GETTING REAL_KINDLE_Emma Chase Read online

  GETTING REAL

  Emma Chase

  Getting Real

  Copyright © 2022 by Emma Chase

  Originally published as an Audible Original on Audible in 2021

  Cover design: By Hang Le

  Photography: Wander Aguiar Photography

  Interior Book Design: Champagne Book Design

  ISBN: 9781733959735

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law.

  This book is a work of fiction. All names, characters, locations, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, locales, or events is entirely coincidental.

  TABLE OF CONTENTS

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Epilogue One

  Epilogue Two

  Preview of Royally Screwed

  Prologue

  Chapter One

  Also by Emma Chase

  About the Author

  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’d 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—and then has to start all over again.

  I thought, by now, life would be smooth sailing—as glassy as the lake on a still summer morning. In a lot of ways, it is.

  I’m in better shape in my early forties than I was in my twenties. I’m blessed with one of those faces that just keeps getting better with age. I’ve 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’t mind starting over—getting 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, “till death do us part” thing. But I guess everybody kind of is. It’s not like you stand at the altar and think I’m going to divorce the shit out of you one day.

  And yet . . . here we are.

  “She took me to Nordstrom’s.”

  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’s should ever be.

  “To 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.

  “We 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’s 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’t act a day over two, live with me.

  Because we always said we’d raise them in Lakeside—the same small, Jersey town I grew up in. Because the boys are happy here—their schools, their friends, their sports teams, our family—all here. Because so much had already changed for them, I didn’t want that to change too.

  So now I’m also that guy. A single dad.

  And Stacey? Well, she’s . . . something else.

  “Then she got her nails done at the salon and made me sit next to her,” Spencer says. “I had to use my inhaler three times.”

  I don’t hate my ex-wife. Really. Most of the time I don’t 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—when my sweet, soft-hearted kid looks up at me with big brown kicked-puppy-dog eyes—hatred is really fucking tempting.

  So is taking Stacey’s prized possessions—her Christian Louboutin shoes and that stupid Birkin bag and her butt-ugly Chanel dress—and setting them on fire in the backyard. We could roast marshmallows—throw in a couple beers, it’d be just like college.

  It would also be . . . unhelpful. Counterproductive.

  See, I’m a doctor—an 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’ve seen sick kids—kids who will never, ever have the chance to get better—and there’s 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’ll definitely be calling my ex-wife later to tell her what she should already goddamn know—not to take Spencer somewhere that’s going to aggravate his asthma—right 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.

  “I don’t know why you still see her on her weekends. Brayden and I barely go anymore. Mom’s a bitch, Spencer.”

  “Aaron,” my voice snaps, firm and disapproving.

  Because a seventeen-year-old’s brain isn’t so different from a dog’s—it’s not the words you say, but how you say them.

  “You’re right; that sounded kind of messed up,” he concedes. Then he puts his hand on his brother’s shoulder. “Mom’s an asshole, Spence.”

  I give him an irritated look and say the magic words that are guaranteed to remove him from the discussion.

  “Isn’t there an electronic device calling your name somewhere?”

  He salutes me with his glass of milk. “Touché.”

  After Aaron walks out the kitchen door, I turn back to Spencer.

  “Mom loves you, buddy.”

  “Then why is she acting like this?” he asks in that whispery, wounded tone that isn’t anything like whining.

  “She’s going through something right now. A phase.”

  His little brows draw together.

  “You mean like how Brayden is in the bathroom all the time and uses up all the tissues? A phase like that?”

  Brayden’s thirteen. It’s a weird age.

  “Yeah. Sort of, kind of. A little bit like that.”

  “But Brayden’s a kid, Dad. Adults aren’t supposed to go through phases.”

  Childhood is the only time you get to think your parents are perfect. There’s 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.

  “I 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 “smoking the weed” or begetting him an early grandchild.

  And—okay—he 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’s closed bedroom door, I knock.

  “Come in,” is his immediate answer.

  He’s 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.

  “Can I talk to you a minute?”

  “Do I have a choice?” he asks. Because my firstborn is both smart and a smart-ass—so that’s always fun.

  I shake my head. “Not even a little.”

  “That’s 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.

  “I 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’t, I go on.

  “I know you’re pissed at her and I’m not saying you don’t—”

  “I’m not pissed at her.”

  Aaron’s face is expressionless, his jaw relaxed, his mouth passive, his dark eyes trained steady and dispassionately on mine.

  It’s his lying face.

  Every kid has one, and while he may get an A-plus in smart-assery, he’s always been crap at lying.

  “It kind of seems like you are, Aaron. Like you have been for a while now.”

  “Nope,” he pops the p at the end, stubbornly. “She decided to stop being a mom; I decided to stop being her son. Everybody wins.”

  “Right.” I nod, choosing my battles. “But, Spencer’s young—he idolizes you and still adores your mom. And when you badmouth her, it makes him feel like he has to pick between defending her and going along with you—and that doesn’t feel good for him. Can you understand that?”

  Aaron takes a breath. “Yeah, I get it. I’ll lay off the cursing and the name-calling. But . . . I mean, she basically abandoned us, Dad. Dumped us on you and hasn’t looked back. Don’t you think it’s better for Spencer to know that that happened because there’s something wrong with her—and not because there’s something wrong with him?”

  Teenagers argue a lot, but they rarely make actual sense. The times when they do are always accompanied by an odd mix of pride and unease—the feeling that the baby bird is getting ready to fly the nest, that the student is becoming the master . . . that you’re one step closer to possibly getting your ass stuck in a retirement home.

  Still, I give the kid his due.

  “Touché.”

  * * *

  Growing up, my mother did her best to raise her four sons to be gentlemen. It was important to her that the Daniels boys were chivalrous, respectable, and mannerly.

  Not an easy feat, considering we settled our differences by punching and shoving, and pinning each other to the floor and farting on each other’s heads until somebody gave in . . . but she tried.

  Which is why, when my ex-mother-in-law called to ask if I could move some furniture out to her curb that got ruined when her basement flooded last week, I didn’t hesitate to say yes. I make the half-hour drive over to Hammitsburg, pulling my truck up in front of the two-story, beige stucco hacienda-style house that Stacey’s mom redecorated with the life insurance money after her dad passed away when she was ten.

  And I’m not alone. My brothers, Ryan, Garrett, and Timmy, came along to help. Because not only do they owe me a lifetime of favors for the various shit I helped bail them out of when we were teenagers, but also because we’re close. The four of us actually like each other.

  Most of the time.

  “Hiiii, boys!”

  Joyce Skillman, Stacey’s mom, stands on the stoop with her right hand raised and waving vigorously, wearing high-cut black velour lounge shorts and a low-cut matching top that’s at least fifty percent cleavage.

  Joyce is a piece of work. She’s not like my mom or any other mom I know—she never was.

  Joyce is . . . youth-oriented. Blond and bouncy even at sixty. She’s into yoga, clean food, and air purifiers, Botox and breast implants and just enough nipping and tucking to keep things fresh.

  My boys call her by her first name, per her request.

  “I made martinis!” She shakes a half-filled martini glass in her other hand, because she’s also the kind of mom who loves martinis and isn’t shy about sharing her passion.

  She offered one to Aaron when he was eleven.

  “Hey, Joyce,” I greet her as the four of us approach the stoop.

  She reaches up on her toes, clutching me in a full-body-pressing hug.

  “Connor—it’s been too long!”

  It hasn’t been that long. She was with Stacey a couple months ago during the weekend kid trade-off, when all three boys were still spending time with their mother.

  “You look good.” She gives my bicep a squeeze and strokes a hand across my T-shirt- covered chest.

  And then lower, slowly . . . down over my abs.

  “Have you been working out?”

  A robot voice squawks in my head.

  Danger, Will Robinson! Danger!

  Joyce has always been affectionate, but she’s never been ass-grabby. At least not with me.

  “Uh . . . thanks.” I take a step back, out of the grope zone. “Not working out any more than usual.”

  I glance at my brothers—gauging their reactions—wondering if I’m reading too much into it.

  Timmy’s grinning like a pervy idiot. If WTF had an expression, it would be Garrett’s face at this very moment. And Ryan . . . Ryan’s staring at the ’67 Camaro in the neighbor’s driveway, most likely not listening to a word that’s being said.

  “Well, bachelorhood suits you.” Joyce says, picking up a clear-liquid-filled glass from the table and holding it toward me with a sly smile. “Martini?”

  “I’m okay, thanks.”

  Never one to turn down a free drink, Timmy volunteers.

  “I’ll take it.”

  Joyce giggles as he drains the glass in one gulp. Then her eyes are back on me as she lifts a toothpick to her mouth and slowly slides the speared olive off with her lips.

  And it’s like I’m in the Twilight Zone—the dysfunctional family Twilight Zone.

  “We should probably get started on the furniture.” I hook my thumb back over my shoulder. “Aaron’s keeping an eye on Brayden and Spencer, but Bray’s been giving him a hard time lately so I don’t want to leave them alone for too long.”

  I’ve been come-on to by the wrong woman before. Patients, the wives of a few hospital administrators—it happens. I know how to let a woman down gently. I’m hoping that mentioning the boys will steer Joyce away from the danger zone.

  But she doesn’t take the bait.

  Instead, she bats her eyelashes in my direction and says, “Aren’t I lucky—four big strong boys here just for me.”

  * * *

  For the next hour, we drag two antique couches, a red chaise lounge, a dining table, and a dozen wooden folding chairs up the basement steps and out to the curb.

  It’s old furniture, heavy as shit, consisting of actual solid wood. And the narrow stairway mak
es maneuvering hard and tempers hot.

  This isn’t a problem for me and Ryan.

  “You okay on your side?” I ask him from the opposite end of the table before I move.

  “All good.”

  Ryan’s only two years younger than I am, so he’s always been less of a brother I had to watch out for and more like a partner in crime. He’s matter-of-fact, direct, and to the point, and slow to piss off.

  “Jesus Christ, Timmy—I didn’t plan on getting my fingers crushed today. Can you turn it to the right and stop screwing around?”

  Garrett’s four years younger than me and definitely more like a little brother. He’s perceptive, smart, caring—he can read people.

  “But I’m so good at screwing around. It’s my duty to show the rest of you how it’s done.”

  Then there’s Timmy.

  My parents’ final swing and miss for a girl. I’ve always felt extra protective of him. Being fourth in a line of three hard acts to follow couldn’t have been easy. Plus, there’s a seven-year age gap between him and Garrett, which in kid years is huge.

  This one time, when Garrett was fifteen, my parents went out to dinner and me and Ryan were somewhere and Garrett was supposed stay at home to babysit Tim all night. But Garrett’s high-school-girlfriend-now-wife, Callie, came over to watch a movie and afterward Garrett wanted to walk her home. He told Timmy to lock the door behind him and stay in the house until he got back.

  Timmy—being the annoying eight-year-old baby brother he was—threatened to tell Mom and Dad, and whined about how much trouble Garrett was gonna be in if he got kidnapped.

  Garrett told Tim that if he let himself get kidnapped, he was going to beat the shit out of him when we eventually got him back. Timmy flipped Garrett the bird with both hands and slammed the door in his face.

  And that pretty much set the tone of their relationship for the rest of their lives.

  “You’re such a dick sometimes,” Garrett grumbles.

  Timmy is unrepentant.

  “That’s why you love me, bro.”

  Once the final piece of furniture has been moved, Joyce pours each of us a glass of ice water with lemon in the living room.