“You should at least read more than the title,” Beau says. “Give it a shot.”
“Maggie thinks this is fate,” Braxton says. “The book that came into her shop when she met me made a big difference in our relationship. And she thinks this one could make a big difference in your life, too.”
“Mmm hmm,” I manage.
“Look,” Braxton adds, “either it will help you or it won't, but on the chance that it does, what have you got to lose?"
The phraseWhat have you got to loseispossibly one of the most overused phrases around. But right now, the words actually land because it’s the second time I've heard them in one day. Just this morning, my seventeen-year-old son, Cam, suggested I ask out his history teacher, who happens to be single.
She’s lonely, Dad, like you.When I told him I wasn’t sure it’d be kosher, he countered with,“Oh yeah? What have you got to lose?”
“Are you going to tell him?” Braxton asks Beau like I’m not at the table anymore.
The two look at me before glancing over their shoulder toward the exit. Luke is long gone.
Beau clears his throat. “It’s a matter of time before you find this out for yourself,” he prefaces, “but Ashley’s back in town.”
It feels like a grenade has gone off in my chest. “Huh?”
“Well, she’s living justoutsideof town, but she’s back. Divorced.”
Cue the second cliché of the day—the ever-elusive, pine-provoking, one that got away.
I gulp, not wanting to do anything with the information. Simultaneously, I want to do everything. There’s a barrier, and I don’t know how thin that barrier is, that prevents me from doing all the things that play out in my mind. Call her, text her, hit her up on social media, stage a happen-to-run-into-her event.
But then something occurs to me. “She hasn’t even reached out.” It’s a crappy feeling, actually, one I work to sort through aloud. “Shehasto know I’m divorced. We see Annica at the singles meetups all the time. I’m surprisedshedidn’t tell me.”
Beau shifts in his seat and takes a swig of his drink. “Loretta said Ashley’s living with her folks. She and her ex share custody of the kids. I don’t know how long it’s been, but according to Loretta, she’s using her maiden name again.”
I nod, thinking that’s a good indication she doesn’t see herself going back to him down the road. That’s another fear of mine when dating a recent divorcee.
I run a hand down my face, wishing I could erase whatever makes me look broken. There’s a new emotion threatening to rise, prickly and hot. Rejection, jealousy, hurt? I’ve always sort of figured that if things didn’t work out for Ashely, she’d be anxious to reach out to me, knowing I’m divorced and all.
I glance at the offending book once more. “Huh.” I barely manage the reply through the hot sting searing my blood. It’s supposedly my fault I’m still single after giving everything I had to the woman I married and the family we made together?
I’mthe one who has to get over myself?
“You know what?” I say, scooting my chair back and coming to a stand. I retrieve my wallet, toss a few twenties on the table, and leave the book where it rests, right on a sticky glob of sauce and the wadded wipe.
“I don’t think I’ll take that after all. Tell Maggie thanks anyway. I’ve got to get back to the office too. Catch you guys later.”
CHAPTER FOUR
Ashley
Nini glares hatefully at the glowing candles as we sing Happy Birthday to her.
It's a full house consisting of—aside from Nini and me—the kids, my parents, and my sister Annica.
About ten years ago, my parents sold the family home and got a condo just outside of town. The place has three bedrooms. A master suite for Mom and Dad, a bedroom for ornery old Nini, and the office/craft room with two desks and a closet filled with Mom’s neglected dreams of suddenly becoming crafty.
Since moving back, the kids sleep in the den. Martin keeps his stuff in Dad’s old treasure chest while Lucy lives out of her suitcase. I’m the lucky one staying in the multipurpose room which has a futon with a mattress soft as concrete and a classic set of encyclopedias in case I need a sleep aid.
Nini, bless her, who’s never been happy in life, finds joy in the simple things, like voicing her misery and blaming said misery on me, the kids, and my parents for letting me and the kids move in.
"Happy birthday, dear Nini…happy birthday to you."
Once the song is through, we lean forward in collective anticipation, waiting for her to blow out the candles.
