Between, Georgia by Joshilyn Jackson

mailed back. I decided to pay for the sheriff ’s office to send a process server, but before they could serve him, he’d disappeared on a cross-country bar tour with his ska band. When he did arrive home, I was waiting on his stoop with the acknowledgment and a pen, and the second after he signed it, I fell into bed with him. After that, I’d personally driven it to our lawyer’s office, scared that if I left it in Jonno’s mailbox, he’d help it find its way back out and into the trash. It was highly unlikely that he’d spring into helpful action now.
    I grabbed my purse and stood up. Amber stood up, too. I glanced at my watch. “I’m going to have to call this a no-show,”
    I said. I walked across the restaurant, weaving my way quickly between the tables.
    Amber trailed after me. “You’re leaving?”
    “Yes. Call the agency if you want to reschedule.”
    “You said you would wait thirty minutes. It’s only been a little more than twenty.” Her voice was strident with outrage. “What’s going on?”
    “Family emergency.” I was almost to the door, but she ran around me, trying to block me.
    “What happened?” she asked. “Is it bad?”
    I sidestepped around her and went out, not answering. She followed me outside; I could hear her clicky-clacking along behind me in her ridiculous, strappy sandals. She stopped as I picked up the pace and dogtrotted to the parking lot. I unlocked the Mustang and got in. As I pulled out of the lot, I could see her standing by the entrance, her backpack a bright blotch of yellow at her feet. Her eyebrows were lowered, and she had her cell phone out, one stiff finger violently punching at the numbers. Calling her daddy-or-fiancé to complain that I left six minutes early, no doubt.
    Well, she could ask the agency to send someone else next time.
    I hoped she would. Her thrilled and horrified face would be forever linked in my mind with this awful day, the awful dog. I would be as happy as whole herds of clams to never see her face again.
    Jonno had left my apartment by the time I got home. I called his house, but no one answered. They sometimes turned off the ringer when the band was practicing and then forgot to turn it back on for days. I told myself that the urgency I felt to find him was so I could try to get him to schedule us a new court date, but I wasn’t sure I was buying my story. My hands were shaking as I dialed, and half of me wanted nothing more than some arms to put around me.
    I hung up after nine rings and dialed Ona Crabtree at home, but I got her machine. The sooner I could talk to her, the more likely it was that I could preempt whatever mayhem she was setting in motion. I left my cell phone number and added, “Please don’t do anything, anything, until you see me.” I tried her at Crabtree Gas and Parts but got only her youngest son, Tucker. He promised to have Ona call me back, but I wasn’t counting on it.
    He sounded stoned out of his tiny mind.
    I called my agency and cleared my work schedule and then went next door and enlisted my neighbor’s teenager to take care of Lewis, the cat. Lewis was technically Jonno’s, but much like the size-twelve red Converse high-tops under my bed and the pair of Jockey briefs in my top drawer, Lewis hadn’t quite moved out of the apartment yet.
    I called Jonno again as I got ready to go, but no one picked up.
    I knew he had that late gig at the Rox Box, but I needed to be on the road well before then. I went down to my car, made sure the top was securely up, and got in. I meant to drive straight to the highway, but on the way to 78, I found myself making a turn that would take me to Boyd’s house.
    Boyd was X. Machina’s percussionist. Not the drummer. He got cranky if you called him a drummer. Jonno had been crashing at Boyd’s for about a year now, ever since I kicked him out.
    At this point it was safe to say he was living there. Jonno’s Impala wasn’t parked in front, but I stopped anyway. I made