Page 2 of Cold Shoulder, Hot Take (Seattle Puckaneers #2)

“Evan’s lawyer is pushing hard for immediate resolution,” she says without preamble. “Says if we’re postponing again, they’ll petition for primary custody. Using your ‘erratic scheduling’ as evidence.”

Cold fury sweeps through me. “My ‘erratic scheduling’ is picking up our sick child from school. Something he hasn’t done once in the past year.”

“I know,” Jessica’s voice is tight. “But Judge Willis tends to favor stability. A full-time police officer with a regular schedule versus a self-employed voice actor with variable hours...”

The unspoken reality settles like lead. In the eyes of the family court system, Evan’s job makes him reliable. Respectable. My career—placed on the back burner during our marriage and then built around the flexibility to care for our children—makes me look unstable.

“What are our options?”

Jessica sighs, the sound of someone delivering unwelcome news for the twentieth time that day. “We can push for another date, but it weakens our position. Or we can proceed today, with the terms we’ve discussed, and I’ll represent your interests.”

“And if I’m not there?”

“Then Evan controls the narrative. Again.”

I pull into the school parking lot, spot Tyson’s small form hunched on a bench outside the nurse’s office through the glass doors. Head down, arms wrapped around his stomach, the fluorescent lights making his skin look sallow.

“Tell Evan,” I say slowly, “that I’ll sign the agreement as is, with the custody schedule we proposed. If he contests it, we go to court, and I bring every recording, every text message, every piece of evidence I’ve collected.”

“He’ll say it’s blackmail.”

“It’s the truth.”

“The truth is messy, Golda. And expensive. And traumatic for everyone, especially the kids.”

She isn’t wrong. A contested divorce, allegations of emotional abuse, character witnesses, evaluations.

.. the children would be pulled into it all.

Their father’s carefully constructed public image versus their mother’s word.

The thought of Tyson and Blythe sitting through interviews with court-appointed psychologists, answering questions about daddy’s “scary face,” makes me physically ill.

“One hour,” I decide. “Tell them I’ll be there in one hour. Stall however you can.”

I hang up before she can object, rush inside, and kneel before my son.

“Mom,” Tyson says, relief flooding his pale face. “I threw up in math. Twice.”

“I heard, buddy.” I press my lips to his forehead—warm but not alarmingly so. “Let’s get you home.”

“Is Dad mad that I’m sick?” he asks as I gather his backpack.

The question—so telling in its assumption that his illness would be an inconvenience, a disruption deserving anger—hardens my resolve.

“No one’s mad,” I assure him. “And you know what? I think this calls for couch time with ginger ale and your choice of movie.”

His small smile is worth every complication.

“Are you sure this is a good idea?” Jessica asks as I settle Tyson on the small couch in the corner of the conference room. “Bringing a sick child to a divorce mediation isn’t exactly conventional.”

“Neither is being a single parent with no backup,” I reply, making sure he has his tablet, crackers, and a small trash can within reach.

Her expression softens briefly before returning to professional neutrality. “Let me know if he needs anything.”

Ten minutes later, the door opens. Evan’s face registers first surprise at seeing me, then shock at spotting Tyson, then the smooth mask of reasonableness he wears for public consumption.

“How thoughtful of you to join us,” he says, voice dripping with condescension.

“Our son has a stomach virus,” I reply, taking my seat beside Jessica. “How are we progressing?”

Evan’s eyes narrow slightly—the only tell that he’s irritated by my composure. He prefers me flustered and apologetic. It’s easier for him to control me that way.

“We were just discussing the custody schedule,” Jessica says, sliding papers toward me. “Mr. Adler has agreed to the arrangement we proposed, with some modifications to the holiday calendar.”

I skim the document, alert for traps. The core is intact, primary physical custody with me, alternating weekends with Evan, provisions for his irregular work schedule. The standard visitation template, with none of the excessive oversight or restrictions he’d initially demanded.

It seems... reasonable. Too reasonable.

“What’s the catch?” I ask, looking directly at Evan.

His smile doesn’t reach his eyes. “No catch, Golda. Just what’s best for our children.”

Translation: he’s found a different angle. Something that doesn’t appear in these papers.

“And the financial settlement?”

Jessica hands me another document. “As discussed. The house sells, proceeds split. You keep your retirement account, he keeps his pension. Child support per the state calculator based on your respective incomes.”

Again, surprisingly straightforward. I’d been prepared for a fight over every penny, every asset.

“I just want this over with,” Evan says, his voice taking on that wounded tone he’s perfected. “For the kids’ sake.”

The lawyer in the expensive suit nods approvingly. Jessica looks cautiously optimistic.

But I know Evan too well.

As we sign the papers my hands are steady despite everything, but I’m cataloging the possibilities.

He might be planning to immediately petition for a modification.

Or to make the custody exchanges so difficult I’d eventually relent to his preferences.

Or to use his position to monitor me, to find some pretext for claiming I’m an unfit mother.

Whatever it is, I’ll face it when it comes. For now, my signature on these papers is one step closer to freedom.

“I’ll file these with the court tomorrow,” Jessica says, gathering the documents. “With the judge’s approval, which I anticipate receiving promptly, your divorce will be final within thirty days.”

Thirty days. After a year of separation, of untangling finances and negotiating schedules and fielding Evan’s alternating tactics of charm and intimidation, thirty more days seems both eternal and instantaneous.

Evan stands, straightening his uniform jacket. Always in uniform for these meetings—a silent reminder of his authority, his standing in the community.

“You brought him here. Sick.” His voice carries just enough judgment for the lawyers to hear, his eyes flicking to Tyson huddled on the couch. “If he’s too ill for school, why expose him to a stressful legal proceeding?”

And there it is. The concern trolling, the subtle implication of maternal negligence.

“Because I don’t have the luxury of a support system,” I say evenly. “Or the option to simply not show up.”

His jaw tightens. “If you needed help, you could have called me.”

We both know that isn’t true. That he would have used it as another reason to delay, to control.

“He’ll likely be fine by Friday,” I say, redirecting to his actual concern. “But if he’s still ill, we can reevaluate the weekend visit.”

“I want hourly updates on his condition. Temperature readings, food intake, medications.”

The control, slipping into place in new forms. No longer my husband who can demand my location, my attention, or my compliance—but still attempting to dictate terms of my live and to establish dominance in this new arrangement.

“I’ll update you if his condition changes,” I reply. “As any reasonable co-parent would expect.”

His eyes flick to where the lawyers are still engaged in conversation across the room. “Clearly your definition of ‘reasonable parenting’ includes dragging sick children to legal proceedings.”

The dig is delivered too quietly for others to hear, but loud enough to make my cheeks burn. I refuse to take the bait.

“Mommy?” Tyson’s small voice comes from the couch. “Can I have more water?”

I start to move, but Evan is already crossing to our son, all concern and attentiveness now that others might observe. Our son who’d asked if daddy was mad that he’d gotten sick. Our son who still flinches at sudden movements.

“Hey, buddy,” he says, kneeling by the couch. “Not feeling so hot today, huh?”

Thirty more days and I’ll finally be free.

GOLDA: One Year After

The neon sign buzzes and flickers, casting alternating shadows across the sidewalk.

Rainy City Ink is neither the most upscale tattoo parlor in Seattle nor the most intimidating, occupying some middle ground that seemed approachable when I researched it online.

Now, standing before its glass door with rain misting my face, I’m not so sure.

The bell jangles as I push inside, announcing my presence to the two artists and lone receptionist. All three look up, the artists scanning me with the quick assessment of people who make their living reading what others want permanently etched into their skin.

“Hi,” I say, my voice steadier than I feel. “I have a one o’clock appointment? With Jamie?”

“That’s me.” A woman with a sleeve of geometric patterns and close-cropped blue hair stands from her station. “Golda, right?”

I nod, grateful she doesn’t offer to shake hands since mine are clammy with nerves.

“First tattoo?” she asks, gesturing me toward her chair.

“Is it that obvious?”

Her smile is kind but not patronizing. “Most of us remember our first. Come on back and tell me what you’re thinking.”

I’d emailed a simple design—thirteen small tally marks—but hadn’t explained their significance. Hadn’t known how to capture their meaning in a message to a stranger.

“Inside of my left elbow,” I say, shedding my coat and rolling up my sleeve. “Just those lines. Exactly as in the picture.”

Jamie studies the reference on her tablet, then my arm. “Simple enough. Any significance to the placement?”

My throat tightens unexpectedly. A year since the divorce was finalized. Two since I left. Three since Tyson’s birthday party when I made that first secret recording.