Back In the Game

by Holly Chamberlin

  I was glad. We truly had exhausted the physical part of our relationship. There were no messy edges left to trim, nothing tricky to avoid.

  It was a great night with someone who was becoming a real friend and it gave me some much-needed perspective.

  When I got home at about eleven, I wasn’t sleepy; blame it on the caffeine and sugar. So I decided to use my wakefulness to good purpose. In the bottom drawer of my desk I found a notebook, one with a brocade cover. Grace had given it to me for my last birthday but, never having kept a diary or journal, I hadn’t known quite what to do with it.

  Until that night. I picked up a pen and began to give form to some of the chaos that had been plaguing me since the divorce.

  I’m not the first woman to have an affair and I certainly won’t be the last.

  Life is hard. Love, even harder. Relationships come in all varieties and sometimes they work and sometimes they don’t. Clichés are often true. But am I relying too heavily on them?

  I am intelligent. But do I lack the skills to be truly introspective? Okay, I can ask myself this question; I’m not entirely unconscious. But . . .

  Should you work on a relationship even when you don’t particularly want to? I suppose it depends on your reasons for not wanting to.

  I’m not a lazy person or a fearful one. I refuse to believe my marriage fell apart because I was too afraid of the truth and intimacy it would have required to work things through with Matt. If something is worth fighting for, I believe I will fight for it. I’ve done so in the past. Haven’t I?

  I must think about that. Maybe I am afraid of emotional intimacy. And if I find that I am, do I want to change that? Or do I want to accept my shortcoming and make what life I can?

  I hesitated, suddenly almost afraid. And then I wrote the words I’d been saying to myself for months. Difficult, painful putting them on paper, words I’d never seen in print, in my own handwriting, but necessary.

  The simple truth, the bottom line, is that I didn’t love Matt. When you don’t love someone—when you never did or when you no longer do—why, why should you stay with that person?

  Why? Can someone tell me an answer I can accept?

  I know I was wrong to marry him in the first place. But would staying with him have corrected that wrong? No. I can’t believe it would have.

  Suddenly, I felt exhausted. I closed the notebook and got straight into bed.

  It had solved nothing, the writing. I’d discovered no great insights. But it had helped in a way I couldn’t define and I promised myself to pick up the pen again.

  Chapter 37

  Nell

  She sympathizes with your need for a new pair of shoes for each occasion. He complains about the price. She understands the trials of PMS. He thinks you’re faking. She doesn’t care that you’re ten pounds overweight. He gags when he looks at you. Is there really any question who makes the better partner?

  —Loving the Lesbian Within: Starting Over in Middle Age

  “I’ve been invaded.”

  Jess laughed. “The locusts have swarmed? The storm troopers have descended?”

  “Yes, the kids are here.” I glanced into the living room from the kitchen. “At this very moment Colin is sprawled on the couch playing some video game or whatever it is on some new machine his father bought him.”

  “And Clara?”

  “Not in sight. Probably raiding my closet, though we don’t wear the same size and our tastes couldn’t be more different.”

  “I look forward to seeing them again. I think.”

  “Oh, they’re okay,” I said. “They’ve been having a great summer. They did some traveling with the families of friends. Clara took two summer courses just for fun, nothing that will work toward her major. Colin played on a summer hockey team.”

  “Still, they must be happy to be home, no?”

  “I don’t know,” I admitted. “They can’t really want to be around Richard and me after all that’s happened. I really can’t blame them. Frankly, I think it’s nice of them to come home at all. I didn’t expect it of them.”

  “It’ll be fine,” Jess said. “I’ve got to go. I’m going to catch a movie in Coolidge Corner.”

  “I’ve got to go, too. Trina and I are going out tonight to hear some music at Josephine’s.”

  “Have fun.”

  “Thanks,” I said. “I intend to.”

  I found Clara in the bathroom of the master suite I’d once shared with Richard. She had spread my makeup across the counter and was experimenting.

  I’d redecorated that bathroom only two years earlier. I’d chosen what I thought was a more masculine color scheme, black and white, something that Richard might like more than the peaches and cream we’d had for so long. Ironic, isn’t it?

  “Those colors don’t work with your complexion,” I said. Clara has her father’s darker, almost olive skin tone, while Colin favors me in being very fair.

  Clara made a face in the mirror. “I know. That’s why I like them. I’m creating a sort of sickening look. Just for fun.”

  “Oh,” I said. It’s at moments like these, when a twenty-year-old tells you that looking sickening is fun, that you realize just how old you are.

  I selected a few tubes and jars from the mess and set to work on my own face.

  Since Colin and Clara had been home, we hadn’t talked at all about the new family dynamic. I found myself oddly unable to bring up the subject in a natural way. Standing with my daughter at the marble counter in my brightly lit bathroom, I decided to just dive right in.

  “So,” I said, “your friends don’t care that Dad is gay?”

  Clara looked at me in the mirror. “Are you kidding? They think it’s great he came out.”

  Twenty years too late, but who’s keeping track?

  “And it really doesn’t bother you?” I asked.

  Clara groaned. “Mom, stop asking already! So Dad is gay, big deal. Good for him. I’m glad he’s finally living his own life.”

  “After lying to me, to us, all those years,” I retorted. I hadn’t meant to get into an argument with Clara; I really didn’t want her to see my bitterness or the depth of my pain. Or did I?

  Whatever the case, Clara seemed unable or unwilling to understand her father’s betrayal.

  “Oh, Mom,” she whined. “So Dad didn’t tell you he was gay, so you had to find out for yourself. Can you blame him? You were always so uptight!”

  I turned from the mirror and wagged the mascara wand at my daughter. “Don’t tell me about uptight,” I scolded. “Your father is the most uptight person I’ve ever met.”

  Clara shrugged the maddening shrug of the young. “Whatever. Anyway, I’m psyched you’re dating again. You should just totally go for it. Totally embrace your sexuality. Take some chances. But use protection, okay?”

  I cringed. How had our roles become reversed, my daughter counseling me on safe sex?

  “Of course,” I squeaked. “Now, let me finish up here alone.”

  Clara snatched a tube of lipstick and left. I put on a pair of leather pants, a fitted white shirt, and high strappy sandals.

  I walked into the living room. Clara jumped up from the floor where she had been flipping through the current issue of Vanity Fair.

  “Mom,” she cried, “you look so hot!”

  Colin was sitting on the couch, typing on his laptop. He looked up at me, and rapidly looked back to the screen.

  I pulled at the hem of my fitted shirt to make sure it covered my stomach. “I won’t be back too late,” I said.

  Clara sighed. “It’s okay, Mom. You should stay out as late as you want.”

  “You have my cell phone number?”

  “Yes, Mom. You posted it on the fridge, remember?”

  Still Colin typed.

  “I’ll be at Café Montreal, then Josephine’s. If you need me I can be home in fifteen minutes.”

  Clara made a pretense of stumbling in frustration.

  “Mom, go al
ready! We’re fine, we’re adults, we’re on our own all the time. You don’t have to go all protective on us when we come home. Sheesh.”

  “Sorry,” I said. “It’s habit.” I took a step closer to the couch. “What are you up to tonight, Colin?”

  He shrugged, his eyes still on the screen, his fingers flying. “Nothing.”

  “You’re not going out?”

  “No.”

  “Colin,” I asked, “are you okay? Do you feel sick?”

  “I’m fine,” he mumbled, eyes down. “Look, if it’s okay, I’m going to ask Dad if I can stay with him and Bob.”

  Clara shot me a look. She knew as well as I did why Colin was acting so strangely.

  Seeing his mother decked out for a night on the town bothered him; that was normal. It didn’t mean he didn’t love me anymore. It didn’t mean he hated me.

  It meant that Colin wasn’t Clara.

  I knew my son was angry with his father for destroying the status quo. But Richard and Bob had created a life that more closely resembled it than the life I was creating. Colin, always a bit of a homebody, never a rebel, needed at least a semblance of domestic tranquility.

  I couldn’t deny my son that very real need.

  I swallowed hard. “Of course it’s okay, Colin. I’m sure Dad would love to have you.”

  Clara ushered me out the door. In the hallway she gave me a hug.

  “Don’t worry, Mom,” she whispered in my ear. “Everything will be okay.”

  Chapter 38

  Laura

  Etiquette be damned. There’s no need to wait a proper period of time after filing for divorce before you have sex with your soon-to-be ex-husband’s gorgeous and powerful boss. Hubby’s fragile ego is no longer your concern.

  —Divorce in the 21st Century: It Ain’t What It Used to Be

  “Look, I have to tell you something, but it’s a secret, okay?

  You have to swear not to tell anyone until I say it’s okay.” Nell frowned. “I don’t like the sound of this.”

  We were in Nell’s kitchen. She was making a salad for our lunch. I was glad she’d put down the vegetable knife.

  “Please, Nell,” I said, “this is really important and I really need to talk to someone about it!”

  Nell sighed and crossed her arms over her chest. “All right, all right. I swear. What’s your big secret?”

  I felt all nervous, like I used to feel just before gym class, just like I feel when I have to go to the doctor, kind of sick to my stomach. And then I just blurted it out. “I’m seeing Matt. Matt Fromer, Jess’s ex-husband.”

  Nell dropped her hands to her sides. “You’re what! Oh, Laura, come on, this is going too far!”

  “Why?” I asked defensively. “Jess didn’t want him. They’re officially divorced. And Matt wants a family. He wants to get married again. He’s perfect for me.”

  Nell kind of laughed. “Okay, wait a minute; I need to process this.”

  I waited. Nell stared into space, her eyes squinty. “Do you even like him?” she said finally, looking back to me. “You know, as an individual, as Matt? Or are you just interested in his stats?”

  “Of course I like him,” I said. “Okay, he talks a lot about football, but so what? While he’s watching the games, I’ll be taking care of the baby.”

  “I can’t believe what I’m hearing!” Nell cried. “You’re already assuming he’s going to ask you to marry him?”

  I really didn’t see why she was so upset. Things between Matt and me were moving fast, but so what?

  “I’m not assuming,” I said. “But I do think we have a good chance of making it work.”

  Nell turned back to chopping vegetables and tearing lettuce. I hoped she had some bread or chips or something, too. The muffin I’d had for breakfast was long gone. I made a mental note to stop at the grocery store on the way home and buy another box of those donut holes I liked.

  “Have you told Jess yet, about you and Matt?” Nell asked, her eyes on the cutting board.

  “No,” I said. “I want to wait until I’m sure.”

  “Until you’re sure of what, exactly?” Nell looked up at me again, a strange smile on her face. “Until you’re sure you love him?”

  “No. Until I’m sure we’re going to get married.”

  Nell has gotten so dramatic. She slammed the knife down on the cutting board.

  “You’ve put me in a very awkward position, Laura. Jess is my friend. She’s had a really tough time these last few months. I don’t like keeping your relationship with her ex-husband a secret.”

  “You promised you wouldn’t tell anyone!” I cried.

  “And I’ll keep that promise. But you have to promise me you’ll talk to Jess soon. Within the week. Okay?”

  “Okay,” I agreed. My stomach rumbled. “But it won’t be easy.”

  Nell laughed. “This is just occurring to you now? Of course it won’t be easy. Jess isn’t going to like this one bit.”

  “She’ll come around,” I said.

  At least, I hoped she would.

  Nell reached for a large bowl in the cabinet behind her. “I wouldn’t count on having Jess over to dinner once a month. You know, once you and Matt are all settled into your life of domestic bliss.”

  Domestic bliss. Those are two very nice words.

  “Everything will be fine,” I said. “Do you have any chips?”

  Chapter 39

  Grace

  If your divorce is particularly acrimonious, you might be tempted to burn your wedding video and album. Before you take a step that is truly irreversible—unlike your marriage—consider. Wouldn’t it be more fun to replace your ex-husband’s face with that of a baboon and send the improved photos to his bimbo girlfriend?

  —Creative Solutions to Those Messy Post-Divorce Problems

  It was almost eleven o’clock. I was in bed, reading, sipping a cup of tea. I was very comfortable.

  Then, the doorbell rang.

  I knew it was Simon.

  I ignored it.

  The doorbell rang again. And again.

  There was no doubt in my mind at all.

  I tossed aside my book and stomped to the front door.

  “Who is it?” I demanded.

  “It’s me.”

  So, Simon still thought he had the “it’s me” privilege.

  I unlocked and opened the door. Simon stood there grinning that infamous lazy grin.

  “I was just in the neighborhood and . . .”

  Right. And you thought you’d make a booty call to your ex-wife.

  “And?”

  “Hey, can I come in? It’s hot in this hallway.”

  Why had I opened the door if only to turn him away? I sighed and stepped back to let him pass. “Of course.”

  “You have anything to drink?” he asked on his way to the kitchen.

  “Sure,” I said, but he was already digging through the cabinet in which I kept what few bottles of liquor I had.

  Simon reemerged with a bottle of scotch.

  “Want one?”

  I shook my head. “I’ll have a bit of wine.”

  Simon opened the fridge and retrieved an open bottle of white wine.

  “How’s the prep for the show coming along?” I asked.

  “Not bad,” he said. “I’ve got a painting to finish but it’s going okay.”

  Simon handed me a glass of wine.

  Are you sleeping well? Do you need any money? How do you feel? Are your sinuses bothering you again? Can I get you another pillow?

  “Cheers,” he said. Simon downed his drink and poured himself another.

  I took a sip of the wine, leaned against the counter, and observed my ex-husband. For all his bad habits and crazy schedule, Simon was aging well. His face was thin but virtually unlined. His hair was still dark brown and though his hairline had receded a bit in the past few years, the hair itself was still thick. No middle-aged belly, either, though that might be the result of his forgetting to eat regu
lar meals. I was pretty certain Simon hadn’t started an exercise program.

  Simon grinned. “What are you looking at?” he asked.

  “You. You look good, Simon. Life must be treating you well.”

  “Can’t complain.”

  But you will, anyway.

  Simon put down his half-finished glass and came to lean next to me against the counter. He looked into my eyes. “I miss you all the time, Gracie,” he said. “You know that, don’t you?”

  I nodded. What was I supposed to say? Did he really miss me? Did it still matter to me if he did?

  I inched to the right, away from his scent. Simon had always smelled good. He didn’t wear cologne; it was something about his skin.

  “Do you miss me?” he asked, his voice almost a whisper.

  Do I? Maybe. Sometimes. I don’t know.

  And then before I could protest or even register what was happening, Simon was leaning down and kissing me, very softly.

  And then I was kissing him back.

  Simon took my shoulders and drew me against him. Pressed close to the body of the man I had once adored, I kissed him more hungrily. I felt Simon take the tilted wineglass from my hand and then we reached that dangerous moment when it seems foolish, absurd not to go on, that moment when turning back seems impossible and then, in the next moment, is impossible.

  And in that moment something started to turn.

  My body continued to respond to Simon’s, but my mind was engaged in a struggle to justify what I was letting happen. By kissing Simon, my mind said, you’re just fulfilling a physical need. There is nothing at all emotional or nostalgic or desperate about what is happening.

  My mind recoiled from its own lame excuses.

  What was wrong with me? Wasn’t I supposed to be the mature one in our relationship?