Dangerously Close To Bearable, Chapter 1
Well hello! Here is the first chapter of my brand new novella. I’ll also be serializing the story on ScribbleHub. Here we go!
At least he paid for the Triple Dipper.
I’m staring at my phone. Not even anything in particular, just looking at the screen. My thumb hovers over the photo app, my preferred self-soothing-via-nostalgic-flagellation method, but I don’t tap it. Not yet.
Falling to pieces over your failure as an adult is a ritual best practiced in private. You can pretend your suffering is unique, and you avoid the worst part of public self-pity: empathy and kindness.
My date, Ethan Winter, returns to the table, and I still cannot get over his name. I had to remind him that Resident Evil was a video game. I explain the hilarious mistake Capcom made in RE VII—that, even though it had a perfect replica of a contemporaneous Texas driver’s license, there was a house with a basement, in Louisiana.
“Is that weird?” He asked.
He got a mini-lecture on why some places in the south don’t have basements.
“Cool. Do you watch a lot of reality shows?”
The conversation gets really fuzzy from there, and I’d say it’s to my benefit. He was blandly handsome, tall, carefully mussed brown hair, face a little like Aaron Ekhart but less distinctive, sort of narrow and pointy. He talked a lot about his job, which sounded less like an actual job and more like a make-work program his dad gave him. It involved reading lots of emails and drinking coffee.
He worked out a lot, way more than me, and talked around my weight for every compliment. Lots of qualifiers.
Of course it won’t end in sex.
He returns to the table, barely looking my direction. “Shall we?”
I don’t even bother to smile. “Yeah, let’s head out.”
****
Back home, I stumble through my front door, and almost trip over the pile of shoes I’ve accumulated over the last three weeks. “Shit!” I cry, trying to regain my footing. I barrel forward before catching myself on the banister.
Need to move them. But not right now.
Right now I have a pity party.
Looking around my darkened, shabby, small house, I make a beeline for the living room couch, my preferred self-loathing location.
I slip out of my shoes. My faded and patched dress. Peel off my stockings, and melt into the cushions, the degraded memory foam struggling to mold itself to my body. The fabric is worn but soft, aging mostly gracefully.
Once seated and feeling the shaky sobs in my chest, I pull my phone out of my bra. I tap the photo app, and let the memories do the rest.
I scroll to the album “College” and open it, tapping and swiping through the photos: smiling faces, Herculean amounts of alcohol, groups of friends clumped together like hydrogen atoms. The metaphor is intentional.
Not even four photos in and I’m already wrecked. Haven’t even gotten to New Year’s 2008.
****
The driveway is packed with cars—four sedans, all full of parent crap, with another three on the curb.
I seethe, feel my anger, acknowledge it, validate its existence.
Then, like every other underemployed, depressed millennial, I actively repress it in order to pretend I’m well-adjusted for a few minutes.
I take my deep breaths, knowing that Lacey scheduled this specifically for me.
Grabbing the knapsack of Aiden’s non-negotiables (iPad, Steam Deck, 12-year old Kindle that reads pirated books on), I trudge to Robert’s house—the one he bought on a lucky investment in cryptocurrency.
After we were separated, but before the divorce. Half of it should be mine.
I didn’t want to fight with the lawyers.
I knock on the door, three dogs bark, two babies cry, and four women tut tut the intrusion.
Silently bracing myself for Lacey’s sales pitch, I am greeted by—
“Mom!”
Aiden! My sweet, sweet, honey baby boo child, Aiden. Five foot nothing, narrow shoulders, a mess of brown curls like his mom, with a sharp jaw and nose like his dad. His eyes are anime-big from his lenses.
“A.B. Baby!” I hug him, grateful that someone still likes me for me. “How are you?”
“It’s okay. Lacey’s—“
“Aiden!” Robert admonishes from another room.
“I’m not calling her mom, Dad.”
“And why not?”
“Because Mom’s right here.”
And the room goes silent.
Really? That’s what shuts these people up?
“Come in, I got something I want to show you,” he says, walking up the stairs. “Intensive starts Monday, and I want to be ready.”
A boy who loves school. A mother couldn’t ask for more.
We get up to his room. The door is plastered with characters from the manga and comics he reads, plus a few book covers of stuff I gave him—A Game of Thrones, Magician: Apprentice, Leviathan Wakes.
I step in and he hands me a sheet of paper. “This is my, uh, first draft?”
“Of your recital?”
He nods, vibrating with joy.
Two musical numbers, one aria, one art song. “What’s first?”
“Maria.”
“‘For Forever’ and ‘Wait for it’? Are you sure?”
“Dr. Momand said I have the chops.” That woman has never steered him wrong. “We’ve run through them twice.”
“And…’Lonely House’. Contemporary, interesting.”
He smiles big. “It’s going at the end.”
“Hm, maybe ‘For Forever’. No—‘Maria’. The other three have quiet endings. You want them to remember you, A.B.”
“Wasn’t this supposed to be a drop-off?” A nasally, sniveling shithead voice whines behind me.
Robert. I turn around. Balding, too buff, skin getting leathery. His nipples are visible under his shirt. He’s the kind of person people make YouTube videos about—to mercilessly mock him.
“Our son had something he wanted to show me,” I respond. “And I was giving him some tips.” I turn back to Aiden. “Run that by Dr. Momand, see what she thinks. I love you.” And we hug one more time. “Call me any time.”
“‘Kay.”
I step out of the room and close the door. “Is there a fucking problem?” I hiss. “He’s entitled to show me what he’s doing.”
“We have to get up at 6am from now til break for him, don’t egg him on.”
“Are you fucking kidding me?” I take a step. “You agreed to this. You knew what he required. And you said yes. You don’t get to make fucking excuses about taking care of OUR son—as in, yours and mine. Is that fucking clear?”
“He’s throwing off the vibe—“
“I don’t give a shit about the vibe, Robert! I give a shit about that sweet boy being able to sing those songs like the angel he is! You scam two million—“
“Hey now, let’s not—“
I’m in his face, finger pointing. “Shut the fuck up! You make that money and suddenly you’ve always been like this. I know better, you fucking loser. I know better.
“And so does Aiden. He’s worked harder for this than you ever have, so don’t fuck this up, or I’m coming for this fucking money.”
His face curdles in disgust, shock, and…fear. Yessssss, fear. “You wouldn’t.”
“I’ve got the bank statements, you fuck. I come after it, there’s no more fucking money left.
“So take care of our fucking son.”
I stomp down the stairs, where Lacey is waiting at the foot.
The only person I should hate more than Robert, and yet…I can’t. She’s too strong for that. He doesn’t deserve her. Knowing that’s true makes me feel awful.
“Hey, I was wondering—“
“It’s a pyramid scheme, Lace, get a real job,” I say, not looking her in the eye for fear of making a genuine emotional connection.
Once I’m in the car, I sigh the anxiety out. Fuck. Fuck fuck. That slimy fuck, I can’t fucking believe him. Wasn’t until 2020 that he turned into this. Before, he was just an annoying but tolerable burnout. Now, he’s juiced up and yelling about Bitcoin.
I get a text. “Hey mom, sorry.”
“Oh no, A.B., it’s fine. Dad is dad. You’re perfect. Send me your takes.”
“K <3”
***
A notification pops up. December 2.
Brett Baxter’s birthday.
That name…wow. Memories.
Nothing I want to revisit.
I open Facebook and check my memories. The pictures are there, the parties, the movies, the pretzels (he loved pretzels, especially those ungodly dense sourdough hards), his smile, his eyes, his—
Tapping the picture, I look at us, all smiles, no cares.
Me, Brett, Zoey, Dana. Is that Noel? Yeah, the English lit guy. Really into esotericism. Oh! And Bernie. The tagged names are still there, but Brett and Bernie’s are grayed out. They deleted?
Happens.
I mull sending a happy birthday text to Brett. I know why I would, and it’s far too desperate, even for me.
But I push past the ache in my chest to send one text.
“Hey, Zoey! I hope this is still your number. It’s been a long time! Not trying to bother you but if you want to hang out in person sometime…” for about two hundred more words.
***
Another day, another date, another disappointment.
Marvin was 58, and he thought I was 24.
I leave that to the side.
Luckily, I have an emotional support friend tonight.
“Zoey!”
“Amy!”
I hug her, drag her inside.
She’s a friend from college. She was on track for a wrestling scholarship, but blew out her knee at a match at nationals, ruining that. So she went to state school and became a business major.
We’ve been friendly, chatting a bit, but divorce makes you want to convince yourself you’re not a failure, so having friends around helps.
We’re on the couch and pouring the Cabernet in seconds. “Okay,” Zoey says, sipping, “how you been?”
“Small talk, or truth?”
“Truth, I can handle it.”
I sigh. “Divorce, dating, disaster.”
“The adult three,” she says.
“For who? You’re the one with two partners.”
She smiles. “Sarah’s always looking for new people…”
Zoey once described to me what it was like to SEE Sarah for the first time, how it made her breath catch, her pulse quicken. How her skin warmed at Sarah’s touch, how thinking of her made Zoey’s stomach flip.
Nobody has made me feel like that in years.
And, let’s get this out of the way now: no.
Just no.
But the idea, the feelings…ugh, wouldn’t that be nice?
And for a woman! Alas…
“Yeah,” I say, taking a big swallow. “Tragic, I know.”
“Well, I’m not here to recruit you, okay?” Zoey rests a hand on my knee. “It’s life. I’m really sorry about Robert. It’s not much, but we’re here.”
“I know.” My chest is tight. “It’s just…so fucking stupid. We’re all adults, and you think life is gonna be perfect, then shit just falls off.
“Is it supposed to be like this? Is it supposed to hurt?” I set my glass down, grab my phone. Aiden texted "Goo night Mama". I send "Goo night A”. Our little typo, eight years on.
“You’re not my therapist, I don’t want to dump on you," I say, "but, this isn’t a new thing! We’ve been separated for over a year, but it’s so much more intense now."
Zoey leans in. "It’s real. You’re done, it’s over. That’s a lot to handle."
"How did you handle it?"
"What?" Zoey snorts. "I, uh…not sure you get my life."
I shake my head. "No, I mean…starting over? Aiden’s with Robert to do his Fine Arts stuff, Will’s still at school, I’m just kinda…yeah."
"Mmm, yeah." Zoey sets her wine down, embraces me. "How nice do you want me to be?"
"Very nice."
She laughed. “You gotta ask for what you want. Simple as.
“You’re single, you’re beautiful, and you have the whole house to yourself. No kids, no husband, and…wait, how long are you alone?”
“Til the end of the month.”
“So you’ve got plenty of time to think. Go dancing, get a hobby, call some old friends,” she says, sitting back. “Have some fun! Zack and Sarah always like to do that tabletop gaming shit.”
“Like Pathfinder?” I ask.
“That’s your default?”
“Aiden’s a fan!” He has enough of those damn books upstairs. Glad it was that instead of those Warhammer figurines. Robert tried to encourage both, with my money.
Reasons. They dull the pain.
Zoey scrolls through her phone. “Lots of our friends are moving back. Courtney came back last November—“
“Courtney?”
“Remember Mike’s best friend? The one that got cum in their pants that one night at that party?”
“Jizzy…oh!” Somehow, the idea is still novel to me. At almost 40 years old, I get caught off guard by it. “That’s wonderful.”
“It is. She’s amazing.” Zoey goes quiet, her eyes lose focus for a sec. “But things are good for us. You gotta take a risk, okay?”
“A risk? Me?” Hitting the limit on chain restaurant margs was as far as I was willing to go right now.
“Yes! You! You don’t have to make it happen, necessarily—you just have to be open. You’ll get a choice, trust me—newfound stability can get messed up fast. We don’t know how to act when nothing’s nipping at our heels. I’ve been there.”
“You’re right,” I say. She’s right, and I hate it, but I have no other options.
I need to do something stupid. Something I’ll regret. Something so cliche Aiden and Will would become visibly upset if I was narrating it to them, because I’d look like a loser.
***
Casual sex is worse than dating. It’s just “eczema of the penis, babe, I don’t need a condom,” and then there is, “oh, I thought…you’re not married anymore? Right, sorry.”
A week ticking over from Sunday to Monday, after days of shitty dates, no loads, not even the barest hint of a handjob, and now I’m watching Vine compilations to soothe myself. I don’t think this is what Zoey meant by taking risks.
Whatever. I’m curled up on the couch, scrolling through my contacts. Names flash by, numbers of people I barely talked to, or needed for a specific fundraiser or booster club activity, or one of those teachers who insisted on talking to me or Robert over the phone. Very few people I’d call friends.
My social circle has contracted that much, yes. It’s a tragedy, the same thing that happens to a bunch of adults. But wasn’t it supposed to be different? Weren’t we supposed to be better off than our parents? Guess that didn’t really pan out very well.
Who cares.
I realize I’m spinning out and pause my idle scrolling. I take a deep breath, and scroll up instead of down.
On a wild notion, a name appears in my head: Brett Baxter.
Oh my god, Brett Baxter.
We were sweethearts. The first boy I ever loved, even though I never told him. For so long, we were inseparable, in the same major, the same classes, the same summer programs. We were young, wild, free, horny, and in incredibly good shape. I’d make a safe bet that he was inside me as much or more than Robert ever was.
He loved my body. I loved his. But we decided it was a fling, that we weren’t meant to last, and things ended.
“Well, Mr. Baxter, things are about to begin again, anew, one again—that was a repeat,” I say, tapping his name.
Oh my god I did that. I instantly his cancel before it rings.
My breath is fast, my mouth dry.
This feels like the risk.
And what’s the worst that could happen? A lot, but I focus on “the worse he could say is no.”
I call again. It rings. Rings!
Pickup. “Hello?” A woman’s voice says.
Oh shit. Oh shit oh shit oh fuck.
“Um, hello?”
“Hi!” I squeal, too excited. “Is Brett available?” Reasonable question!
“Um, this hasn’t been that person’s number in years.”
It’s getting worse.
“I’m Erica. Did you need Erica?”
“Uh, no. I’m so sorry, bye.” And I hang up.
What the fuck did I just do?
I frantically thumb through my phone, making sure that everything is correct. Nobody’s number or name has changed in ages, especially from college—I’ve not talked to any of them in at least a decade, not since Robert and I got hitched.
Every possible app gets tapped, searched, and confirmed: Brett never changed his number, or if he did, he never told me. But it was 2024, it wasn’t like I couldn’t find him to reconnect, or maybe I’d accidentally deleted the email with the number change announcement. Either way, I could look him up, send him a message: “hey haha i don’t know if you ever told me you changed your number here’s mine!”
Perfect! Yes. That would solve every problem.
But…who changes their cell number these days? He could have been scammed, a bad breakup, a stalker, a weird ex, there were so many possibilities—
A notification. “Amy?” It says. From Brett’s number.
What the fuck do I do.
Tap it, like normal. The messages app opens, with Brett’s name at the top, totally blank but for this person’s message.
Oh no, I forgot their name.
Why did that bother me?
“Yes”
“You just called? I know that was probably weird, but it’s good to hear from you!”
I don’t reply. Just stare at the message, trying to figure out how I know this woman with Brett’s number. His wife? Girlfriend? Mistress? Coworker? Polyamorous equal with benefits?
“I didn’t let you know, and I feel really bad! I’m so sorry!”
“What do you mean” the lack of punctuation makes it feel more defensive.
“Okay, are you ready?”
“For what”
She sends a picture of Brett. Easy smile, strong jaw, big brown eyes, straight black hair—he looked like a super-hot Chris Gaines, which would make him a…Jared Leto? Maybe Nicholas Hoult.
This was the game we played with his improbably photogenic face.
Then, another picture.
She’s stunning. Long face, killer bone structure. Her lips are amazing, just full enough to make you swoon—hm?—but not overdone. Her cheeks are dimpled in the…same…way…her chin is…just…and her eyes have that exact…same…what
…recognition.
A feeling creeps down slowly, from the crown of my head to the soles of my feet, a tingling heat that makes my skin prickle, my hairs stand on end, all because of this picture…not Brett…not her name…this person who is named…
shit
“I forgot your name”
“Erica. Make sense now?”
The picture is making my heart hammer in my chest. My breath is catching in my throat. My mouth is dry.
“I’m so sorry” it just goes out.
“For what?”
“Not recognizing you, that’s shitty and mean.”
“lol it’s no big deal, you’re not the first person to react like that.”
I try to be more thoughtful. “Not everyday a beautiful woman texts me”
“Oh this is a good thing?”
Erica has backed me into a corner. Or, I could stop being an idiot and remember this is my friend. “Really good. I’m happy to hear from you.” Dr. Kenneth said obvious is worth more than overthinking. “And yes, you are beautiful.” Punctuation, to show I’m out of fight or flight.
“Thank you <3. So did you call me for some specific reason?”
Yes, my husband cheated and left, I’ve been on seventeen different dates with men, and none of them were working out, so I thought I’d comb through my wild years booty call roster and see if any of them were interested in indulging a loser. “Just catching up. It’s been a minute.”
My phone buzzes, and Brett—Erica, from before—pops up, he and I at a New Year’s party—2012, with big hats saying “LAST YEAR ON EARTH” on cardboard panels. My face is round, soft, my cheeks ruddy, skin clear, hair still that deep chestnut brown, only one chin—
“Voicemail?” The text said.
“Oh my gosh, so sorry!” I tap the name, then the phone icon.
Without even a ring, I’m greeted with, “hey, girl."
“Hey!” I squeal, loud and chipper, reactions that feel fake.
“How are you? It’s been a long time, hasn’t it?” She asks. Her voice is pitched higher, controlled, just a little breathy—but there’s still that Anywhere American accent to her voice, her vowels round, consonants softened. "I coulda swore I told you, I’m so sorry."
“I love your voice.” What the fuck why am I blurting like this
She laughs. She laughs and it’s music, the music I remember when we laid in my dorm room bed, staring at the ceiling, Fall Out Boy playing softly on his—HER!—shitty computer speakers. "And it’s okay. You probably sent out a lot of emails."
She laughs again, it’s amazing. “Praise is nice, thank you. I paid enough for vocal training, stuck around to get my singing voice back.
“But you didn’t call to be nice to me, did you? Amy Denton never called Brett Baxter to just chat.”
Hearing that name, from her, makes me hurt. “Oh goodness, don’t call yourself that. And no, I didn’t call you to praise you, unless you like that sort of thing.”
“I don’t need gold stars from you, honey,” she says, and the word warms my chest. “Spill.”
“I mean, Robert and I finalized our divorce,” I say. No use dancing around it. And I was also looking to see if you were down for a pity fuck with your estranged friend.
I don’t say that part.
“I’m sorry to hear that,” she says. “I liked him.”
“Yeah, so did everybody else, which is why it took so fucking long.” Don’t flagellate. “But I did it, because I just couldn’t fucking take it anymore.”
“I get it. It happened to me, too.”
“Why?”
“You can guess.”
Who would willingly separate themselves from the most perfect friend in the world?
Oh. Oh no.
“Erica, babe…babe, I’m so sorry. That must be horrible.” Saying that feels…natural. Babe, not horrible.
“Therapy, HRT, and plastic surgery can fix a lot of problems.”
“Would that work for everyone?”
“I can give you the script if you need it, might work different for aspiring boys.”
And we giggle. She was always quick with a joke, bold and fearless.
“I’m not sure testosterone would agree with me,” I say. “Might lose the rest of my hair that way.”
“You’d lose those hips, and that would be a shame.”
“Two kids and no social life has done a good job on its own,” I say, trying to process that statement. “I sagged something fierce once baby Aiden popped out.”
“I’m sure you’re just being too hard on yourself,” Erica says, “you just need to find the right person.”
Like the person I meant to call. “Right, and I mean…” obvious over overthinking.
Erica goes quiet, as she lets the revelation settle. “Ah. I get it. I’m sure you were…I guess that’s why…and okay, yeah, that makes sense,” she mumbles, and I hear her voice tightening. “I mean, I forgot to let you know, and our little thing, and you were always…with me, and—“
“I did call for a stupid reason.” Too aggressive. “You’re right. I did call because I was looking to fuck. And I freaked out when you answered. And I’m still freaking out.
“But…but I…I really do want to reconnect. You meant—mean—so much, and I love you, so much,” I say, feeling that warmth in my chest intensify. “I called…that old name…to fuck, but I’m talking to you now as who you are, and whatever shit we have in common—which seems to be a lot.”
A sob, a sniffle, and the line goes dead.
Be back next week for the next chapter!