The thing is, I should hate him. And I do. But I also miss him already, and I’m glad I blocked his number when I did, because I’m not so sure that if he called and begged me to come back that I’d be strong enough to say no.
Kilborough is a tourist town. Right now, it’s the off-season, but in a month, the place will pick up again. Winter is our only downtime, with summer being crazy and Halloween having sold out accommodation all week long.
It never used to be that way apparently, but forty-five years ago, they closed the massive prison here, and all the people who worked there moved away. Now, the prison and surrounding “ghost” town are a hot location for people who crave being terrified to come to.
The rest of Kilborough has been built around the historic site, and the whole town has embraced the theme of being a Halloween Town of sorts. With the Provin Mountain behind the prison, a walkway around the lake on one side, and farmland on the other, we’re snug in our corner of the world.
Instead of driving to Marty’s place, I change my mind at the last moment and head straight to the Kilborough Brewery. It’s a huge warehouse just off the boardwalk that serves as an axe bar, brewery, market, and café. The words “The Killer Brew” are stamped over the faded brick building.
Being midweek, the market on the other side and the café out front are both busy, but inside the brewery is quiet, missing the steady thunk that usually comes from the back room as people throw axes at a target.
There are still plenty of stools left at the long bar, and the second my butt hits the seat, I wave down the bartender and order two shots, followed by a beer to wash them down.
And as I’m sitting there, staring at the mirror over the bar, I hear my name being called.
“Payne Walker, what are you doing round these parts?”
I glance up to see the permanently cocky expression of one of my high school friends. Art de Almeida slides onto the barstool beside me, propping one elbow on the bar top, head tilted like he’s trying to figure me out.
Despite the shit day, I muster up a smile. “Hey, man. What are you doing here?”
“I run the place now. Mom and Dad took a step back and handed over the brewery.”
“Holy shit, congratulations.”
“Thanks.” His dark-lashed eyes narrow. “Why are you drinking on a weeknight?”
“It’s a long story.”
“I’m in no hurry.”
It’s strange. Even though Art and I haven’t stayed in touch and we haven’t spoken in years, I’m immediately comfortable in his presence. Plus, I’m going to have to tell people eventually, so I might as well try it out now.
“I found out my husband has been cheating on me.”
“Ouch. So, we’re drinking to forget, are we?” Art asks.
“Yup.”
“Wanna talk about it?”
I grunt. Because that’s a solid no, even though I’ll have to eventually.
“Okay …”
“I just … I don’t understand. How could he do this?”
Art squeezes my arms. “Sometimes people aren’t who we think they are. Even when we’ve known them for a really long time.”
“Twelve years.” I drain my beer.
“How did you find out?”
I swallow, the sting I felt when I saw the message hitting me afresh. “Someone we work with gave me details.” Details I won’t be uttering out loud. Ever. “It was going on for a while.”
Art only stares at me, then turns to the bartender and orders two more shots. “That fucker.”
I snort with amusement, even though I feel sick, and down the shots as soon as they hit the bar top. Art orders another one for himself. The atmosphere between us relaxes, and suddenly it’s like twenty years ago, when we were thick as thieves and could talk about anything. “I think … I think I want a divorce.” And even saying the word feels like the biggest failure of my life.
“I’m so sorry. Divorce is never easy.”
I frown and suddenly remember the excitement just after I finished college when Art was one half of the first gay couple to be married in Massachusetts … and also the first to divorce. “How did you handle it?”
His lips twitch. “I went back to sleeping around and didn’t look back.”
“Not sure that’s me.”
“Well, unless you’ve changed dramatically since high school, I agree. These things take time. You’ll grow from it, but it takes a while to clear the storm clouds and see it for the blessing it is.”
Blessing? I snort again. “What the hell do I do now?”
“Do you need to figure it out this second?”
I smile glumly. “I have the rest of this week on leave from work. If I don’t go back, I’m going to have to quit. I’ll have no job, no home, and the only money I have to my name is the ten K I cleared from our account.” I rub my forehead. “I’m forty years old, and I have nothing.”
“Nope, we’re not following that path.” Art reaches over the bar to pour me another shot and presses the glass into my hand. “You’re a qualified … gym teacher, right? And didn’t you buy an apartment down there? Either kick him out or sell it. You don’t have to quit your job if you don’t want to.”
“But do I want to stay in Boston now?”
“Do you?”
“I don’t know.” My whole body feels tired. “I miss so much of my nieces growing up while I’m down there, and there’s no way I can stay in our place, knowing what he did, and I’ll never afford a place close to the city on my own.”
“You have a lot to figure out,” Art says. “If you break up or choose to stay with him. No judgment. Only you can make that call.”
“It’s already over.” I scrunch up my face. “Think I can organize the divorce without having to see that fucker’s face?”
“Of course you can. But for some totally unsolicited advice, go back, take a minute to organize your life, and see where you end up.”
What he’s saying is completely reasonable. But I don’t want reason. Only alcohol and self-pity.
“And if you do end up back in Kilborough, let me know. I started a group for guys like us.”
“Like us?”
“Divorced men. It’s a support group, and there are a fair few of us now.”
“No offense, but that sounds sad. A group of guys hanging out and trying to act like they love their lives when they’re one breakdown away from a midlife crisis.”
Art laughs loudly and slaps my back. “You would think that. Hell, most people do. And that’s the point. Society has made divorce into this twisted, negative experience when all it is, is a fresh start. The DMC is a safe space. If a guy needs to vent, he can vent. If he needs pointers for dating again, we’ve got him. A lot of splits result in friends taking sides, and it’s usually always the man who’s the bad guy—or for queer couples, there’s always one on the outer. We’re friends, we’re a listening ear, and we’re motherfucking cheerleaders when our boys find love again. Maybe you won’t need that at all. But the offer’s there if you want it.”