Alpha Mate at the Gas Station

2. Ex-Wife

Clocking in felt mechanical — swipe, beep, done — like even the system didn’t care whether I existed or not, as long as I showed up. I tucked the yellow folder under my arm and walked to the tiny back room where the employee lockers sat lined up like metal ribs.

My locker door creaked when I opened it. The sound was familiar, grounding. Almost everything I owned lived inside this thin sheet of metal now — folded shirts, my glasses, a spare sweater, a brush with broken teeth, cheap deodorant, and whatever food I could afford that week. I’d even considered buying one of the prepaid burner phones we sold behind the counter. Something small. Something quiet. Something mine.

I was getting divorced.

And I was going to be in debt again.

But at least I wouldn’t still be chained to the same man who could smile while he was breaking me.

I closed my eyes for a second and breathed through the ache. Just a few more months. Just survive.

I shoved the folder gently into the top shelf of my locker, placed my glasses on my face, then shut the metal door with a hollow clang. Straightening my black polo shirt, I noticed the little worn holes forming at the hem — tiny frayed reminders of how thin everything in my life had become. My jeans pinched at my wide waist a little, but they still fit. That was something.

I raked my fingers through my reddish brown pixie-cut hair, hoping it looked less like I’d slept in the woods — which I had — and more like I’d meant it to be messy. At least I hadn’t forgotten my glasses this time. They lived in my locker now, tucked into a plastic case like a fragile treasure.

Most of my life was stored in here now.

The rest I carried with me — usually in the form of exhaustion.

I’d been saving every spare dollar for a used car, a fresh bank account, a chance at normal again. But now those savings had already been mentally handed over to a lawyer I hadn’t even met yet.

I took a breath and headed toward the bathroom first. Dominic was at the coffee station, changing filters and refilling grounds. The scent of fresh coffee mingled with gasoline and cleaner — a strange comfort I’d grown used to.

“I’ll be right back. I have to use the bathroom,” I said, my voice quieter than I meant it to be.

He looked up, met my gaze, and gave me a little thumbs-up — casual, warm, human. Something inside me loosened at that. I smiled back before I could stop myself, then slipped into the bathroom.

The mirror did not go easy on me.

My hair stuck out in defiant little tufts. My face looked pale and tired, with shadows under my eyes like bruises of sleepless nights. My lips were dry. My skin dull. No makeup. No softness. Just… reality.

And Dominic had seen me like this.

Heat burned up my cheeks, but not in the same sweet way his smile had caused — this time it was embarrassment. Shame. I pressed my palms to the cool sink and bowed my head.

Of course this is what he saw.

A walking disaster holding divorce papers.

Not a woman. Just a problem.

I swallowed hard and blinked back the sting in my eyes. Today was not the day to fall apart again.

But then I remembered the way his voice had sounded — firm, protective, almost offended on my behalf. The way he’d looked at me not with pity… but with respect.

And for the first time in too long, a tiny spark in my chest whispered:

Maybe I wasn’t invisible after all.

Raking my fingers through my hair, I tried to tame it into something that looked intentional instead of desperate. I slipped my glasses back on like they could hide me — like the frames were some kind of shield. At least Dominic had been kind. Respectful. That alone made my flat chest ache in a way I wasn’t ready for.

Maybe… maybe he could help me find a cheap attorney. Someone who could explain what to do so I didn’t drown completely.

But we’d just met.

Was it fair to ask anything of him?

He was handsome. Steady. The type of man whose presence filled a room without even trying. And he already knew more than enough about my wreck of a life. What if he thought I was pathetic? What if he didn’t want to be dragged into my mess?

I let out a breath that trembled on the way out.

I had nothing left. No backup plan. No safety net. All I had was the thin thread of courage I kept tying back together every time life snapped it in half.

So I decided — just this once — to risk hoping someone might help me.

When I stepped out of the bathroom, she was already there.

A gorgeous blonde — flawless makeup, manicured nails, tight leather red tub dress, high black heels, glossy hair — walking right toward the door I’d just come from. Her perfume hit first. Sweet. Expensive. Effortless.

Her brown eyes found me.

Her lips curled.

“Oh my gosh, it’s the ex-wife!”

She said it like a punchline — one hand flying to her painted red mouth in mock surprise — loud enough that the entire gas station could hear. Heads turned. Eyes landed on me like spotlights.

And then I saw him.

My husband.

Or… the man still legally tied to my name.

He walked up beside her in his clean clothes, sliding his hand around her waist like he’d rehearsed it in a mirror. His glare burned through me — cold, satisfied, cruel.

I felt small. Exposed. Like I’d been stripped down to bone in the middle of the store.

But I still had a job to do.

So I walked past them and took my place behind the register, building a wall of silence brick by brick just to keep breathing.

Her voice carried across the store again, sticky-sweet and venomous.

“So f*****g rude! Is this how the gasoline manager trains his staff? She is such a rude b***h!”

Customers pretended not to hear — that quiet avoidance people do when they know something ugly is unfolding but don’t want to be pulled into it. I kept ringing through purchases with hands that shook only on the inside. Forced smiles. Automatic words.

Hello.

That’ll be $6.42.

Thank you.

Have a nice day.

If I broke, I’d drown.

Then it happened.

A sudden heat exploded across my flat chest — sharp, blistering, shocking. I gasped and looked down to see dark liquid spreading across my shirt, steam rising from the wet fabric.

Someone had thrown a cup of hot coffee at me.

It soaked through instantly — burning, humiliating — the smell of it mixing with gasoline and floor cleaner as it dripped down my front.

And for a heartbeat, the whole world went silent.

Just me.

The pain.

And the realization that they wanted to see me hurt — and laugh when I did.

The burn kept spreading across my chest, seeping through the thin cotton of my shirt until it felt like the heat had sunk into my skin. For a second I couldn’t even breathe. I just stood there, the register screen glowing in front of me like nothing had happened — like I wasn’t being scalded alive in front of strangers.

Then I heard her.

A shrill, satisfied sound tore through the store, and when I finally forced myself to look up, I saw her — coffee cup still in her hand, a smear of lipstick on the rim, eyes blazing with triumph.

“That’ll teach you to act like a cunt!” she yelled, loud enough that the entire gas station went still. “Who the f**k do you think you are? I’m a customer. You have to f*****g answer me when I ask if you’re the ugly-ass ex-wife or not!”

It felt like the words didn’t just hit my ears — they burrowed beneath my ribs and exploded there. Every insecurity. Every fear. Every whispered insult my husband had ever fed me in private suddenly became public. Witnessed. Validated in other people’s eyes.

And I broke.

Tears blurred my vision before I could stop them. I didn’t sob. I didn’t wail. I just… leaked. Quiet, helpless streaks running down my cheeks as my chest tightened like someone was cinching a belt around my lungs.

I wanted to disappear.

To melt into the floor.

To become so small she couldn’t see me anymore.

My throat burned harder than the coffee. I couldn’t even form words — not an apology, not a defense, not a single plea to just stop.

And then — through the ringing in my ears and the pounding of my heart — I heard Dominic shout from somewhere behind me.