Getting Real （Getting Some #3）
Emma Chase
For everyone who struggled in 2020 and anyone who is still struggling today. This story was my happy place, my hug, my sweet joyful escape. I hope it is for you too.
CHAPTER ONE
Connor
I never thought I抎 be that guy.
You know the type I mean. One of those guys who makes it through the first few trial and error, fixer-upper decades of adulthood, finally gets life figured out梐nd then has to start all over again.
I thought, by now, life would be smooth sailing梐s glassy as the lake on a still summer morning. In a lot of ways, it is.
I抦 in better shape in my early forties than I was in my twenties. I抦 blessed with one of those faces that just keeps getting better with age. I抳e got a great career, money in the bank, three most-of-the-time awesome kids, a fantastic dog, basically the whole world by the balls . . . except for the crash and burn of my marriage. And the big D of a divorce.
Some men don抰 mind starting over梘etting a tattoo, buying a motorcycle, trading in the starter wife for a blonder, perkier girlfriend named Candy.
But I liked being married. Being half of a team. Having a partner.
I was good at it.
I was serious about the whole, 搕ill death do us part?thing. But I guess everybody kind of is. It抯 not like you stand at the altar and think I抦 going to divorce the shit out of you one day.
And yet . . . here we are.
揝he took me to Nordstrom抯。？
My youngest son, Spencer, tosses his Minecraft green drawstring bag on the table and stands in the kitchen with shoulders that are more hunched than any ten-year-old抯 should ever be.
揟o shop for a bathing suit for her trip to Miami,?he tells me, after getting back from a clearly un-fun Saturday afternoon visit with his mom.
揥e were there for hours.?
Once the divorce was finalized, Stacey hung up her stay-at-home-mom shoes and moved up north for a new job in Manhattan and a new apartment in Hoboken. I bought a four-bedroom house with a finished basement, built-in pool, and fenced-in yard that抯 literally a five-minute drive from the house we used to live in. And now the boys and Rosie, our eight-year-old German Shepherd who doesn抰 act a day over two, live with me.
Because we always said we抎 raise them in Lakeside梩he same small, Jersey town I grew up in. Because the boys are happy here梩heir schools, their friends, their sports teams, our family梐ll here. Because so much had already changed for them, I didn抰 want that to change too.
So now I抦 also that guy. A single dad.
And Stacey? Well, she抯 . . . something else.
揟hen she got her nails done at the salon and made me sit next to her,?Spencer says. 揑 had to use my inhaler three times.?
I don抰 hate my ex-wife. Really. Most of the time I don抰 feel anything for her, except a discomforting confusion over how the woman she was when we got married could be so insanely different from the person she is today.
But at times like this梬hen my sweet, soft-hearted kid looks up at me with big brown kicked-puppy-dog eyes梙atred is really fucking tempting.
So is taking Stacey抯 prized possessions梙er Christian Louboutin shoes and that stupid Birkin bag and her butt-ugly Chanel dress梐nd setting them on fire in the backyard. We could roast marshmallows梩hrow in a couple beers, it抎 be just like college.
It would also be . . . unhelpful. Counterproductive.
See, I抦 a doctor梐n emergency department attending at Lakeside Memorial. I believe in science, medicine. I believe mental and emotional health is every bit as important as physical. I抳e seen sick kids梜ids who will never, ever have the chance to get better梐nd there抯 nothing on earth more important to me than my sons?well-being.
Which means pyromania will only be happening in my dreams.
And while I抣l definitely be calling my ex-wife later to tell her what she should already goddamn know梟ot to take Spencer somewhere that抯 going to aggravate his asthma梤ight now I crouch down in front of him and do what good divorced parents do.
Suck it up. Make this okay for him. Make him understand how this works, in the gentlest way possible.
My oldest son has other ideas.
揑 don抰 know why you still see her on her weekends. Brayden and I barely go anymore. Mom抯 a bitch, Spencer.?
揂aron,?my voice snaps, firm and disapproving.
Because a seventeen-year-old抯 brain isn抰 so different from a dog抯梚t抯 not the words you say, but how you say them.
揧ou抮e right; that sounded kind of messed up,?he concedes. Then he puts his hand on his brother抯 shoulder. 揗om抯 an asshole, Spence.?
I give him an irritated look and say the magic words that are guaranteed to remove him from the discussion.
揑sn抰 there an electronic device calling your name somewhere??
He salutes me with his glass of milk. 揟ouch??
After Aaron walks out the kitchen door, I turn back to Spencer.
揗om loves you, buddy.?
揟hen why is she acting like this??he asks in that whispery, wounded tone that isn抰 anything like whining.
揝he抯 going through something right now. A phase.?
His little brows draw together.
揧ou mean like how Brayden is in the bathroom all the time and uses up all the tissues? A phase like that??
Brayden抯 thirteen. It抯 a weird age.
揧eah. Sort of, kind of. A little bit like that.?
揃ut Brayden抯 a kid, Dad. Adults aren抰 supposed to go through phases.?
Childhood is the only time you get to think your parents are perfect. There抯 a security and innocence that comes from believing your mom and dad control everything, can protect you from anything. It sucks that Spencer never got to have that.
I cup the side of his dark-haired head before bringing him in for a hug.
揑 know . . . but sometimes they do.?
*
My old man was not a knocker-on-doors type of guy when we were growing up. He ascribed to the belief that since he paid for the house, premiums like privacy were his to giveth and his to taketh away.
Mostly taketh.
He also strongly suspected that if any of his sons wanted to do something behind a closed door, it most likely involved drinking or 搒moking the weed?or begetting him an early grandchild.
And梠kay梙e was totally right about that.
But one of the perks of having your own kids is you get to actively not do all the annoying shit your parents did. Feels a little bit like vengeance.
So, when I get to Aaron抯 closed bedroom door, I knock.
揅ome in,?is his immediate answer.
He抯 reclining on his bed, his light-brown hair that needs a trim pushed back by neon-red headphones, in a room smelling of sweaty socks and shrouded in tomb-like darkness thanks to perpetually sealed sunlight-blocking drapes.
揅an I talk to you a minute??
揇o I have a choice??he asks. Because my firstborn is both smart and a smart-ass梥o that抯 always fun.
I shake my head. 揘ot even a little.?
揟hat抯 what I figured.?
He slips his headphones down around his neck as I sit on the end of his bed, bracing my elbows on my knees.
揑 need you to lay off your mom in front of Spencer.?
I pause to let that sink in and to give him the chance to object. When he doesn抰， I go on.
揑 know you抮e pissed at her and I抦 not saying you don抰棓
揑抦 not pissed at her.?
Aaron抯 face is expressionless, his jaw relaxed, his mouth passive, his dark eyes trained steady and dispassionately on mine.
It抯 his lying face.
Every kid has one, and while he may get an A-plus in smart-assery, he抯 always been crap at lying.