Page 18 of Old Fashioned
The scary part is that I’m not sure why.
All I know is something is telling me to hold onto it, and — against every moral code I’m built on — I’m considering reading it.
I know it would be wrong. I know what is inside that sealed envelope is private and important. I should hand it over to his family, over to Patrick for him to read with their lawyer.
But… curiosity is eating me alive.
And something else.
It’s hard to explain, which may be why I’ve kept it all to myself, but… I feel drawn to this document, like I found it for a reason.
It’s as if a ghost is whispering in my ear.
But maybe it’s just the devil.
Sydney
It was an awful thing, to look around the park in search of blunt objects that could knock my ex-husband out, but it was all I could do in that moment.
It was all I could focus on to get me through the bi-weekly bullshit parade I had to endure with him, where he told me all the ways I’d fucked up by leaving him, and I sat there and pretended to listen, all the while counting down the minutes until he was gone and it was just me and Paige again.
I longed for sole custody of my daughter just as much as I hoped it would never happen. I never wanted to have to speak to Randy again. I wished so badly to leave him in my rearview mirror as a mistake I wished I’d never made.
But the truth was, I wouldn’t even if I could.
Regardless of what we had been through, if it weren’t for him, my daughter wouldn’t exist — and I couldn’t imagine a life without her.
I also knew it wouldkillher to be told she’d never see her father again, because as much as he was a class-A prick to me, he was a damn good father to her and always had been.
And so, twice a week, we met in a public space to trade Paige back and forth, and I endured my ex-husband’s crap in the name of my daughter.
“Mayor Barnett approved a nine-percent raise for me,” Randy bragged, puffing out his chest as he assessed my reaction.
Of which, there was none.
“I knew he would, of course,” Randy continued, eyes skirting over the park a bit as if he was still on duty before they found me again. “I mean, after all the trouble he’d found himself in with the Scooters… all the drama with his daughter not marrying that politician…” Randy clicked his tongue. “It’s been a mess to clean up.”
I blinked, tracing my ex’s features and remembering a time when I found him attractive. I could close my eyes and go back in time to high school, to the older, more-popular boy noticing me. And though it was a bit foggy now, I could still remember when he’d flash that smile of his — a dimple on each cheek — and I’d melt into a puddle on the tile floor. I used to look into those eyes and find safety and warmth. I used to run to those arms bulging out of his uniform as if they were put on this Earth only to protect me and hold me and make me feel loved.
I used to look into those green eyes and see my soulmate. I used to run my hands through that dark, coarse hair and get so turned on I could barely wait to get him home and undressed.
There was a time when I didn’t even notice that his skin was white where mine was brown, a time when I thought it didn’t matter.
Now, when I looked at that man, I didn’t see a man at all.
I saw a monster.
Randy had never been obtuse in the years he abused me. The times he did hit me were few and far between, and usually spawned by a fight that I could easily look back on later and say I’d played a part in. It was the control he’d exercised over me that had been the real abuse, and my skin crawled the longer I stood next to him, knowing that as free as I felt, I’d never truly be free of that control he had.
“I’m sure it has been,” I finally responded. “Especially since the police department is havingsucha hard time shutting down Patrick Scooter’s little underground casino. Seems like if y’all could just do that, all of this mess would be gone.” I tapped my finger to my lips. “But I’m sure it’s not that easy, though, huh?”
Randy’s mouth flattened. I was mocking him, and he knew it. My ex-husband was so elbow-deep in the dirty political shit of this town that he had proverbial flies hovering around him in a cloud — and it had been that way since he first joined the department.
It was always my theory for why he’d moved up so quickly in rank.
They knew he’d play dirty for them.
Patrick Scooter was the son of the founder of the whiskey distillery that Stratford, Tennessee, was built on. His father, Robert, had apparently been a stand-up guy. But Patrick? Well, I had my opinions about how he ran his business — how he ran this entiretown. And the saddest part was that he didn’t work alone, because hecouldn’twork alone. If Mayor Barnett and my ex-husband would have joined forces, they could have easily taken him down.
