Roommate Arrangement (Divorced Men's Club #1)(2)

I grab his laptop again, find the Go Live option, and turn it on.

My face is reflected back at me, and I look wrecked. Fuck it.

“To everyone subscribed, this is the page for my husband, Kyle Rousle, and despite being married for five years now, I’ve only just found out it exists. So thank you for subscribing to two years’ worth of evidence of my husband cheating on me.” I rattle off his phone number. “Feel free to give him a piece of your mind or to arrange hookups, but now that he’s single, it might not be as hot for him. Also, he chews with his mouth open, talks like an obnoxious monkey, and apparently has issues with commitment.” I wink. “Real catch.”

Then I end the video, walk out onto the balcony of our fourth-floor apartment, and drop the laptop over the edge. It hits the ground with a satisfying crack, but the silence that follows is stifling.

I stare down at the broken computer like I’m staring at our shattered relationship, and I’m hit with an overwhelming sense of grief.

There’s no staying with him, and facing the end of a twelve-year relationship is a complete mindfuck.

How do we split our things?

Work out joint finances?

Finances? Screw him. He must have a secret bank account with the number of subscribers he’s got, so I’m clearing our accounts out.

I pack everything I can into my car, knowing I have a couple of hours until he’s finished work.

Shit … I’m going to need to get tested.

The thought hits me out of nowhere and sends me spiraling.

If that son of a bitch has given me something …

A sob builds, and no matter how much I try and swallow against it, my vision blurs.

I block his number in my phone, then flee the house before he’s home. There’s no way I can face him.

I leave, brokenhearted and at a loss.

What the fuck do I do now?





The drive from Boston to Kilborough, the town I grew up in, takes a bit under two hours. We’re located in Hampden County, in the foothills of the Provin Mountain. It’s been a while since I visited, the last time being for my niece’s birthday, and that fucker was with me.

I push the anger back.

I promised myself by the time I got to my brother’s, I will have put it behind me, which seems laughable as I make my way through town. Two hours isn’t enough to erase over a decade of memories.

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.