Chapter 1
Claire
My reflection was lying to me.
She was showing me a happy woman in bright red lipstick and coral eye shadow, a woman who looked like she’d just won the lottery—not a brokenhearted woman who’d spent the past four years trying to put her life back together.
You don’t look your age...You don’t look your age...
I could practically pinpoint where my wrinkles would come in, where the creases near my eyes would multiply and spread out over time; where my lips would eventually thin out and dissolve into my mouth. So far I’d been lucky, but I was pretty sure the hundreds of anti-aging and wrinkle-prevention creams I’d been using were the real reason why.
I was turning forty in two weeks and I was suffering from all the symptoms of a mid-life crisis. I was questioning everything I’d ever done, comparing myself to all my friends, and wondering if I would ever find more fulfillments in life. I’d even started making a list of everything I needed to do once I hit the big 4-0:
1) Make a plan to quit my job in five years and pursue my dream career: Interior Design.
2) Pay off all my credit cards and start making larger mortgage payments on my house.
3) Stop reading so many romance books...
4) Save up enough to take my daughters on a week-long cruise in the summer.
5) Stop looking for potential wrinkle-lines and quit considering Botox.
6) Clean my house from top to bottom and KEEP it clean!
7) Stop blaming myself for my ex-husband’s affair...
8) Stop hating my ex-best friend for being part of the affair...
9) Treat myself to a new restaurant every month.
10) Learn to be happy alone.
“Claire! Let’s go! We’re going to be late!” My friend Sandra called from the kitchen.
“Coming! Coming!” I grabbed my jacket and headed downstairs.
I took another glance at myself in the hallway mirror and cursed under my breath. I couldn’t believe I’d agreed to let her drag me out to another singles mixer. I never found anyone worth my time at those things, and the foul scent of desperation always hung in the air.
“You look stunning!” Sandra tugged at my strapless black dress. “Can I please borrow your wardrobe?”
“Only if I can borrow your life...”
She rolled her eyes and ignored my pessimism as usual. “Tonight is the night you’ll meet the right guy! I can feel it!”
She always says that...
“Do we really need to go to another one of these things, Sands? I have some marketing research I could—”
“On New Year’s Eve? Are you out of your mind? We’re going out!”
“What’s the point? We’ve been to a ton of these things and it’s always the same...Can’t we just stay in, drink some wine, and go over our resolutions?”
“Claire...” She walked over to my front door and opened it. “We’re going out. Now. You don’t have any work to do and you know it. And it’s your turn to drive so let’s go!” I stood in the winding buffet line and tossed a few veggie chips onto my plate. I looked up at the banner that hung over the bar and sighed. It read “New Year’s Middle-Aged Singles’ Mixer: Let’s Get Jiggy!”
Aside from the tacky banner, the interior of Pacific Bay Lounge left a lot to be desired: Surfboards served as table tops, old park benches were strewn about, and dingy blue and green streamers hung from the ceiling to simulate “waves.”
Tonight, the lounge was way over-capacity—not a huge surprise since lonely people seemed to flock to these types of events. I was so used to them that I’d become quite the people reader: The guy standing by the window was at least sixty, the blond hair dye he’d been using to look twenty years younger was beginning to fade. The woman who was dancing against the speakers was clearly going through a divorce; she was still wearing her wedding ring and she tossed back a shot every time the DJ yelled “Cheers to all the single ladies!”
I’d been there. Done that.
On the window seats that lined the far wall, shy women were fidgeting with their hair and clothes like nervous high school students. Most of them were being forced to be here and had probably never had a fully-functioning relationship in their lives.
I grabbed two beers from the end of the table and sat on an empty couch, observing one man’s poor attempt to get a shy woman to dance.
“Is this seat taken?” A gorgeous man with grey eyes smiled at me, interrupting my fascinating people watch.
“No. No, it’s not...”
“Great.” He sat down and put his beer on the table. “I’m Lance. What’s your name?”
“Claire. Claire Gracen.”
“That’s a pretty name. What do you do for a living, Claire?”
“I’m a marketing director for a software company. What do you do?” He tapped the label on his beer. “I own and manage a beer company, Leyland Beers. It’s in Nevada.”
“Very impressive,” I said. “So, what do you—”
“How old are you, if you don’t mind me asking?”
Ugh, here we go...
“I’m thirty-nine, and yourself?”
“Wow...” He looked me up and down. “I’m forty seven. Do you have any kids?” I felt myself smiling. “Two daughters. You?”
“No, I don’t have any kids. Life’s way too short for that—no offense. Can I call you sometime?” Seriously? Is that all it takes these days? Age? Kids? Phone number? Is the art of conversation that DEAD?
“Umm sure...” I forced a smile. “It’s—”
“Wait. How old are your kids? Are they ‘with-the-babysitter-tonight-age’ or are they ‘secretly-stealing-beer-out-of-your-cabinet-while-you’re-gone-age’? I have to be frank with you because I’m not looking for anything serious, and all you women with kids tend to be more—”
“You know what?” I stood up. “I have to go to the restroom. I’ll be right back.” I pushed through the crowd and made my way to the outside deck, where lots of singles were watching the ripples of the Pacific Ocean swell up and down. I took a deep breath and inhaled the salty wet air—the one thing I had yet to get used to since moving to the West Coast.
I looked over my shoulder and saw Sandra talking to yet another guy, teasingly rubbing his shoulder and biting her lip. She caught me staring and motioned for me to come over. She was mouthing “He has a friend!”
I turned around and rolled my eyes.
“I take it you’re not having a good time?” A husky voice said from beside me.
I didn’t even bother looking at him. I didn’t want to engage in any more pointless conversations or mundane introductions. I just wanted to go home.
I sighed. “I’m thirty nine. My birthday’s in two weeks. I’ve been divorced for four years and I have two teenaged daughters.”
I didn’t hear him say anything else. I turned to my left and saw that he was halfway across the deck.
I took another swig of my beer and shook my head. I knew I wasn’t helping myself by pushing every potential suitor away, but I couldn’t help it. I still couldn’t believe that I was actually single.
My life had been picture perfect years ago—fourteen year marriage to a man who I thought loved me, pretty Pittsburgh neighborhood in the suburbs, amazing career that was almost on the brink of being legendary—but then one day it was over. Just like that. The priceless picture couldn’t be put back together; it couldn’t be saved.
It was tattered, forever ruined, and I was the one who emerged with the most cuts...
I sent Sandra a text and made a break for the parking lot, turning down numerous offers to dance on my way out.
“Hey, hey, hey!” Sandra climbed inside the truck and shut the door. “We’ve only been here twenty minutes! Don’t you at least want to stay for the New Year’s countdown?”
“No.”
“Why? What’s wrong? I saw the guy you were talking to in there! He was good-looking!”
“Look Sands, I’m not twenty anymore. I can’t keep coming to these things expecting to meet the love of my life. I met mine already, remember?” My voice cracked. “It didn’t work out...” I leaned back in my seat and forced a lump down my throat.
The thought of losing my husband to my best friend still hurt to think about. The divorce was long over, but the pain still woke me up some nights, still dragged me out of my sleep and hit me over my heart like a twenty pound sledgehammer.
“You’re thinking about Ryan and Amanda, huh?” She handed me a Kleenex. “You have to stop beating yourself up about it. It wasn’t your fault.”
“I was so blind to it!” I began to cry. “I let her in my house! I trusted her with my kids! I trusted them both with everything!”
“I’m so sorry, Claire...”
My marriage to Ryan Hayes was a fairytale—at least it was to me. Don’t get me wrong, it wasn’t entirely perfect, but we had far more amazing days than good days, more good days than average days, and hardly any bad days.
Ryan was everything I ever wanted in a man. He was attentive and caring, thoughtful and compassionate, and he always remembered the little things that made me happy: Hot coffee on the rainy days I spent typing away in our home office, a warm blanket when I fell asleep in front of the fireplace, and endless chocolate chip cookies and candy bars whenever it was my time of the month.
Every time he came home from work, he brought me a single red rose and kissed me like his life depended on it. He treated me to the country club’s spa once a month while he volunteered to watch our daughters for the day. He even surprised me sometimes by beating me home and cooking dinner for all of us.
He was my rock. My soul. My everything.
I honestly thought our love would transcend time, that I was one of the lucky ones who would be able to truly uphold the “till death do us part” mantra.
Yet, somewhere between the thirteenth and fourteenth year of our marriage, Ryan began to change.
He started coming home later and later. He didn’t leave his cell phone out like he normally did; he was extremely protective of it and often took calls in another room. He was more elusive—vague, and anytime I said that I needed to run to the store, he would jump up and volunteer to do it for me.
At first, I figured that the late nights had something to do with his new promotion to partner at the law firm; that his recent clingy-ness to his cellphone was just him wanting to be alert should he receive an emergency client call. I couldn’t figure out why he was volunteering to do every single grocery run since he’d always loathed any type of shopping, but I took advantage of not having to do it myself.
I chalked everything up to him wanting to be a “super-husband,” and used my extra free time to hang out with my best friend since high school, Amanda.
Amanda’s vivacious personality could force the most sullen person to smile. Her voluminous auburn hair and naturally toned body could rival most teenagers, and her love for literature was as immense as mine.
At age thirty five, she and her husband Barry were still attempting to have their first baby. They’d attempted everything short of hiring a surrogate, but they hadn’t lost hope.
With each in-vitro fertilization treatment, I would bring her a new baby purchase—booties, bibs, collectible teddy bears, and assure her that the doctors were wrong, that she could and would bring a child into the world.
So, when she called me one afternoon with news that she was finally pregnant, I cancelled my family BBQ and relocated our celebration to her and Barry’s home.
Six months later, Barry called me while I was leaving work. He was talking so fast that I could only make out every other word.
“Barry?” I tried to sound calm. “I can’t...I can’t understand you...Are you crying? Is something wrong with Amanda? Is she okay? Did something happen with the baby?”
“The baby,” he said, and then he was quiet for a while. “The baby...The baby’s not mine. It’s not mine...”
“What? Barry, you’re being ridiculous. You two have been trying to have a baby in every way possible for years. You’re just nervous because he’s almost here. You’re going to be a great father and—”
“I was going back and forth to Texas in May...We might’ve had sex once during that month.
Maybe.”
I stilled. I remembered that.
Amanda had been complaining about how little he was at home due to his job. He’d been demoted and his company was making him do all the grunt work, denying his request to attend out-of-state meetings via video chat.
I remembered her crying about how alone she felt, how she didn’t think Barry was as serious about having a natural born baby as she was because he’d started talking about adoption.
Still, I refused to believe that Amanda’s baby wasn’t his. Who else could it have belonged to?
“Barry, I think you’re being paranoid...That one time could’ve been the time you know? I think you should call and discuss this with her. I don’t think I’m the right—”
“It’s not mine.” He groaned. “Meet me at the Marriott around the corner from your job. I know you two are supposedly great friends, but I need to show you something.”
“Okay...” I hung up and called Ryan.
“Hey baby,” he whispered. “I’m in a meeting. What’s going on?”
“I need you to pick the girls up from dance practice today.”
“Okay, not a problem. Is something wrong?”
“No, I—” I was about to tell him that Barry had called me crying about Amanda, but there was a strange voice in the back of my head telling me not to. “I need to run a few errands and I won’t be able to pick them up on time. That’s all.”
“Okay babe. See you at dinner.”
When I made it to the Marriot’s lobby, I saw Barry hurling pennies into the wishing well, cursing at any one who dared to stare at him.
His eyes were swollen and bloodshot, and he reeked of stale cigarette smoke and alcohol.
I tapped him on the shoulder and he turned around in a rage. But then his eyes softened and he hugged me tightly. “Thank God you’re here...Come with me.” He motioned for me to follow him inside the hotel’s upscale lounge and ordered a bottle of the most expensive champagne on the menu. Sighing several times, he shook his head over and over.
“I’ve never really liked wine, Claire.” He filled his glass until it slightly overflowed. “It was always Amanda’s thing. I always thought it tasted like horse shit. The more expensive it is, the worse it tastes.”
He’s losing it...I knew I should’ve called Amanda on my way over here... I’ll go call her in the restroom...
“Barry, I’m going to run to the—”
“She insisted on having this very brand at our wedding. Did you know that?” I shook my head.
He took a large gulp and exhaled. “Yep. 1975 Chateau Trotanoy—it’s a Bordeaux...And it’s still as disgusting as it was on the day I married her.”
“Barry...”
“That’s why I find it quite fitting to drink now, especially since I’ll be filing for a divorce in the morning.”
WHAT!
“I don’t feel comfortable with you telling me this.” I stood up. “You need to go home and talk to
—”
“My wife? My philandering, lying, ‘doesn’t-give-a-shit-about-me’ wife? I don’t think so.” He pulled an envelope from his breast pocket and slid it to me. “I hired someone weeks ago to follow her, to find out where the f*ck she was spending all her extra time.” I sat down and opened the envelope, flipping through the pictures: Amanda was shopping at a few boutiques, hanging out with me, and attending first time mommy classes.
I stopped flipping and put the stack down. “Okay. I need you to listen to me. I really don’t think
—”
“I didn’t believe it was true either. I mean, my guy would always come back with the same photos week after week. She was at home, at your house, out shopping. Pretty typical stuff on the surface and I almost called him off the job. I thought I was being paranoid. But then one day at dinner I happened to ask her about you. I said, ‘So, how has Claire liked being a freelance marketing director? Is it better than working for an ad agency?’ She said you hadn’t worked at home for years, that you’d been working sixty hour weeks at Cole and Hillman downtown. So I asked myself: If Claire isn’t at home during the day, who is Amanda going there to see? It can’t be Claire’s daughters. They’re in school.
So...”
It took me several minutes to absorb what he was trying to imply, several more to even wrap my head around such a ridiculous assertion.
“No.” I shook my head. “No...There’s no way. There’s a perfectly good explanation if...” I picked up the packet of photos and flipped through them again.
They were all circumstantial: Amanda’s car parked outside my house—she loved my neighborhood’s walking course and often left her car in my driveway to do one of her “thought-walks.” There were pictures of her walking along the Hot Metal Bridge in the rain, sitting alone on a bench—probably crying about Barry not being at home again. But then there were pictures of Ryan, my Ryan, sitting next to her on that bench. Kissing her on that bench.
There were pictures of their cars parked outside the Hilton in Greentree—the next town over, pictures of them walking through the city park hand in hand, pictures of them having sex from the open windows of my bedroom.
The date on this bedroom photo is yesterday...
Barry lifted a photo from my hands. “I went to that Hilton myself...I followed them there in a cab.
I waited thirty minutes before going inside and pretended to be her brother who happened to get lost on the way. I walked over to the front desk clerk and said, ‘My sister is always bragging about how nice this place is, how often she uses it for a getaway. You must see her a lot huh?’ You want to know what that clerk said to me?”
“No.” Tears fell down my face.
He took another gulp of his wine. “I’ll tell you anyway. He said, in the most annoyingly excited salesman voice, ‘Oh yeah...She’s been coming here off and on for over a year. She tips every time she comes and she just loves our room service menu.’ For over a year, right under my goddamn nose...”
His face reddened and he shook his head. “I wanted to go up there and confront them, but I knew I would’ve killed them— both of them. I can’t pretend that I don’t know anymore, Claire. I can’t pretend to be happy about a baby that’s not mine, and when I got this last set of pictures today, I made up my mind... I’ve hired a lawyer and I’m telling her it’s over tonight. I just thought I would let you know the real reason why before she lied to you like she lied to me.” He banged his fist on the table.
I looked through the photos once more, hoping that my eyes were playing tricks on me, that it wasn’t really my best friend and my husband in the shots—praying that I was in some type of sick nightmare.
But the images never changed. It was true.
“Cheers to faithful spouses.” Barry poured another glass of wine and practically forced me to drink it.
That wine was disgusting, but not as disgusting as the following weeks would be...
“It’s okay, Claire.” Sandra motioned for me to switch seats with her. “Let’s go home.” Chapter 1.5
Claire
The summer my divorce was finalized, I wasn’t sure what to do with my life. Everything I’d ever known, everything I ever was, was all entwined with Ryan. He was a huge part of me, an engrained piece of my identity, and I didn’t know who the hell I was without him.
I wanted to do the whole Eat, Pray, Love thing—you know, travel the world and try to find myself while tasting new foods, soaking up new cultures, and having reckless sex with a young, hot Brazilian—but I knew that was completely unrealistic: I was in serious debt, I was terrified of planes, and too much time without my daughters would’ve driven me insane.
So, instead I opted for long walks in the park, walks that usually ended with me curled up against a rock—sobbing until my sides ached.
No matter how hard I tried pretending to be “fine,” there was always something that triggered a miserable memory of my failed marriage: A young couple playing with their children in the park, a flower stand vendor offering discounts on red roses, a group of college kids wearing their
“University of Pittsburgh” T-shirts.
I tried reading books about divorcées who overcame their pain, hoping to feel inspired or enlightened, but they only made me more depressed. I tried hanging out with my other friends, thinking they would distract me from my agony, but they were more interested in throwing pity parties.
After months and months of non-stop bawling, I decided to attack my heartache in stages—well,
“phases” if you will:
There was the “Dr. Phil and mint chocolate chip ice cream” phase, where I sat up and watched the good doctor rip cheating spouses to shreds. I recorded each and every episode and watched them over and over. I even imitated the twang in his voice as he said, “Whyyyy would you do thattt?!” And I rewarded myself an extra scoop each time I didn’t yell “Liar!” when the cheating spouse tried to justify himself.
There was the “recent divorcée group” phase, where I tried to connect with other hurt women at a local church. It was kind of like Alcoholics Anonymous, but shockingly more depressing. None of the women could get two sentences out without sobbing; and, by the time it was my turn, I was too numb to speak.
I was planning to end this phase after a few weeks, but after one particular meeting, the lead advisor asked me not to come back. She said she’d noticed that every time I was asked to give a suggestion about an ex-husband to a grieving divorcée, I always said, “You should have him murdered.”
I assumed the dead pan tone of my voice and the seriousness in my eyes prevented them from seeing that I was joking...
I even went through an “I am woman, hear me roar” phase where I made the following drastic decisions: 1) Cut my waist length hair to barely shoulder length. 2) Picked up a new habit—smoking, which lasted all of one day. 3) Got a tattoo of my “freedom date” (the date of my divorce) on my foot, pierced my ears, and actually accepted the shop’s complimentary belly button piercing. 4) Blasted female power anthems whenever I was in my car, in my work office, or at home cleaning. (I’m pretty sure my daughters trashed and burned my Shania Twain CD...) 5) Sold all my worldly possessions—
except my TV...and my e-reader...and my iPod...and my—Okay, so I just gave away everything that belonged to Ryan.
As I was testing out all these phases, my career as senior marketing chair for Cole and Hillman Associates continued to suffer miserably: Our newest client’s product was named “Infidelity” and the company insisted on using the phrase “Some vows were made to be broken” as the tagline.
It wasn’t until I spent an entire day crying in a public restroom that I realized what I had to do.
I had to leave. I had to start moving on.
I quit my job, withdrew my daughters from school, and packed up my SUV. I used what little settlement money I received from my divorce and made the cross country drive from Pittsburgh to my mom’s hometown of San Francisco, California.
I bought a small fixer upper in a quaint neighborhood, a house at the very top of a slope. I watched numerous HGTV shows and completed several home improvement projects as my therapy, as a way to keep my mind busy: I stripped all the carpeting and installed hardwood and sleek ceramic tile. I painted each and every room—soft taupe, cream-less ivory, café olay, woodsy red.
Within three months of moving, I’d had numerous job interviews, but very few call-backs. After realizing that my options were limited in the recession, I reluctantly took a mid-level marketing job at Statham Industries, a huge downgrade and pay-cut from my previous position.
I told myself that less money wasn’t necessarily a bad thing, it was a new thing and I needed to do more new things in order to truly move on.
Since I’d never been a fan of running, I woke up early every morning and forced myself to run—
half a mile at first, then a full mile, and then eventually three miles a day.
I had my hair chopped even shorter—from shoulder length to bob-length. I started treating myself to a day at the salon twice a month, something I’d always dreamed of doing but never found the time to do. I even shopped for a whole new wardrobe—trading in my trademark all-black outfits for colorful silk blouses, pencil skirts, flattering dresses, and well-fitted suits.
One day while I was out shopping, I met a woman named Sandra Reed. She was one of those people with a mild-mannered yet upbeat personality, someone I felt like I could instantly trust—like I could tell anything to; I was pretty sure her career as a psychiatrist had something to do with that.
When I opened up months later and told her the real reason why I’d fled to San Francisco, she insisted that I start going to therapy. Out of respect for our budding friendship, she recommended me to one of her firm’s renowned associates and wrote off my sessions for free.
She always encouraged me to go out, to try finding men at singles’ mixers, and to actually attempt dating again. Yet, after four years of being in San Francisco, I still couldn’t bring myself to do it.
I didn’t believe too many men would be interested in a middle aged divorcée, and doubted that any man would be able to heal the wounds inflicted by Ryan and Amanda.