An all-new fake dating, grumpy/sunshine, hockey romance is out this week from Kendall Hale, and I have the first chapter for you.
Chapter One
Valentina
Divorce Playbook: Lessons from the Sidelines
Divorce is a seven-letter word, but it feels more like a four-letter one most days. A seven-letter punch to the gut, with a side of existential dread and a sprinkling of what the fuck. But here’s the thing: it’s not just an ending. It’s a hell of a lesson—a crash course in ‘what now?’ that no one signed up for, yet somehow you end up with the syllabus anyway.
Here’s what you learn in the aftermath of the grand undoing:
You Find Out Who Your Real Friends Are. There’s a certain charm in discovering which friends will ride the wave with you and which ones will politely step back, acting like you’re radioactive.
Spoiler alert: it’s not who you think.
Your gym buddy suddenly becomes your therapist, doling out unsolicited but oddly spot-on advice between sets. The coworker you barely know starts dropping off wine like it’s her second job. And your neighbor? She invites you to Pilates once, and suddenly she’s your new bestie, introducing you to overpriced smoothies and “core strength.”
Meanwhile, your so-called BFF? She’s too busy organizing couples’ retreats and “accidentally” sending you an invite. Thanks, Kaila. Nothing says friendship like passive-aggressively rubbing salt in the wound. And when I politely remind her that I’m single? She forwards the invite to my ex and his shiny new girlfriend. Like, seriously—what in the ever-loving fuck is that about?
Your House Turns Into a Crime Scene While Moving Out: Not in a CSI way (though some days, that’s tempting), but in the “What evidence of my past life do I burn first?” kind of way. Or even “Is there anything around that could’ve been a clue that the end was near?” There’s too much to go through, too many painful memories, too many things to separate or burn. Wedding albums, joint tax returns, that one sweater he always wore but you secretly hated.
Tossing all that crap feels liberating—until you hit the sentimental landmines. Like the dog’s adoption papers. Oh, did I mention Steve kept Ruben? Yep, the bastard didn’t just drop the “I don’t love you anymore” bomb. He took my dog too. And no, I didn’t even get visitation rights. Why? Because he was the one who picked Ruben up from the shelter and signed the papers. Sure, he had more pictures with Ruben than I did—but that’s only because I was the one taking them. You know, because I actually cared.
You find a recipe scribbled in his messy handwriting for his favorite cookies, or worse—a printed playlist labeled Our Songs that you attached to your wedding invitation because it was cute. Cue the ugly crying and a gallon of rocky road.
You Become a Walking Cliché: Self-help books? Check. Yoga classes where you pretend to love downward dog? Double-check. Signing up for pottery because you’re totally finding yourself now? Oh, absolutely. Hell, I even had fleeting hopes of a Ghost-worthy Patrick Swayze moment—just me, a pottery wheel, and a man who actually cares.
Divorce does something strange to your brain. It convinces you that baking sourdough bread for an entire neighborhood will somehow fill the void. Spoiler Alert: it doesn’t. Neither does learning macramé. Now my parents’ living room looks like Etsy threw up in it.
Everyone Has an Opinion: Your love life turns you into public property. Suddenly, everyone has sage advice, whether you asked for it or not.
“Have you tried therapy?” Yes, Brenda. Thank you for the groundbreaking suggestion. I’ve been crying into the tissue box since day one.
“Maybe take some time to focus on yourself.” Genius, Sharon. I’ll just pencil that in between my existential crises.
And my personal favorite?
“You’ll find love again.”
Will I, though? Because right now, the thought of dating again makes me want to gouge my eyes out with a spoon. I’d rather have a root canal.
You Realize You’re Stronger Than You Think: This one sneaks up on you. At first, you’re too busy wallowing in bad rom-coms and eating cereal out of the box to notice. But then one day, you catch yourself laughing—like really laughing. Maybe it’s because your ex’s new girlfriend has the personality of a wet sock. Or because you realized you’ve been paying the bills by yourself and don’t need to text him for the Wi-Fi password anymore.
Whatever it is, it hits you: you’re doing it. You’re surviving. Hell, you might even be thriving.
And yeah, divorce isn’t anyone’s dream when they say “I do.” But sometimes, it’s the kick in the ass you need to remind yourself that you’re capable of a fresh start. Even if that fresh start involves moving to Boston with your little sister—the one person who doesn’t ask when you’re going to “get a life” and lets you eat cereal for dinner without judgment.
Yep, after a year or so of trying this whole living-on-my-own thing and proving I don’t need the friends he took from me, it seemed better to just stop pretending I had it all figured out and start over somewhere new. Boston isn’t perfect, but at least it’s mine.
“Are you sure she’s going to be okay if we leave?” Jacob, Noelle’s husband, asks, his brows knitting together like I’m about to dissolve into a puddle of sad on the spot.
It’s funny how seriously he takes this big brother thing. Since the divorce, Jacob’s been stepping in like I’m the little sister he has to care for. First, he found me the best lawyer in San Francisco, one who wiped the floor with my ex and took more than half of our savings. Then he found me a job I could do from anywhere, saving me from financial ruin. And lastly? He agreed to let me move in with him and my sister temporarily so I could dodge my hovering mother.
And let me tell you, hovering doesn’t even begin to cover it. My mom’s more like a helicopter on steroids, complete with unsolicited advice about everything from my wardrobe to my love life. Apparently, the fact that I’m in my thirties, divorced, and eating Pop-Tarts for breakfast is a national emergency.
“I’ll be fine, Jacob,” I say, forcing a smile that doesn’t quite reach my eyes. “You two go to San Diego and celebrate your sister’s . . . whatever it is.”
“It’s her birthday,” Noelle chimes in, giving me the look. The one that says I know you’re deflecting, but I’ll let it slide for now.
“You could come,” she offers, her voice careful, like she’s testing the waters.
I could. But the thought of flying across the country to smile through a party makes my stomach churn. Especially since it would put me way too close to my ex—and his new girlfriend, who, from what I hear, is essentially a walking Instagram filter.
“I’m good,” I reply, waving them off like it’s no big deal. “You two go have fun. I’ll hold down the fort here.”
Jacob’s frown deepens, but Noelle pulls him toward the door, whispering something that makes his shoulders relax.
As the door clicks shut behind them, I exhale deeply and sink onto the couch. The quiet settles around me, a welcome shift from the whirlwind of the past year—so many changes and everyone’s constant concern.
For now, it’s just me, this crappy romcom, and a bowl of cereal that somehow tastes better when eaten in sweatpants.
Because honestly? That’s love, too. And it’s definitely enough for tonight.
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