Better Off Divorced

  Better Off Divorced

  Marianne Hansen

  Simon Watson Publishing

  Copyright © 2019 by Marianne Hansen

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  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

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  A Note from the Author

  About the Author

  1

  I thought Simon had outdone himself with the hot air balloon ride until I saw the table set for two with white, tapered candles and roses. When the violinist began playing as we got out of the basket, my heart started beating faster than a racing rabbit’s. It was dusk, and as we walked across the grass toward the table, a waiter in a tuxedo appeared out of nowhere to light the candles.

  The waiter served us and disappeared as quickly as he had arrived. Simon acted as though French onion soup, followed by spicy Cajun shrimp with wild rice, was as natural a choice as one would expect to find in an empty field. I tried not to look too closely or be too curious, but I lost all control when the chocolate covered strawberries appeared.

  “Where did all of this come from?” I asked, but only after I swallowed the strawberry Simon fed me. I looked around. “We're in an empty field. Where is all of this food coming from?”

  Simon smiled.

  “No, seriously. I’m starting to think we’re in an alternate universe or maybe a UFO has landed, and these guys are aliens.”

  “I knew you couldn’t just enjoy the moment,” he said, laughing gently. Simon pulled me into his arms. “If you look behind that tree,” he said, pointing to a large birch tree about twenty yards away, “there’s a building. It’s an abandoned outpost barn-type thing.”

  “Is that the official name?” I asked, smiling.

  “Why yes, it is. And the hot air balloon company let me use it for storage.”

  “And to hide people who are dressed up in tuxes?”

  He looked down at me. “Exactly. They’ve had to hide in there for two, three…”

  “Weeks?” I asked.

  He grinned. “Yep. I didn’t want to leave anything to chance.”

  I leaned into him. “This is perfect.” And it was. Late spring in Connecticut is amazing in its own right. The trees were overflowing with green leaves while the songs of frogs and crickets filled the night air. Pink lady slippers bloomed wildly near my feet.

  The waiter returned and took away the table settings. I watched him until he faded into the graying light. All that remained on the table were the candles and strawberries. “I bet that waiter is happy to be in the open air after being held in that abandoned outpost barn-like thing all those weeks.”

  “It’s a good evening for all involved.” Simon took my hands in his. “But I bet it could be better?”

  “How so?”

  He slid out of his chair and went down on one knee.

  I didn’t gasp, exactly. That would be too predictable. Instead, I did some sort of cough-snort-gasp. Which, looking back, was probably worse.

  Luckily for me, Simon was used to my less than sophisticated moments, and he just took it in stride. He removed a ring box from his jacket and opened it.

  I teared up. Then I got worried my nose was going to start running, so I cleared my throat.

  Simon’s smile widened.

  “Grace Anne Harper, will you marry me?”

  I tried clearing my throat again, but I couldn’t. Instead, I just nodded frantically.

  He put the ring on my finger, stood up and took me into his arms. After a few seconds of coughing, I squeaked out a “yes.”

  Then he kissed me.

  It was perfect. It blew away John’s proposal.

  There should be a law that all proposals must be made later in life when both people are more secure and have more money. You can still get married right after college, as I’d done with John, but the proposal happens at age thirty-nine. With a hot air balloon. And strawberries.

  As I sat in my classroom the next morning, I briefly wondered if the previous night had been a dream. It had been flawless. Absolutely perfect. But it had been a school night. At the moment, however, my head was on my desk, and there was a good chance that the quiz I was supposed to be photocopying was stuck to my forehead. Students began filing in.

  “Are you engaged?” Sally, my sometimes-too-attentive front row middle seat student, asked. She didn’t question why my head was on my desk, but she noticed the ring.

  I put my hand on the quiz to keep it on the desk and lifted my head. I looked over at her. I looked at my left hand. It took a minute for my eyes to focus. Yep. It had all happened.

  I reminded myself that I was tired, but excited. “Why, yes. Yes, I am. How kind of you to notice.” I knew I shouldn't have worn the ring. People were going to stop me all day and ask me about it and expect me to talk to them. Normally, that would be a good thing. But not today. Today I needed to make last minute calls to make sure food and chairs had been correctly ordered for the reunion.

  I sighed.

  Sally was still standing in front of my desk looking concerned. “And this is a good thing?”

  I really wanted Sally to sit down. I stood up and picked up the quiz. “I’m ecstatic, but my brilliant life should not stop your education from continuing.” I walked to the front of the class and instructed everyone to take out a piece of paper and a pencil. A collective groan went out among the class.

  “There’s only a couple weeks of school left and we need to make sure the taxpayers get their money’s worth,” I said. I looked at my quiz. It really should be handed out to each student. I decided to skip the question with a quote from the book. “These will be long answers, so we’ll just number as we go along.”

  I read the first question without paying attention to it. I reread it and hoped it made sense to the students. Nothing was making sense to me. An orange, purple and yellow striped hot air balloon kept floating through my mind. Simon had told me that by proposing to me on a school night, he ensured surprise. It was, but now I was paying the price.

  Somehow, I made it through my first three classes. When the last student left for lunch, I shut my door and sat down. I looked at my engagement ring and smiled. Reaching for the phone to call Simon, I saw the checklist I had for the reunion.

  I thought my own high school reunions were Satanic beasts, but they didn’t even compare to being in charge of someone else's.

  I sighed again. I really hadn’t wanted to help with this reunion. Maybe I should have felt honored that the class secretary from my first year of teaching high school English called on me. Instead, I was beat. When I’d agreed to help, I thought it would be signing a few papers. Then Principal Bennett informed me that if anything went wrong, I would be personally responsible. Not Rebecca Evans, the alumna in charge. Me. Grace Harper.

 
; I had thought it was ridiculous to even have a five-year reunion. I’d never heard of it before. Principal Bennett had wanted to stand out from previous principals, and this is what he’d come up with. He’d called Rebecca and told her that it was her responsibility to throw the reunion because she had been the senior class secretary and he couldn't get a hold of the class president or treasurer. Originally, he’d offered the current senior class officers to be part of a committee so we could train them for their own five-year reunion. Then the officers organized a senior sleep-in and filled Principal Bennett's office with balloons, and with that he impeached them. We tried to recruit other alumni, but they'd heard about the impeachment and no one wanted to get involved.

  Every year I think I should go into administration. When the time comes to do something about it, though, I tell myself I have metathesiophobia, a phobia of change. I don’t have any of the symptoms, but there isn’t a word for what I have. The thought of change just makes me exhausted. It always requires so much effort and movement. Thinking of doing something different makes me want to take a nap.

  I Googled what could be causing this and words like bipolar disorder, seasonal affective disorder, borderline personality disorder, and systemic exertion intolerance disease popped up. I didn’t have those symptoms either and people make assumptions if you say you have a personality disorder. If I tell people I have metathesiophobia, they have no idea what I’m talking about and give me sympathy. I only say this when I’m bored or someone rubs me the wrong way. There’s got to be a word that describes this personality trait. And it probably isn't a flattering one.

  Atelophobia is the fear of not being good enough or not being seen as perfect. After my fourth year of teaching, I made it my goal to never be mistaken for someone with atelophobia. My life has been better ever since.

  I picked up the phone, but instead of calling Simon, I called Rebecca.

  She answered on the second ring. “Hello, this is Rebecca.”

  “Rebecca, it’s Grace.” When we first spoke a couple of months ago, she kept calling me “Ms. Harper.” That may have been the appropriate form of address when she was my student, but now, having a twenty-something call me “Ms. Harper” made me feel old. It was hard enough comparing my middle-aged, TJ Maxx shopping self with her bohemian ability to wear whatever she wanted. At least my blond hair was shinier than her brunette. I may follow after Jo from Little Women with my hair being my one beauty, but it was truly magnificent. Too bad I couldn’t get it to cover my crow’s feet. Happily, after three weeks, Rebecca relented and started calling me Grace. I felt a couple wrinkles smooth out around my eyes.

  “Grace! I’m so glad you called. I just spoke with the deli and they only had us down for five meat trays instead of seven. They said it shouldn’t be a problem, but now I’m worried everything might be screwed up. Why would they have written down five? It doesn’t even sound or look like seven. Do you think I told them five? What if I told everyone the wrong numbers?”

  I twisted the ring around my finger. “I’m sure it’s fine. If a couple of people don’t get a sandwich, it’ll be okay. Someone’s bound to be on a diet.”

  Rebecca laughed. “I guess you’re right. This whole thing’s stressing me out. I just want it to be over with. Do you think I could welcome everyone and then leave?”

  “Only if you take me with you.” I could pawn my new ring, book a flight to Hawaii and forget about all of this. Except I wanted my ring. I was not doing a good job fighting anthropophobia, the fear of society. I needed to develop anuptaphobia or the fear of being single. Forever. And having no friends.

  These phobias were all Simon’s fault. Mostly for getting me the “365 Days of Phobias” calendar for Christmas, but also for proposing to me at a time when I couldn’t concentrate on throwing an elaborate, out-of-control wedding. I didn’t want a huge wedding, but I did want to be a bridezilla. Okay, maybe not a bridezilla. That also sounded tiring. Perhaps just a bride-lizard.

  Rebecca nervously fake-laughed. I must’ve sounded a little too serious.

  “Just kidding,” I said, as lightly as I could. “I’m so excited to see everyone this weekend.” I practically sang as I spoke. “It’s all going to be wonderful and everyone will have a lovely time.” I needed to get off the phone and ingest some caffeine. “I’ll call after school and see how things are going then.”

  I wondered if there’s a phobia in which you’re afraid that all of the swear words you say in your head will one day come out all at once.

  “That would be great.” Rebecca no longer sounded nervous. “I would really appreciate that.” We muttered farewells and hung up.

  I glanced at the clock above my door. I only had two more periods to make it through. I can do this, I thought.

  I took a bite of my tuna fish sandwich. I’d made one for everyone. I felt quite domestic, making tuna fish sandwiches, instead of the usual peanut butter and jelly. I hoped they’d accept this sandwich as their main meal for the day and wouldn’t expect dinner. Or maybe they’d settle for toasted tuna fish sandwiches for dinner.

  My door opened. A blond head popped in.

  “Is that tuna fish?” Simon asked.

  I smiled. Every time I saw Simon I smiled. I couldn’t help it. I wasn’t sure if it was his thick, wavy blond hair or his chunky, black framed glasses. I simply felt better when I saw him.

  “It is.” I held up the sandwich. “Would you like the other half?”

  He walked into my classroom. “Did you actually make that? With your own hands?” He sat down in the chair I kept by my desk for students who needed extra help. He picked up the other half of the sandwich. “I feel like we should say something to honor this auspicious occasion.”

  “Shut up,” I said.

  “Not what I had in mind, but it works.” He took a bite. “Wow. This might be one of the best tuna fish sandwiches I’ve ever had.”

  “Ha! Now you’re just teasing me. What do you want?”

  He grinned then kissed me on the cheek. “Nothing. Just basking in your presence.” He saw my ring and winked. “I wasn’t sure when we'd be able to see each other tonight so I wanted to come over today. We haven’t seen each other for a couple of hours, and it's been too long.” He took another bite. “How are things?”

  I took a bite myself and chewed slowly. He always wanted to know how things were. But there were times I didn’t want to tell him. I wanted our life together to have started before I met John. I wanted my boys to be his boys and I wanted to be a happy little family.

  “I guess John had been coming around the track to see Paul and Tyler. Tyler says hi and talks with him for a couple of minutes after track, but Paul leaves immediately.”

  “James goes over tonight, doesn’t he?” Simon finished the sandwich and looked at my desk for something else to eat.

  “Yeah,” I said. My mouth was dry now, but I took another bite and tried to chew. It kept me from saying anything else.

  “It would be nice if John would be willing to wait to see the boys when he picks up James.” He found a bag of carrots and took a few.

  I swallowed a couple of times and took a drink of water. “He wants to be seen as a normal part of their lives, I guess. Someone who watches their practices.” I threw my arms up and made jazz hands.

  “Parents don't watch the practices,” he said while chewing on a carrot. “Is Trudy there too?”

  I froze. Any mention of Trudy made my nostrils flare. She’d been my best friend until she realized John had a crush on her. Cleo, her husband, became old news and John became a willing adulterer. Trudy had tried to convince me we should stay friends. She had a problem that had nothing to do with her friendship with me. She loved the secrecy and suspense of affairs. She’d had others and we’d stayed friends. She tried to convince me it wasn’t her fault that John was the first man who truly understood her. She wished it hadn’t been John, but what could she do? When she decided to marry John a month before I was due to have John's baby, I
spray painted a scarlet A on her front door.

  “He doesn’t have much taste when it comes to women,” I said.

  Simon put his hand on mine. “He chose you.”

  I squeezed his hand. “And look how well that turned out.”

  “His loss. My gain.”

  I laughed. “That’s a little cliché, isn’t it?”

  “If it’s true then it isn’t a cliché.” He looked at his watch. “I only have a couple more minutes. Are we going to kiss passionately before I have to leave?”

  I felt my face get warm. It didn’t matter how long we’d been together, the fact he wanted me still made me blush.

  He leaned down, took my chin in his hand and pulled my face closer to his. I closed my eyes. My heart began to race a little faster, and I waited for him to kiss me. I wasn’t happy that I’d been divorced, but I was glad I’d found Simon. John’s kisses never stopped time like Simon’s. I watched Gone with the Wind in college, and I remember Rhett Butler telling Scarlet:

  “No, I don't think I will kiss you, although you need kissing badly. That’s what wrong with you. You should be kissed and often, and by someone who knows how.”

  After I met Simon, I knew what Rhett meant.

  When we broke apart, he sighed. “I’m off to work, unfortunately. One of us has to have a moral calling,” he nodded at me, “and one of us needs to make money.”

  “Ha.” I grabbed a carrot. “If I’d only focused on my career all those years ago.” I let my voice drop off.

  “Well, I'm glad you didn’t. I wouldn’t have met you if you’d been a successful something else.”