Acknowledgments
I’m incredibly grateful for the support, love, and help I receive every day. It seems like I have an abundance of that in my life, and that makes me lucky.
Lisa, thank you for your constant honesty and realness. I know I can always, always, always depend on you, and that means the world to me, always. (See what I did there …)
Linda, my rock, who I hate going a day without talking to. Not only do you provide the best platform for me to thrive on, you’re an amazing friend to me too. I couldn’t think of a better person to walk next to throughout the publishing process.
Julie, Julie, Julie, there aren’t enough words in the dictionary to tell you how much I love and cherish you and our friendship. Thank you so much for everything you do every day, and for picking up my pieces when I break down.
My beta ladies, I’m so grateful for our private chat sessions and your honesty. Our jokes and laughs keep me going every day, and it means the world to me that you’ve all stuck by my side for so long. You haven’t gotten sick of me yet, and I’m very grateful for each one of you! xoxox
Twisted Drifters, bloggers, readers, and co-authors, you make this industry—this “job” the best one out there. I love what I do because of you. Thank you for loving me enough to read what’s inside of my crazy head.
To my family: You have been so supportive of my journey, and I’m forever grateful.
My boys—Bryce and Brayden—never let your future spouses know the truth about the man flu. You are strong little boys, and you can power through anything you put your mind to … even the sniffles.
Because of you…
Josh, oh Josh. My man, who currently has the flu. Ironic, right? I love you so much for acting out some of the scenes in this book so I could write such an accurate portrayal. You make the man flu look as easy as childbirth, and I respect the hell out of that.
If only this book were about you… Just kidding.
Thank you for being my passenger on this crazy little trip. If I didn’t have you as a partner to laugh with, I’d just look crazy laughing all alone. I love you more than anything, and I hope you feel better by time this book releases. xoxo
Prologue
One Year Ago
“I now pronounce you officially divorced,” I say while staring at the bathroom mirror. “You may kiss your reflection, since that’s the only person you know you can trust, and live happily ever after with.” That’s all I have for a self-help pep talk on this lovely occasion today. No one else knows about the divorce, so I can’t even go celebrate or anything. Time to buy a new vibrator, I guess.
In any case, I’ve kept this to myself because if anyone were to ask Rick about the split, he’d inform them I was 50 percent at fault because I wasn’t as horny as the twenty-five-year-old he found on Tinder. When I start sharing the news with mutual friends or our extended families, Rick’s story will come out, and I don’t want anyone to know how often I avoided sex with my sleazeball husband. He thought his porn addiction should be a turn on, but it wasn’t my thing. The different scents of perfumes he would come home smelling like didn’t help either. I had no idea who else he was sleeping with, but I assumed it was a common occurrence.
Before Rick tried to explain his side of the story—how his infidelity and ensuing divorce were partially my fault, I wanted to put an announcement in the newspaper, so everyone knew not to address me as “Mrs.” or wonder why I have a big white indent on my left ring finger. It would be like a wedding announcement, but the opposite.
I was about to get to it, but then I remembered that announcements are typically written in third person to make it sound like someone cares enough about them to make a formal statement in the name of love. Come on, no one cares that much. If I remember correctly, I wrote ours, and it was something like: “Congratulations to Rick and Hannah Pierce on their recent nuptials. May they be happy and in love for all their days together.” So, because I was lame enough to write my own announcement back then, now I have to undo it and say (as if I’m someone else talking for me, of course): “Condolences and congratulations to Rick and Hannah Pierce on the event of their divorce. After ten long years of bliss, or hell together, depending on which one of the couple you’re talking to, Rick was caught cheating on Hannah. Since there are always two sides to every story, we wish the newly divorced couple the best of luck being single, lonely, and washed up, and eventually wrinkled, forever. Unless you’re Rick, of course, since he’s already moved the hell on.”
Since I decided against the divorce announcement in the newspaper, I feel like I’ve come a long way, maturity wise. Instead of a public mortification, I opted to drop a laxative in Rick’s coffee this morning, hand him his last box of crap, and tell him to get out of my life, and my house too … I won that part. Then again, we’re talking about a habitable box filled with ten years of memories—memories that should all be burned inside of a flaming bag of shit and left on the doorstep of wherever he ends up.
I’m not bitter. I’m thrilled to start my life over at thirty-two with a toddler in tow. There are going to be men knocking my door down once the word gets out that I’m single. Although, it’ll probably just be the police because hopefully, someone will realize I haven’t been seen in months. Other than that, I’ve got this all figured out. I’ll quit my job, learn how to homeschool when it’s time, order all household items and groceries from Amazon, and request that their new drone thing drop off my deliveries so I don’t have to see anyone. If I request that my goods are delivered to the back porch, I won’t even have to open the front door. The best part is, I can eat like shit, wear yoga pants but never work out, and avoid all human contact with friends who want to gush about their amazing marriages and how hungry their sexual appetite is after so many happy years.
My therapist said that the first day of divorced life will be the worst. Well, I think I’ve already made some great strides toward my new future today.
Shoot, I forgot to add something to my list of things that need to be thrown out. My phone. It’s a part of the cleansing portion of starting over. The damn phone is blaring N’sync’s “Bye Bye Bye,” and I wish whoever is calling could hear the ringtone instead of me.
I answer because I need to adult, even though I’m on my way to not adulting anymore. “This is Hannah,” I answer.
“Hannah, it’s Alan. I just wanted to make sure you’re going to be rejoining us tomorrow? I realize you are finalizing your divorce today, but there are some pressing issues we need to go over if you can make yourself available.”
Alan Mole is the wonderful CEO of the company that employs me. He’s the one who cuts the checks for my salary, the one used to calculate my percentage of earned alimony and child support, so I’m screwed if I leave my job. At least it’s me getting screwed this time and not some twenty-five-year-old chick, but this does put a kink in my great plan. “Yeah, Alan, I’ll be there with bells on tomorrow.” I hang up and switch to the Words With Friends app, waiting for the next victim to experience my nasty wrath of rude words. It’s what I consider to be therapy, so I suppose throwing my phone out wouldn’t be the best idea, after all.
Dickle15 would like to challenge you to a game. Do you accept?
Dickle? Sure, why not? How do people come up with these horrible usernames, or find me, for that matter? Maybe I should have been more creative than HannahP84.
Dickle starts the game with the word, shatter. Nothing like starting a game with a seven-letter word. It’s on, Dickle. It’s on. You picked the wrong player this time.
I continue the game with the only word I have to play at the moment. Ironically, it’s the word heart, and so begins another funny episode of “Karma’s Picking on Hannah.”
This will all get easier.
It will get better.
Whatever goes down, must come back up.
Oh, and karma will eventually figure out its got the wrong person, Rick. Just wait.
1
Monday Morning.
Need I say more?
365 Days Post Divorce
As a little girl, I was told to study hard, get good grades, go to college, get a decent job, find a nice man, and have a family. My dad told me it would make for the perfect life, and I would be set up for success.
Like a good daughter, I listened. I did everything he said to do, but there were some things he forgot to mention, like the moments that grow in between those life goals and then sprout into the form of ugly weeds—the ones that don’t tear out of the ground without some plant killer. Except plant killer won’t work on an ex-husband, or would it …?
“Good morning, boss-lady,” Brielle sings as she follows me down the row of cubicles and into my office.
My office. Alan, the old-fashioned kind of businessman, and my company’s CEO, shockingly offered me a promotion to the Director of Marketing position earlier this year after I laboriously trudged through the Manager title, levels one through five, even though there are only supposed to be three levels. In any case, it made me feel like I could check off the box next to “successful career.”
“Good morning, Brielle, how was your weekend?” I sometimes live vicariously through Brielle’s weekends because she’s in her mid-twenties and living it up. She has very different goals in life, which makes me wonder if my dad might have been wrong about the certain path that would lead me to success and happiness.
Ever since I got my first Cosmo magazine in the mail when I was fifteen, I’ve had a thing for the publishing industry and dreamt of snagging a job in New York City, working for one of the big, women’s magazines. I imagined a tall, glass building and lots of high-class people walking around all day. I might have watched too many movies in the nineties and got my hopes up too high because some of the choices I made in my twenties got in the way of my dream. I couldn’t give it up completely, though, so I settled for a smaller magazine here in the suburbs of Massachusetts. I mean, I’ve got my own office, so it’s something.
It’s also pink, like baby-girl pink. It was a joke—a high five by a couple of my male co-workers, for being upgraded to an office. I love jokes … if they’re executed properly. However, I’ve been finding it difficult to work for a woman’s magazine while being one of only two women in my department.
“My weekend was fab. First, on Friday night, Adam and I went to Via and met up with some friends. We totally closed down three different bars that night. I don’t even know how it was possible, but clearly, it was.” She sweeps her hair to the side, and I can’t help but watch as each strand falls perfectly back into place. “I was wiped out on Saturday, so I slept until abouuuuut, I don’t know … elevenish? I got manis and pedis with the girls, then had lunch with my old college roomie.” She takes a breather because she’s been talking for a minute straight, but I know she isn’t done. “You know, it’s seriously getting dark out way too early. I can’t deal. Anyway, Adam and I hit up Boston for the night and spent the night at a mod hotel, which was super chic. You should totally check it out sometime. We went to bed wicked early for some reason,” she said with a wink, “but I just couldn’t make it past three that night. I must be starting to break down in age. Gosh, I don’t know how you function in your thirties.” I’ve learned to ignore Brielle’s lack of a filter. It’s great for honesty, no so much for modesty.
“Wow, that sounds like a busy weekend,” I tell her. “Are things better with Adam, now?” Her six-month relationship has been on the rocks, and I guess this weekend was supposed to be a make-it-or-break-it situation.
“Eh, we didn’t really have a chance to talk too much.” I’d ask how that’s possible, but I know how it’s possible. I just really don’t care to hear it. I preferred other activities besides talking at one time … back when.
“Understandable,” I tell her.
“Sunday was pretty much just a lot of ‘non-talking,’ if you know what I mean.” She winks and jiggles her eyebrows.
I got it. You have more sex than a red-light district, and I’m dried up like a prune. I hope that state of being isn’t a permanent feature, like the whole saying: If you don’t use it, you lose it.
“I got what you’re putting out there,” I tell her with a mom-ish wink. “I’m glad you had a good weekend.”
“No problemo,” she chirps while scanning through her phone. “So, you have a ten o’clock appointment with the new temp, a three o’clock sales meeting, and a date with Dickle at seven.” She covers her mouth and pulls in a sharp breath before continuing. “I can be at your house by six-thirty to take care of Cora if you want?”
Brielle is my spirit animal, and I think I might love her, but— “Cancel my date. I’m not ready to meet Dickle anymore.”
“Oh?” she questions in her high-pitched I need to know more tone. “What happened to your bet? I thought you kind of had a thing for him … and his Dickle?” she snorts. It’s been a year of talking to this guy, and she still can’t say his name without laughing.
“I just can’t. That last date I went on, you know, with Sergio—the one I met on that stupid Tinder thing? Maybe I forgot to tell you last week, but it was going okay until it was time to—” I make a nice hand gesture to my mouth. “You know? Anyway, he was super hairy, and he wasn’t shaved or trimmed down there at all …”
She places her hands up and closes her eyes. “Say no more. I did warn you about Tinder. It’s either a hit or miss.”
“I got a pube stuck in between my two front teeth, Brielle. This is life, at ‘my age.’”
“I said, say no more,” she enunciates more clearly. I know she doesn’t enjoy hearing about my sometimes disappointing thirty-three-year-old life, but it’s real, and she should know what might be in her future if she doesn’t make the right decisions. I’m trying to be a good mentor. “On that note, I think I have some work to do.” Brielle slides her phone into her back pocket and turns to leave.
“Hey, real quick …” I pause to take a sip of the hot coffee as I watch my inbox pop open with a bunch of “Welcome to a big fat case of Monday” emails. “Sorry.” I refocus my attention on her question-filled eyes. “How’s the call list going for the event next week?”
“Ummm—good,” she says, switching her focus to the window behind me. Yup, whatever she’s about to say is a lie. She’s been my assistant for two years, and I know the meaning of all of her body language. “I’m about halfway through.” She takes a moment to look down at her manicure and proceeds to bite her bottom lip. Lie, lie, lie.
“You know, I gave you that list two weeks ago, right?” This is the part I hate about having an office. I don’t want to boss her around, but she isn’t always on her “A” game with the admin duties, which is kind of important, since she’s an admin.
“I do, but some of our vendors like to chat. It’s all a part of marketing. Hannah?”
“Right. Okay, let me know when the temp arrives.” She quickly pivots away from my desk as her long, blonde hair flips over her shoulder like one of those Suave commercials, leaving me to watch her jog out of my office in her four-inch, leopard print Manolo Blahnik heels, kind of like a Barbie on her toes. I’d kill for her hair, clothes, body … I want to be her. I know I sound crazy, but her life just looks so easy.
I dig into my emails and get two cranky notes in when my phone dings with a notification from Dickle15.
The word: date is added to our two-day-long running Words With Friends game. How did he end up with those letters? That might explain all his skipped turns.
At least I have an N left, and there’s a perfect spot next to an O.
A message appears in the sidebar. “Really? A bet was a bet, and I won the last five games in a row. You agreed to go out to dinner with me if that happened.”
“I’m so sorry. I can’t,” I tell him.
“Why not?” he responds just as fast.
“I’m still not ready to be back in the dating scene.” This is the third time I’ve broken a proposed date with him. Something is holding me back, and I don’
t know what it is.
“It’s me, Hannah. There’s nothing to be nervous about. We’ve been playing Words With Friends for an entire year. It’s not like I’m rushing things.”
“Dickle.” I shake my head every time I type this man’s name. I don’t laugh like Brielle does, but he will not tell me if Dickle is his real name or just a fun username. “I love our conversations, and I don’t want to ruin them.” That’s what this is. With Tinder or a blind date, I can run and hide. I don’t feel like I can do that with Dickle anymore.
“Well, maybe you should find someone else to play with,” he says.
No! Come on. Why can’t anyone be patient? What’s the rush? I don’t understand how it can it be so easy to lose good things in my life. Not that Rick was good, but I thought he was at one point. Whatever. Now, I have no Dickle to play with. Men are so hard to understand. He even told me that he appreciated our conversations mostly because they excluded the most private information in our lives, and that wouldn’t work if we knew each other in person. Doesn’t he realize that?
“I’m sorry you feel that way,” I tell him before closing the app. I suspected this would happen eventually. Words With Friends never should have added a messaging portion to the game. It was nice not having to chat when attacking someone with a ninety-point word. Sadly, I’ve gotten good at the game since it’s my only real hobby outside of being a single mom.
I place my phone down, and the display doesn’t even have time to go dark before the stupid thing starts ringing. I look down at the caller ID and curse life. Why? What could it possibly be this time?
I click to accept the call from the school and bring my phone up to my ear. “This is Hannah Pierce.”
“Hi, Mrs. Pierce, this is Miss Ellen, the school nurse. I have Cora here with me.”
The Man Cave Collection: Manservant, Man Flu, Man Handler, and Man Buns Page 33