked, not really annoyed, just tired.

"Hmm. Let’s see..." he arched a brow dramatically. "Because I don’t know you, and we probably won’t ever see each other again."

That... made sense. More than it should’ve.

I stared at my glass, swirling the whiskey around like I was chasing answers inside it.

"I think my wife is cheating on me with my brother," I said slowly. Just a suspicion for now, not something I can prove—not yet anyway. But I know what happened before, and if I don’t do something, history will repeat itself. I’m not about to die again because I hesitated.

"Anyway, bottom line is... I need a lawyer."