by G. S. Carr
G.S. Carr
Divorce Wars: Opposites Attract
First published by Gabrielle O. Brown in 2018
Copyright © G.S. Carr, 2018
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, scanning, or otherwise without written permission from the publisher. It is illegal to copy this book, post it to a website, or distribute it by any other means without permission.
This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author's imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.
G.S. Carr asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.
First edition
ISBN: B07FLZR3XX
This book was professionally typeset on Reedsy
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Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Epilogue
About the Author
Also by G.S. Carr
Chapter 1
Kara
They say what doesn’t kill you makes you stronger. What delusional person came up with that? The sunken face of the once vibrant woman laying in the hospital bed in front of me tells a different story. Some things may not kill you, but they make you weak. They rob you of your ability to live to the point that you wish you were dead anyway.
“Come on mom, just one more bite,” I say in a soothing tone.
I hold the spoon of oatmeal, or whatever they are calling this flavorless mushy gunk now, a few inches from my mother’s lips. The once fierce, nonsense woman shakes her head in objection to my request. When I was little she made me sit at the table for hours if I refused to eat everything on my plate. Starving kids in Africa and all. Now that I have to return the favor, it’s not as satisfying as my younger self imagined.
“It’s the last spoonful mom. You can do it. Just open up one more time,” I plead.
Her eyes drift open and closed as she tries to focus on the spoon. I try not to let out a whoop of joy as she opens her mouth as wide as she can. It’s funny how sickness has a way of making you find gratitude in even the smallest actions. Her dry lips clamp down on the spoon, cleaning it of its contents.
“Good job ma,” I croon.
Mom takes on task of chewing and swallowing the food like a champ although it is costing her the little reserve of energy she has left.
Today was a good day. She’s eaten twice so far and even felt up to going outside. I’ve thanked the universe at least a thousand times for these small victory. Since being admitted to Hope Haven Hospice House three months she’s lost fifteen pounds. She was only a buck twenty to start with. It’s hard to watch your mother waste away. To watch a congenital heart defect that was supposed to have been treated when she was a kid to make her as weak as a toddler.
Tubes stick out of different entry points on her body, trailing back to the beeping machines that tell me what I already know. Her body is failing her. The saddest part about it all is that her mind is perfectly in tact. I can’t imagine what it must be like to be trapped inside your own mind while your body refuses to cooperate enough to let you converse with the world around you.
I put the bowl on the table by the door for the nurse to remove later, then pull up the same pea green pleather arm chair I’ve occupied every day for the past three months to her bedside. She sounds asleep before I sit down.
Her chest heaves under the strain of taking each breath. Air wheezes in and out of her mouth like the high-pitched whistle of a train. I can’t stop myself from wishing it was all over. For her eyes to close and never open so that the pain no longer touches her. I guess that makes me a horrible daughter. I’m supposed to cheer her on and have an unrealistic optimism that she is going to pull through. But I don’t. If nothing else, life has taught me that wishes are about as useful as a sword in a gun fight when reality wants to come knocking.
There’s a light knock on the room door before Tiffany, my mothers day time nurse, pushes it open and enters. A smile graces her lips, painted in their usual bubble gum pink. I appreciate the slight crows feet around her hazel eyes, because they tell me the smile she gives my mother and I ever day is a genuine part of who she is.
“Hey Tiffany. How was your evening?” I ask stretching in the chair. The stiffness in my neck tells me that I was hunched over, staring at the monitors for longer than I realized.
“Not bad,” she replies, picking up my mothers chart and going to check the monitors. “Little Jim was a handful per usual, and big Jim caved every time he was supposed to put his foot down per usual. You would think he is allergic to disciplining that boy. It’s supposed to strike fear in the heart of every little human when they hear ‘wait til your daddy get’s home’. I’m lucky if the kid doesn’t start laughing.”
A genuine chuckle escapes my lips. The one thing that can fight the devastating sadness of watching someone die is a cute story about a rambunctious little kid. Especially the way Tiffany tells it. “Yeah that sounds about right. You know Little Jim can do no wrong in his father eyes. Big Jim loves him so much I think he would cry if he ever laid a finger on the kid.”
“Love my foot. If I hear ‘he’s just being a boy’ one more time I am going to strangle my husband. Love would be taking a belt to that boys behind every once in a while. I swear if that boy committed murder his father would help him bury the body.”
We both erupt into a fit of laughter. The kind that bubbles from deep within and you can’t stop it even if you wanted to. I appreciate Tiffany a little more each time I see her. I don’t know how much of her stories are true, but the bit of light they bring to my current darkness make me almost yearn to hear another.
“Anyway. I came to give your mom a bath,” she says turning away from the machines to my mothers bed. With care she lifts her arms and begins to pull back the covers. “She’s seems to be stable. She’s not getting better, but she’s not getting worse which is a good thing.”
That was the other thing I liked about Tiffany. She never tiptoed around the truth of my mothers situation. “That’s good. Well I will get out of your way. I need to get to work anyway.”
“Okay. Have a good day. I’ll let you know if any major changes happen.”
“Great. Thanks.”
I peel myself out of the armchair that I’ve sat in so many times my butt print is engraved in the material, and grab my bookbag from the floor. Yes, at thirty-two I still carry around a bookbag covered in superheros that were bitten by spiders, turn into green men, and dress up in red white and blue tights. It’s the only part of my youth life hasn’t stolen from me for better or worse and I feel naked without it so sue me.
The light buzz of my ringing phone vibrates in my pocket as I make my way toward the door. I don’t recognize the number on the screen. The part of me from the poor portion of my life that was constantly told not to answer numbers I didn’t know because it could be a bill collector halts my finger from pressing the little green button. Then I remind myself that the last person I owed anything to was Jenny in the fifth grade when she loaned me fifty cents for a bag of chips. I never paid her back, but the likelihood that she was on the other end of this incoming call was about as probable as me turning into a unicorn and pooping sprinkles so I answer it.
“Hello. This is Kara.”
“Hello Kara. My name is Susan and I am the casting director for the show Divorce Wars. You submitted an application to be on our show several months ago and I was wondering if you had a few minutes to chat with me about potentially being on the show.”
My foot freezes mid-stride causing me to stumbled over air the second the words hit my ear. Did I hear what I think I just heard? The hammering rhythm of my heart turns into a deafening roar in my ears. If this was one of my friends trying to punk me I will be forced to kill someone.
“Hello Kara? Are you still there?”
“Um yes. I’m here. Sorry my brain stopped working due to shock.”
Susan’s warm chuckle filters through the phone line. “I completely understand. That happens a lot. So is now a good time to talk?”
“Yes!” I practically squeal. “I mean, yeah sure. What would you like to know?”
“So I assume you are familiar with the premise of our show since you submitted your application. We are looking to book our next few couples for the upcoming season. Each couple has a maximum of six weeks to play, but due to the fact that we don’t know how long it will take one of you to ask for the divorce we can’t guarantee when you will be back to work so we want to emphasize that we really need people with flexible schedules.”
“That’s not a problem. Whatever, time you guys need I can give you.”
“Good. And you have no problem being recorded by camera’s 24/7?”
“Not at all.”
“Excellent. We I loved your audition tape and I want to invite you in to meet with me. We will fly you and a few other women to LA where you all will share an apartment for about two days while we finish the audition process. You will be told if you are selected by the end of the second day. Filming schedules will be given out after the selection process.”
“Okay. Thank you.”
“You’re very welcome. I look forward to meeting you soon.”
The dial tone reaches my ear before I can say anything else. Nurses and Orderlies shuffle around me as I stand rooted in the middle of the hallway. Some throw me the occasional evil eye for being rude enough to block their path as they go to tend to patients, but in this moment I give not one care.
I’m an average person. Not rich and not dirt poor. I make enough money as a freelance graphic artist to feed and clothe myself, while keeping a roof over my head that’s a step above a roach motel so I have no complaints. But paying for medical bills, specialist visits, and prescription drugs is a whole different animal. This is it! The come up I need to take care of mom.
Getting to be on Divorce Wars could literally be a life changer for her. We’ve already surrendered ourselves to the fact that the surgery she needs is to expensive and that our main goal is just to make her comfortable until she passes, but the prize money from the game would be more than enough to cover the cost. Mom could actually live!
* * *
“Amanda,” I yell running into the hipster coffee shop that has served as my unofficial office for the past two years. I’m an introvert by nature, borderline recluse, but occasionally I like the option to be in a situation to look like an unhindered life loving entrepreneur in front of others. Granted they could think I am a jobless bum millennial, but whatevs.
“Amanda! Amanda! Amanda!” I yell in rapid succession. I run up to the bar my best friend stands behind making whatever whip cream covered frou-frou drink a customer ordered.
“Dang girl you are going to wear my name out worse than that Puerto Rican guy from a few weeks ago. At least he gave my body a workout too,” she says with a suggestive grin. “Justin,” she yells, placing the drink on the counter.
A tall, well muscled guy walks up to grab the drink. His eyes linger a little longer than necessary, like most men who look at Amanda. Emerald green smoky shadowed bedroom eyes, naturally plump bow shaped lips that would make a Kardashian jealous, luscious chestnut hair that reaches the middle of her back, and a pair of perky c cups make her hard for any man to resist. Eyes locked with the customers she licks whip cream off her finger before running her tongue across her lips. Right when it looks like he is going to open his mouth to speak she turns away to focus on me. That’s Amanda for you. Some call her a tease. I call her a horn dog.
“What do you want?” she asks leaning across the bar toward me.
“You will never guess what happened to me today?” I tap my fingers against the wooden bar, stretching my eyes wide in the creepy way Amanda hates. I dance on my toes as the excited energy courses through my body.
“Okay then, tell me already so you can stop making that face.” She pulls out a wet cloth from the sink and begins wiping down the counter while she listens.
“Remember that wine induced evening in which we sent in my application to the Divorce Wars show?”
“Yeah. You wouldn’t shut up about how lame the taxidermy loving forty-year-old dude living with his mom was and how you could win if you were on the show.”
“Well it looks like I might have a chance to prove that statement right. They called me! They want me to come for a final audition.”
Amanda’s hand stills mid-wipe. Her mouth falls open as her wide eyes meet mine. I count in my head to see how long it takes for her to reanimate.
“Shut up!” Twenty seconds. That’s a new record. Amanda rushes from behind the counter to stand in front of me. She grabs me by the shoulders, eyes narrowed, searching mine to see if I’m lying. “Are you for real? They really called you?”
“Yeah. I came over here as soon as I got off the phone.”
Amanda breaks out in her signature happy dance of grinding her hips not caring that everyone in the coffee shop is watching. Normally this would be the point in our conversations where I roll my eyes at her antics, but today I am floating so high in the clouds that I join her with my own awkward hip movements.
“Girl! You can pay for your mom’s heart surgery,” she cheers in amazement.
“I know!”
“Although you could have done it already if you asked your dad for the money. But that’s neither here nor there. When do you leave?”
My smile falters. Amanda knows I wouldn’t ask that man to spit on me if I was on fire, let alone pay for mom’s surgery. Him and all his money can eat poop and die for all I care. Why would she bring him up when I’m so happy? I shake off the the mild irritation creeping at the edge of my heart. At least this time she didn’t linger on the subject of he who shall not be named.
“Tonight. The audition should only take about two days,” I respond with a little less cheer than before.
“Dang girl. What do you think your hubby will look like? For your sake I hope he’s hot. You need to get laid out, bent over, pretzeled, and whatever else his devious mind can think of.”
“Eww.” I balk at the suggestion. “I don’t even know this dude. I’m not letting him pretzel nothing.”
“I mean he will be your husband. Even for your standards that makes it all good.”
Not being willing to spread my legs for every good looking male of the species somehow made me an oddity to Amanda. Yes I had standards and unlike her I saw nothing wrong with them. Husband or not, this guys was not sticking anything anywhere in me.
“We are going to be on a game show trying to drive each other crazy. Where is the romance in that?”
“I didn’t say anything about romance,” she says, lips pursed, eyebrow raised. “I’m talking about getting your down and dirty freak on. Ya’ll can throw a flag on the play every once in a while for that.”
I laugh as Amanda starts dry humping the air. This woman has no filter and no fear of embarrassment. I love that about her. “Okay new topic,” I say lifting my hands in surrender.
“Make sure to be extra annoying. Spit in his drink, put his toothbrush in the toilet, put a laxative in his food, fart in his face, that kind of thing.”
My face scrunches as if I smell something rotten. I pity the man who is
ever on the receiving end of Amanda’s wrath.
“There is a fine line between annoying and down right nasty.”
“No there’s not.” Amanda looks at me as if I am the one who lost their mind. “All is fair in love in war. Well I guess divorce and war for you.”
“True, true,” I say with a chuckle. “Oh! Before I forget I need you to watch out for my mom while I’m gone. We won’t be able to have phones or anything, but you can call the show and tell them if any emergency pops up.”
“Of course. Did you tell her yet?”
“Not yet. I want to wait until I know I’ll be on the show. I don’t want to get her hopes up.”
Amanda nods. “Understood.”
“Alright I have to go pack.” I pull her into a hug. “I love you.”
“Love you too.”
Now that I’ve taken care of telling my best friend, well only friend really, about the show I am ready to go. Mom will be well taken care of while I’m gone.
I wave one last time to Amanda before heading to the door. Reality settles over me as I walk out of the coffee shop. This is happening. Smurfity, smurfin, smurf, smurf I am going to be on TV! And I’m getting married!
Chapter 2
Wyatt
“Why can’t I stay with you daddy?”
How do you tell the only person in the world who looks at you as if you hang the sun and the moon that you’re not actually worthy of their praise? When you knew they needed you and deserved your best but you let them down.
To my daughter I can do no wrong. To everyone else wrong is all I seem to be able to do. Even with my busted lip and healing cut over my eyebrow she sees absolutely nothing wrong with me. Pleading blue eyes stare at me from her cute little round face. Tears well in her eyes as a rosy flush creeps across her creamy skin. That sad face mixed with two curly ponytails are enough to make me want to tear apart the world to see her smile, all while feeling like the worst scum of the earth.
“I’m sorry baby. Daddy isn’t in a place where he can take you with him. But I promise you one day I will be.”