Roommate Arrangement (Divorced Men's Club #1)(3)

“Okay …”

“I just … I don’t understand. How could he do this?”

Art squeezes my arms. “Sometimes people aren’t who we think they are. Even when we’ve known them for a really long time.”

“Twelve years.” I drain my beer.

“How did you find out?”

I swallow, the sting I felt when I saw the message hitting me afresh. “Someone we work with gave me details.” Details I won’t be uttering out loud. Ever. “It was going on for a while.”

Art only stares at me, then turns to the bartender and orders two more shots. “That fucker.”

I snort with amusement, even though I feel sick, and down the shots as soon as they hit the bar top. Art orders another one for himself. The atmosphere between us relaxes, and suddenly it’s like twenty years ago, when we were thick as thieves and could talk about anything. “I think … I think I want a divorce.” And even saying the word feels like the biggest failure of my life.

“I’m so sorry. Divorce is never easy.”

I frown and suddenly remember the excitement just after I finished college when Art was one half of the first gay couple to be married in Massachusetts … and also the first to divorce. “How did you handle it?”

His lips twitch. “I went back to sleeping around and didn’t look back.”

“Not sure that’s me.”

“Well, unless you’ve changed dramatically since high school, I agree. These things take time. You’ll grow from it, but it takes a while to clear the storm clouds and see it for the blessing it is.”

Blessing? I snort again. “What the hell do I do now?”

“Do you need to figure it out this second?”

I smile glumly. “I have the rest of this week on leave from work. If I don’t go back, I’m going to have to quit. I’ll have no job, no home, and the only money I have to my name is the ten K I cleared from our account.” I rub my forehead. “I’m forty years old, and I have nothing.”

“Nope, we’re not following that path.” Art reaches over the bar to pour me another shot and presses the glass into my hand. “You’re a qualified … gym teacher, right? And didn’t you buy an apartment down there? Either kick him out or sell it. You don’t have to quit your job if you don’t want to.”

“But do I want to stay in Boston now?”

“Do you?”

“I don’t know.” My whole body feels tired. “I miss so much of my nieces growing up while I’m down there, and there’s no way I can stay in our place, knowing what he did, and I’ll never afford a place close to the city on my own.”

“You have a lot to figure out,” Art says. “If you break up or choose to stay with him. No judgment. Only you can make that call.”

“It’s already over.” I scrunch up my face. “Think I can organize the divorce without having to see that fucker’s face?”

“Of course you can. But for some totally unsolicited advice, go back, take a minute to organize your life, and see where you end up.”

What he’s saying is completely reasonable. But I don’t want reason. Only alcohol and self-pity.

“And if you do end up back in Kilborough, let me know. I started a group for guys like us.”

“Like us?”

“Divorced men. It’s a support group, and there are a fair few of us now.”

“No offense, but that sounds sad. A group of guys hanging out and trying to act like they love their lives when they’re one breakdown away from a midlife crisis.”

Art laughs loudly and slaps my back. “You would think that. Hell, most people do. And that’s the point. Society has made divorce into this twisted, negative experience when all it is, is a fresh start. The DMC is a safe space. If a guy needs to vent, he can vent. If he needs pointers for dating again, we’ve got him. A lot of splits result in friends taking sides, and it’s usually always the man who’s the bad guy—or for queer couples, there’s always one on the outer. We’re friends, we’re a listening ear, and we’re motherfucking cheerleaders when our boys find love again. Maybe you won’t need that at all. But the offer’s there if you want it.”

I might not know what my next steps are, but I do know I’m touched. “Thanks, man.” I’m not going to take him up on the offer, but I appreciate it. “I’ll let you know if I’m interested.”





1





Payne


It’s been a long month, but when I drive back into Kilborough, knowing I never have to go back to Boston and my old apartment again, I finally feel like I can breathe.

Kyle’s betrayal still stings when I let myself think about it, but I’ve reached a point where I’m able to thank my lucky fucking stars that I found out what he was getting up to and got out of there.

And he can thank his lucky fucking stars that my tests came back all clear.

He’s tried reaching out through email a few times, and the only time I responded was to demand his test results, which he sent—after assuring me that he always used a condom, like that makes any goddamn difference.

I’ve never been so happy for our dry spell.