Fighting For Our Forever

by Heidi McLaughlin

  Foster pounds on the door, yelling that my time is up. I tug my white dress shirt down a bit, closer to my wrist, to hide the tattoos I have. I need to make the best first impression, even though the cards are already stacked against me. If Judge Harvey can see that I’m not the same person I was when I was seventeen, maybe he’ll throw this whole thing out. As much as I want to remain positive, I have a feeling that whatever the judge can throw at me, he will. Saul Jr. is about to earn his money.

  As soon as I open the door, Foster is at attention. He motions for me to step in front of him. “I’m not going to cuff you.”

  “I appreciate that.”

  Instead, he grabs a hold of my bicep and squeezes it as hard as he can. After Harrison took me under his wing, one of the pieces of advice he gave me was to stay strong and healthy. He introduced me to his brother-in-law Xander, who put together a workout regimen for me and the band. With being on tour, it’s hard to get a good workout in, but we always try. Elle has made sure the bus has a few weights, mostly five and ten pound dumbbells, ankle weights, and yoga mats to help us out.

  The sun is bright, and the air is warm. I tilt my face toward the sky, close my eyes and breathe in deeply. “After today, this will be your last time seeing the sun for a while.”

  Shaking my head, I turn and look over my shoulder at Foster. “At best, I’ll get a night, maybe a couple in jail, even though I didn’t do anything wrong.”

  Foster laughs. “We have a hungry new State attorney who’s trying to send a message to all you punks. You’re looking at a year minimum,” he says without a hint of laughter. I know him well enough to know he’s serious. He believes I’m going to get a year in the clink. I wasn’t scared after meeting with my lawyer, but I am now.

  The ride over to the courthouse takes a whole three minutes. It took longer to park than it did to get here… we probably would’ve saved on emissions had we just walked. That’s not Foster’s style though. He loves the fanfare, the pomp and circumstance of people stopping and staring. I’m willing to bet the guy would love to bellow out, “dead man walking” if given half the chance. Not in Prineville or Bailey though. These are the two dullest towns in America.

  Inside the courtroom, Saul is at the table waiting for me. He smiles and holds the swinging door open so I can pass through. Foster stands off to the side, hands clasped in front of him, and the court reporter is setting up her odd little machine. The door opens behind me, but I turn around to take a look at this legal eagle that is hell bent on ruining my life. Instead, I wait until he or she comes into view. Once he does, I study him hard as he puts his briefcase down and memories flood my mind. The last time I saw this kid, he was a pimply, lanky, clinger who followed Whiskey and I everywhere because of her best friend, Dhara. We weren’t friends then. In fact, I couldn’t stand him.

  What does regret feel like? That’s what I’m asking myself right now because I’m sure as shit scared of what’s about to happen. The breakfast I didn’t eat is threatening to come up as Judge Harvey enters the courtroom. The bailiff tells us what to do: Stand, sit, turn your head and cough as I squeeze the life out of your nuts. Okay, maybe not that dramatic, but that’s how I feel right now.

  “Mr. Oakes, the floor is yours.”

  He stands, scooting the chair back with his legs as he does, buttoning his jacket and stepping out from behind the table. “Your Honor, Mr. Ballard was picked up early Sunday morning for an outstanding warrant for trespassing and vandalism, issued by yourself on November the thirtieth, two-thousand-ten. Sheriff Foster apprehended the suspect as the vehicle he was traveling in crossed the county border. Mr. Ballard resisted arrest, although only temporary.”

  “Mr. Ballard, how do you plead?”

  I stand and face the man of the house Whiskey teepeed. “Not guilty.”

  He scoffs. “Mr. Ballard, are you sure that’s the plea you want to enter?”

  This time Saul stands and clears his throat. “Your Honor, with all due respect, my client’s plea is what it is and should not be questioned.”

  Judge Harvey points his gavel at Saul; his eyes are menacing, and I feel my life starting to slip away. “Mr. Oakes, what’s the State’s request?”

  “Remand, Your Honor. Mr. Ballard has proven that he’s a flight risk.”

  “I agree,” Harvey says, sighing as if he’s sad for me when this is nothing but a joke.

  “Your Honor, my client was not aware of the outstanding warrant. He has been a pillar of the community where he lives, volunteering his time at the local high school, teaching music. Keeping him locked up over a misdemeanor is unethical, and there isn’t a previous case tried in the United States that will support a decision of this nature.”

  “I will decide how things go in my county, Mr. Russo.”

  “Judge, can you please tell me when the incident occurred?” Russo asks. He looks pissed.

  Harvey looks at Fletcher, who is flipping pages back and forth in his book. “Mr. Oakes?”

  “Um… the incident occurred in July of the same year.”

  “Your Honor, according to my records, Mr. Ballard was in Nashville, Tennessee when this warrant was issued, and therefore had no knowledge of its existence. I’d also like to add that if the incident he’s being charged with took place in July, charges should’ve been brought forth immediately. This is a small town and from what I understand, your house was and continues to be an easy target, and to this date, you have not brought charges against any of the other unruly teenagers.” Saul pauses and stares down the judge. “I request my client be released, without bond, and that the charges be dropped.”

  “Mr. Oakes?”

  “The States position has not changed.”

  “And neither has mine. We’ll move this to trial. However, Mr. Ballard you are free, but you cannot leave the county. You will surrender your passport with the clerk on your way out.” He slams down his gavel while Saul’s yelling at him, citing different laws. His words are falling on deaf ears as Harvey disappears behind the door.

  “Small town bullshit,” Saul says to Fletcher who is doing his best to ignore him.

  I turn to Elle, who has been sitting behind me. She doesn’t look happy. In fact, she’s downright pissed.

  “I’m sorry,” I tell her, but she doesn’t respond.

  6

  Jaime

  Evelyn sits down in front of me, and hands me her brush. “I’d like a ponytail with a braid.” She smiles a toothless smile at me through the mirror. Last week she lost her first tooth and has told the entire town about the tooth fairy coming to see her, but only after she cleaned her room. I may have gone on about how even fairies need to land in clean spaces, so they don’t step on baby dolls or Legos. While Legos can be fun, in the middle of the night when your child is crying and you need to get to them, stepping on one unleashes a string of curse words no one should ever hear.

  “What kind?” I ask her. “Do you want me to braid your ponytail or do you want me to French braid your hair half way?”

  She places her finger on her temple, tapping her face. This is her thinking face. I wish I could say she learned it from me, but I copy her now. “I think two braids that start here,” she points to the spot on her scalp, “and two ponies here.” She finishes by touching the back of her neck.

  “You got it, princess.” Evelyn is my one constant, my reason for turning my life around. When I found out I was pregnant with her, my life was circling the drain. The moment I peed on that stupid little stick, I was torn. I wanted the little bean growing inside of me, but I also couldn’t take care of myself.

  “Mommy, where did you learn to braid?”

  “Mommies know everything,” I tell her. Someday, when she’s older, I’ll introduce her to the world of YouTube. I swear I could kiss every single YouTuber and their DIY videos out there. They have saved me a million times over, especially when she comes home with notes from her teacher that it’s wacky hair week and the designs should be as crazy as the child want
s. My child and her imagination always exceed my abilities.

  “And what about Daddies?”

  My hand slips a bit when she says the D word. “Daddies know a lot too.”

  “What does my daddy know?”

  “Hmm, let’s see…” I pause and step back to make sure her braid is even with the first one I did before securing her hair with a rubber band. “Daddies know almost everything Mommies do.”

  Evelyn sighs. “I wonder what my daddy knows.”

  Me too, kiddo. Me too.

  I lean down and kiss the top of her head. We make eye contact through the mirror and both of us grin, although she can’t see my smile, my eyes light up just the same. “I love you, baby girl.”

  “Love you too, Mommy.” She gets down from my stool and runs out of my room. From down the hall she yells, “Do you think I could drive today? I’ve been working on my skills with Grandpa.”

  Sitting on the edge of my bed, I hang my head. My dad is the worst, in the best way. When I told him I was pregnant, I thought for sure he was going to launch a State by State manhunt rather than respecting my wishes that her father be left alone. My dad stepped up and took on a fatherly roll with Evelyn, and it’s only been as of late that she talks about her father, thanks to kindergarten.

  “So, can I?”

  My little priss is standing in my doorway, with her backpack on and her hand on her hip. I shake my head.

  “Why not? Grandpa says I’m good to go.”

  “Maybe in his field, with him helping, but you’re not driving my car.”

  “When?” she asks.

  “When you’re sixteen and have passed Driver’s Ed class.”

  Evelyn throws her hands up and stalks down the hall. I want to laugh because I love her antics. I love how dramatic and expressive she is. When she’s out of sight, I cover my mouth and try to stifle the giggles. She makes my world complete, bringing joy when I’m upset, and always knowing what to say to change my day around.

  On the way to school, she sings along to the radio. I know I should sensor what she hears, but I don’t. If that makes me a bad Mom, so be it. I’d rather let her listen and discuss with her what things mean than hide behind some veiled curtain. From the day she was born, I vowed to be as honest as I can with her, and when she asks where her father is, I tell her the truth… I don’t know.

  During the week, I work days at the bar, working around Evelyn’s school schedule. The flexibility is nice because when the opportunity arises it affords me the time to be a room mother. I know there will be a day when she doesn’t want me there handing out snacks and helping with school parties. For now, I’m going to soak it up while maintaining that cool Mom edge.

  By the time I run my banking errands, it’s shortly after ten when I pull into the parking lot. Another hour and the bar will open, serving lunch before switching over for dinner at five. That’s when I’ll pass the reins to the evening staff and head home to cook dinner. Thankfully, my mom is retired and picks Evelyn up from school and gets her started on her homework. My parents have been lifesavers when it comes to kicking ass as a single parent. If it weren’t for them, I don’t know how I’d survive.

  After I unlock the door, I flick the lights on and pull the chairs off the tables. It’s a bit backwards, but so is life. The line cook has been here for two hours already, preparing food and making sure the grills are heated to the right temperature. I used to come in at nine, but it didn’t make much sense. If the night crew does their job, opening is a breeze.

  The other waitress on today is Mary. She’ll take most of the dining room, leaving me to handle the bar and a couple of the tables nearby. She’s a college student working to pay her way through night school, it’s the least I can do for her. For the most part, the lunch crowd is steady. We have a lot of regulars, who don’t always venture far from their normal eating habits. A couple of years ago, we did a huge social media push to put Bailey’s Bar and Grill on the map, hoping to increase tourism business. Even got the State to add us to the signs along the highway so people knew where to find us. I think, for the most part, it’s paid off, but we can’t be sure unless we ask each new person where they’re from or how they heard of us.

  “I just had a total hottie sit down at seven, but I have to pee and fix my hair. Can you get his drink order?” Mary asks. She’s a good waitress and hates to keep people waiting, especially guys. She tells me that she’s waiting for Mr. Right and swears she’ll meet him here. I don’t believe in that hokie crap, at least not anymore.

  As I approach the table, the guy in a dark suit is staring down at the table. From the slump of his shoulders, he looks dejected. “Your wait…” my words fall short as a familiar pair of rich brown eyes look at me. My heart is on the floor. My stomach bobs up and down in my throat. I can’t swallow, can’t think, can’t see clearly because if I could, my mind would comprehend who’s in front of me. My mouth opens to say something, anything, but words fail.

  The bar is packed. People are standing shoulder to shoulder trying to dance, while I struggle to weave in and out of them in an attempt to get to the stage. This is my last night in Nashville, my last shot at trying to find Ajay.

  I finally find an opening and shoot through the gap. The stage is within view, but I can’t see who’s drumming. I pray that it isn’t him just as much as I hope it is. He swore he’d be gone weeks, not months. I want him to come home. It’s time for him to come home and be the husband he promised he would be. It takes a lot of shoving, a bit of feet stepping, but I’m at the stage. From the side it doesn’t look like Ajay. For one, he has a tattoo on his arm and the Ajay I know and love would never ink his body like this.

  When the band finishes, the singer tells the crowd everyone’s name. Ajay Ballard on drums. It’s loud in here, but I’m sure that’s what he said. I don’t hesitate and step onto the platform, heading right toward him. I’m within arm’s reach when someone grabs me and tells me that I have to leave.

  “Ajay,” I yell as loud as I can, but he doesn’t hear me. I scream his name as I thrash against the man who is holding me back. “Let me go, he’s my husband!”

  “That’s what they all say, sweetheart.”

  Finally, he looks in my direction and his face pales, but he doesn’t move to help me or tell this goon that I’m his wife. “Ajay!” I call his name again and that seems to spur him into action. He comes forward and tells the bouncer that I’m with him. He finally lets go, but by the look on Ajay’s face, he doesn’t look happy.

  “What are you doing here, Whiskey?”

  I feel my eyes bug out at his question. “Um, I’m sorry that I came all this way to track down my husband.”

  Ajay places his hand on my waist and directs me toward a dark hallway, through a door, down another hallway and finally outside to an alley.

  “What’s going on?” I ask him.

  He steps away and puts his hands into his pockets. His head shakes slowly, back and forth. “Jamie…” The tone in his voice tells me all I need to know. My marriage is over.

  I reach into my bag, now thankful that my father forced me to see an attorney. I refused to believe Ajay would do this to me, to us. Not with our history. Not after we… not ever. I hand the papers to him. “Sign these.”

  “What are they?”

  “Divorce papers.”

  He looks at me and doesn’t say anything as he pulls a pen out of his back pocket. He scribbles his name on the three marked pages and hands them back to me without a single word. I wait for him to say something, but he doesn’t. He stares at the ground for the longest time before pushes off the wall and kisses me on the cheek. “This is for the best, Whiskey girl. I love you,” he says as he leaves me standing in the alley. The only noise I can make out is the slamming of the door behind me.

  Someone brushes against me, muttering that they’re sorry. I look for the voice to find a beautiful brunette now sitting across the table. Ajay immediately turns his attention toward her, and a small smile
plays on his lips. I realize I can stand here and think about how much I hate him, or I can do my job.

  “What can I get you to drink?” I ask in a sugary sweet, fake as fuck voice.

  “Whiskey,” he says.

  “You’re not drinking,” his babe of a girlfriend or wife says.

  Ajay shakes his head. “That’s her name,” he points at me, but I scoff.

  “Sorry, my name’s Jamie. I’ll send your waitress over in a minute to get your order.”

  It’s been years, far too many to count, since I’ve heard him call me by my nickname, a name he gave me to tease me because my parents named me Jameson, after my dad. There were times when I longed to hear him say my name, desperate times when I would drive to Nashville on a bender hoping to find him, just to hear his voice say my name the way he used to when we were together. It took years of therapy to get over my obsession with him, and now here he is, in my bar calling me that name once again.

  I tell Mary that her table wasn’t ready and head to the back to call Dhara. She picks up on the first ring and asks me what’s wrong and whether Evelyn is okay. “He’s here, D.”

  “Who?”

  “Who? Who, really? Ajay, that’s who! And he brought his wife or girlfriend in. Why would he do that?”

  She jostles her phone and clears her throat. “Sweetie, listen. Fletcher called me this morning. Your father arrested Ajay early Sunday morning on an outstanding warrant. That’s why his band was in yesterday. Fletcher is the prosecuting attorney on this, and Harvey is trying to throw the book at Ajay.”