Getting Real (Getting Some 3)

Aaron lowers his head, giving in, but not happy about it.

“The worst part about this divorce is I got stuck being the nanny.”

Spencer gives his brother a lip-curled sneer. “We don’t like you either.”

Spence is my sweet kid. He has a gentle soul—as far as insults go, that’s about as vicious as it gets.

Brayden picks up the slack.

“Yeah—dick for brains.”

“Douche-canoe,” Aaron shoots back.

“Guys!” I snap. “That’s enough.”

A begrudging silence descends, but Aaron gets in one last grumble, because he just can’t resist.

“Still blows.”

And a part of me feels for him—the part that didn’t think my brothers following me around all over town was such a great time either when I was his age. That’s the circle of life.

“I’m sure it does. But you’ll live.”

* * *

“And then Paul told me he just wasn’t attracted to me anymore. That forty pounds and fifteen years had turned me into someone he didn’t want to be married to.” The woman sitting in the wooden folding chair covers her face with a tissue, sobbing. “And the worst part is he’s right! I have let myself go. It’s all my fault.”

Her name is Karen, the newest member of the Divorced, Unattached, and Happy support group—also known as D.U.H. or “duh.”

They really didn’t think the acronym all the way through.

We meet in the rec hall basement the first Friday and third Sunday of every month. We used to meet on Wednesdays after Sex Addicts Anonymous, but that wasn’t the best mix. The sex addicts kept falling off the wagon with the divorcées.

“There, there, boo-boo. You go right ahead and let it out.”

Delilah—a deeply religious, curvy redhead who separated from her husband last fall after twenty unappreciated years because, and I quote, “her field of fucks was barren and she had not a single one left to give”—puts her arm around Karen’s shoulder and pulls her in for a side hug.

“But while you do, know that Paul is unworthy to drink from the chalice of your inner beauty. I know it doesn’t seem like it now, but the day will come when you will believe that, I promise you.”

Some may think group therapy for long-term relationships that have met their maker would be depressing . . . the sob stories, the loneliness, the heartbreak, the betrayal.

But it’s kind of a riot. Uplifting.

Mostly because every person sitting in this circle is a character and a half. They’re honest, unique, determined, and funny—and that’s when they’re sober. Get a few drinks in them and group therapy turns into toga night at the frat house.

“Paul deserves a smackdown with extreme prejudice.” Lou says.

Lou’s in his sixties and originally from North Jersey. I’m pretty sure he’s in the mob.

He and his wife used to own and operate a bowling alley, but after their three kids moved out of the house and they sold the business to retire, she came to the realization that they had nothing left in common.

Carl the dentist and Maria the dog groomer nod their agreement.

“Violence is never the answer,” Dr. Laura Balish, the blond, bespeckled therapist who runs this group of misfit toys, admonishes gently.

“Well, sometimes it is,” Lou insists with a shrug. “Never say never, amiright?”

Laura gives Lou a disappointed third-grade teacher look that would cow a lesser man, then addresses the group.

“Thank you for sharing, Karen. Remember, we can’t control the feelings of others. We can only control our reactions and focus on finding happiness with ourselves.”

Dr. Laura was Aaron, Brayden, and Spencer’s therapist in the months after the divorce, because I wanted to make sure they were handling the transition all right.

“Would anyone else like to share?” Laura asks. “How about you, Connor? Where have your thoughts been lately?”

The “sharing with the group” thing was weird at first. Exposing. Once I realized that no one in this room actually knows what the hell they’re doing—that we’re all just winging it and hoping for the best—it got easier.

“I’ve been thinking lately that . . . maybe I’m not meant to have another relationship.”

I think about how, at this point in my life, I just want to be me and enjoy fun times and shared interests and fantastic sex with a woman who’s comfortable being her.

A relationship that’s simple, beautiful, easy, good.

It doesn’t sound like a tall order. But after two years of setups and hookups, and stupid fucking swipe left apps—it’s starting to feel like the unicorn at the end of a rainbow who shits gold coins. A myth.

I shrug and continue, “Maybe some of us only get one chance at bat.”

Tikki clicks her tongue. “Oh, baby, that’s just not true. Love is like a river; it keeps flowing and moving your whole life. You just haven’t found the right stream to run off with yet, but she’s out there.”

Tikki’s been married nine times. And divorced ten. While she obviously has experience in relationships, I don’t know if she’s the best person to take advice from on relationships that last.