The Divorce Club by Jayde Scott

the
club. In a blurry one, I'm standing in front of the window, dressed
in my black nightgown, as I pull the curtains for the night. Thin
rivulets of red color run down the sides of the screen as though
it's covered in blood.
    My hands start to shake. I feel violated,
broken inside. It's what these people try to do, break your will
and leave you shattered so they can pretend to pick up the pieces
and stitch you back together. But the knowledge doesn't help make a
virtual altar less gruesome. I spend yet another night awake,
staring at the door because I'm too scared to turn my back on
it.
     
    ***
     
    At breakfast, I'm wondering why I'm not
telling Jamie what's going on. I always thought I'd never let
anyone turn me into a victim, but talking from a third person
perspective and acting when facing a dangerous situation are two
different things.
    "You have a nice sofa." Jamie rubs the cricks
in his neck. He looks so comfortable sitting at my kitchen table,
as though it's where he belongs. "Haven't been sleeping on one of
those since—"
    "Wifey put you out in the 'doghouse'?" I
prompt.
    He blushes, embarrassed. "Something like
that."
    "Let me make it up to you by cooking you
breakfast fit for a king." I get up and start rummaging in the
fridge even though there isn't much there because my daughter eats
for ten and I can't keep up with the shopping.
    "Wow. Where can I submit my application to be
your bodyguard? I'll take waffles, pancakes, hash browns, French
toast, bacon, sausage and eggs."
    I don't have half of the stuff he wants so I
place a bowl of cereals and a carton of milk in front of him. "The
eggs were all sold out. Maybe I shouldn't have said the 'king'
part."
    "Sold out eggs?" He doesn't even blink as he
tucks in with a grin. "I love your homemade cooking."
    I sit next to him and start sipping my
coffee, regarding him. He looks so cute with the first signs of
morning stubble and his hair in disarray. My heartbeat picks up in
speed, but not at his sight. Shame's slowly crawling over me at the
memory of that website. I know it's not my fault and yet I can't
help but think that somehow I provoked that wacko's personal attack
on me. Maybe I smiled at the supermarket checkout when I shouldn't
have. Or I offered to pay his change when he didn't have any. I do
things like that out of goodwill and a constant attempt to be nice.
Maybe not being a bitch's what got me into trouble in the first
place.
    Sam, fully dressed in jeans and a tight top,
comes in and plops down on a chair, staring from me to Jamie and
then back to me as though she only now realized he stayed over. Her
shoulders seem tensed, her mouth pressed tight. "Mum, the zombie
look's not in. Just because you're forty doesn't mean you're
dead."
    "What? I'm not that old." I glance at Jamie.
"Really, I'm not." Trust my daughter to always find new ways to
embarrass me.
    "You look it," Sam says.
    Jamie smiles and pushes a glass of orange
juice toward her. "Here. There's nothing like sunshine in a
glass."
    "You sound like a commercial." Sam laughs,
then shoots me a venomous look. I've no idea what I've done wrong.
Maybe she's upset because she thinks a new man's taking her
father's place.
    "He slept on the sofa. Remember?" I
whisper.
    Sam just shrugs as though she doesn't care,
but I know she does.
    "Let's just call it a trial run," Jamie
says.
    I cock an eyebrow. What does that mean?
Before he moves in? My heart skips a beat. But he's already changed
the subject.
    "You get to see me in all my blazing glory
with my crazy bed hair, stubble and bad breath. Best to scare you
now rather than in France."
    I groan. Okay, he's talking about our get
away this weekend. I don't know why I jump to conclusions like an
infatuated teen.
    "Don't forget the wrinkly clothes." Sam
laughs. Why can't she laugh like that at my jokes? "Actually, you
look scarier than the gargoyles we'll get to see."
    "Hey, we can't all wake up looking like
glamour queens." He clears his throat. "Or