Page 3 of Unruly

“Start at the fence line?” I ask, finally.

“Sure. Let’s get this day over with,” Dawson says.

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.