Hating the Boss
Kristen Granata
Copyright © 2019 by Kristen Granata
Cover Designer: Taylor Danae Colbert
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the written permission of the author, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in a book review.
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or locales is entirely coincidental.
Table of Contents
Dedication
Days Left Until Summer Break: 80
Days Left Until School Starts: 30
Days Left Until School Starts: 29
Days Left Until School Starts: 2
Days Left Until Summer Break: 179
Days Left Until Summer Break: 178
Days Left Until Summer Break: 177
Days Left Until Summer Break: 162
Days Left Until Summer Break: 157
Days Left Until Summer Break: 155
Days Left Until Summer Break: 153
Days Left Until Summer Break: 152
Days Left Until Summer Break: 140
Days Left Until Summer Break: 139
Days Left Until Summer Break: 138
Days Left Until Summer Break: 126
Days Left Until Summer Break: 125
Days Left Until Summer Break: 122
Days Left Until Summer Break: 119
Days Left Until Summer Break: 117
Days Left Until Summer Break: 113
Days Left Until Summer Break: 90
Days Left Until Summer Break: 84
Days Left Until Summer Break: 80
Days Left Until Summer Break: 73
Epilogue
More by Kristen
The Collision Series Box Set – Free on KU
Collision (Book 1)
Avoidance (Book 2)
The Other Brother (Book3 – standalone)
Fighting the Odds (Book 4 – standalone)
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To my real-life kindergarten dream team,
Trish, Dorthy, Stacey, & Jess:
I couldn’t survive what we do if I didn’t have you.
Thank you for being there for me in some of
the toughest times of my life & for making me laugh
until my stomach hurts.
And to all the teachers out there,
underpaid, underappreciated, & overworked:
You guys rock! Don’t ever forget how important you are.
Days Left Until Summer Break: 80
Jaxon
“Yes, Jaxon. Oh, God. Yes!”
See that woman? The one having the best orgasm of her life? That’s my girl, Raegan. She’s beautiful. Long, blond hair. Striking green eyes. Thick thighs. More-than-a-handful tits. She’s perfect. This moment is perfect.
It’s been a long time coming. Things weren’t always this great. We had a bit of a rough start. I accused her of stealing my dead grandmother’s ring. She swore she didn’t. We waged war against each other for months.
But all that’s behind us now.
“I love you, Raegan,” I whisper in her ear. “I love you so much.”
She cups my face, gazing into my eyes. “I love you too.”
It’s my turn to pump my release and when I’m done, I hold her in my arms. We’re sated and relaxed. Happy. For the first time in a long time, everything feels right.
Raegan’s stomach lets out a loud growl. I chuckle. “I’ll get our tacos.” I plant a kiss on her forehead and roll out of bed.
Life is crazy. A chance encounter can tilt your entire world on its axis. You can’t always see the reason why things happen in the beginning, but eventually, it all clicks into place. Everything makes sense.
One second you’re miserable, and the next you’re making post-sex tacos for your girlfriend on Valentine’s Day with a goofy smile plastered on your face.
I carry our plates into my bedroom, water bottles tucked under each of my elbows.
Raegan’s out of bed, hunched over my open dresser drawer.
What’s she looking for?
My body stills when I glance down at the blue velvet box she’s clutching in her hand.
No. It can’t be. “What are you doing?”
Tears well in her wide eyes. “Jax, I can explain.”
The plates slam as I drop them on top of the dresser. I yank the box from her fingers and flip open the top, staring at the sparkling ring in disbelief.
See that guy? The one whose life just crumbled before his eyes? That’s me, Jaxon.
Biggest chump in the fucking world.
Six Months Earlier …
Days Left Until School Starts: 30
Raegan
Did you know there’s an entire playlist on Spotify called Badass Slow-Motion Walking Songs?
Imagine that scene in a movie when a car or building explodes. Now picture the actor walking away from it in slow motion, flames roaring around him, smoke billowing into the atmosphere. He’s totally unfazed by the fact that he could be hit by flying debris at any moment. Notice the song playing in the background? It’s a rock song, lots of drums, and it amplifies the man’s badassness as he leaves the fiery scene.
That’s how I envisioned myself leaving the courthouse on the day my divorce was finalized.
I had the playlist ready to go on my phone and everything. Earbuds? Nope. I was going to blast that shit the whole way across the parking lot.
But when the sun hits my face as I exit the courthouse, all I want to do is cry. And take a nap. Then cry some more.
Seven years I’d been married. Might not seem long to people who’ve been together for decades, but it felt like an eternity for me. I tried to make it work. I gave and I compromised. I cooked, I cleaned. I gave him a blowjob every night. Every night. Don’t tell me I wasn’t dedicated.
It didn’t matter though. No matter what I did, it wasn’t good enough. Didn’t change the fact that I was married to an asshole. In Andrew’s defense, he didn’t mean to be an asshole. His father’s a controlling prick, so he didn’t know any different.
In the beginning, Andrew was sweet. Doting. At least, I thought he was. I was young. Turns out you don’t know much about love or what you stand for when you’re twenty. That’s why they tell you not to get a tattoo until you’re at least twenty-five. They say your brain isn’t fully equipped to make long-term decisions before then. And when I say they, I mean the proverbial “they.” You can hate them all you want, but they are always right.
It took me a while to realize that what I once thought was caring was actually possessive. What I thought was confidence was just condescending. Don’t get me wrong, Andrew wasn’t the worst person I could’ve been with. He didn’t beat me or anything.
My mom says that’s how you know something’s wrong: You sta
rt downplaying your unhappiness and comparing it to domestic abuse.
Sometimes, I’d wished he would hit me. Just once. At least then I wouldn’t have felt so guilty about leaving him.
That’s sick. I realize that now.
Needless to say, I wanted this divorce. I’d been the one who’d asked for it. I’d reached my breaking point. Now I know why people call it that. You bend so much that you eventually break in half. Two parts: Who you once were, and the angry, resentful person you’ve become.
In the end, I gave him the house, the dog, my full bookcase, and all my Christmas decorations. Even my favorite sugarplum fairy ornament I’d had since I was a kid. I packed up the essentials and left everything else behind. That’s how badly I wanted out. That, and the fact that I couldn’t afford to fight him for any of it in court.
So how come I’m not slow-mo walking to my car right now? I should be thrilled and relieved that this is over.
I swing myself into my car, turn the key in the ignition, and crank up the air conditioning. As the stream of air cools my skin, I take a minute to scroll through my missed calls and texts.
Becca: Congrats! You’re a free woman now!
Mary: Congratulations! It’s all over now
Sammi: Woohoo! Moving on to brighter skies.
Andrea: Yasss queen! Single & ready to mingle
Kerry: Ding, dong, the dick is gone!
It’s weird that everyone’s congratulating me. It’s even weirder when I think back to these same friends congratulating me on my wedding day.
Should I feel proud of being a divorcee? I feel as if I’m wearing a scarlet D on my chest. Like I should run and hide before people with pitchforks try to tar and feather me in the middle of town square.
I don’t think my small town in New Jersey has a town square, but still. It could happen.
I click on Becca’s name and lift the phone to my ear.
“Hey! How’d everything go?”
I sigh. “It went fine. I’m just exhausted.”
“I’m sure. Why don’t you go home and take a nap? Then you’ll be recharged for tonight.”
“I don’t think I’m feeling up to coming out tonight.”
“Oh, no. You are not getting out of this one. You can’t sit home and mope around. You need to be with your friends. Your very excited friends who got babysitters to watch their asshole children for the night.”
I slump forward and rest my forehead against the steering wheel. “I don’t feel like celebrating.”
“Then you can sit at the bar and cry into your mojito. You’re coming out.”
“Fine. But it’s your fault if the townspeople stone me to death.”
“What? Is this another one of your book references that I don’t get?”
“Never mind. I’ll see you tonight.”
Chucking my phone onto the seat beside my purse, I glance out the windshield just in time to catch my now ex-husband waltzing out of the courthouse.
In the year it took us to get divorced, Andrew lost a good ten pounds. I’d always tried to convince him to come running with me when we were married. I only run if I’m being chased was his response. Funny how he suddenly found the desire to get in shape once I was out of the picture. Bastard looks better than he did when we first met.
I, on the other hand, found the ten pounds he’d lost, and tacked on another five for good measure. I’d lost my drive and stopped working out. I envy the people who stop eating when they’re stressed. I’m an emotional eater. I eat my feelings, and unfortunately, they aren’t fat free. They taste a lot like Ben and Jerry’s.
I peel my eyes away from the man I used to love and back out of my parking spot. Instead of leaving the courthouse to my Spotify playlist like a badass, I’m crying to Don Henley’s Sometimes Love Just Ain’t Enough.
“I am not going in there.”
Becca tugs on my elbow. “Come on. She already spotted us.”
My bottom lip juts out. “But there’s balloons.”
“I swear I told her not to get them. You know Kerry.”
The bouncer hands my license back and jerks his thumb toward the embarrassing scene that awaits me. “Those balloons are funny.”
I glare at him. “Good. You can have ‘em.”
“They’re trying to be supportive and cheer you up,” Becca says. “We just want you to be happy again.”
“I know, I know.” I blow out a puff of air and lift my chin. “All right. Let’s get this over with.”
We step inside the bar and I plaster a smile on my face. One thing my marriage taught me is how to hide my emotions from anyone and everyone. I’ve become so good at lying, even to myself, I could probably pass a lie detector test. I’d be a valuable asset if the CIA ever wanted me.
My friends wave excitedly, dressed to the nines with hair and makeup on point. We are the epitome of women in their thirties. It’s like we’re stuck in limbo: Too old to let loose the way we did in our twenties, but too young to feel content at home with a pair of knitting needles.
I cringe as I gaze up at the six shimmery gold balloons, each of them broadcasting my humiliating news to the entire bar: I’m not with stupid anymore. Divorced AF. Ditched the dick. Unhitched. Just divorced. Legally single.
To make matters worse, Kerry’s holding a black sash. I don’t know what it says yet, but I wonder if it’d be strong enough to act as a noose.
“Congrats, mama!” Kerry raises the sash above my head.
I duck out of the way. “I love you, Kerr, but I’m not putting that thing on. The balloons are more than enough.”
Her cheerful expression falls. “Here.” She shoves a mixed drink into my hand. “Maybe you’ll change your mind after a few of these.”
Mary, Andrea, and Sammi offer me smiles laced with pity.
“Oh, no,” I say, waving my free hand. “Don’t look at me like that. It’s done and over with. Let’s just forget about it.”
“How did it go today?” Andrea asks.
“Quick and easy. If you ladies ever need to get divorced, the Divorce Center is the way to go.”
“Good to know,” Kerry says. “I’ll make that the new threat I throw at Brad the next time he decides to stay out late after work.”
“He’s still doing that?”
“Don’t wanna talk about it.” Kerry raises her glass. “To Rae. Let’s get you laid tonight.”
I shake my head but drink to her toast anyway.
“What?” she asks. “The best way to get over someone …”
“She just got divorced,” Sammi says. “Give her some time.”
“I need to lose this weight first.” I gesture to my stomach. I’m wearing a flowy top, but we’ve all seen the bulge underneath that’s currently hanging over the waistband of my jeans.
“Oh, thank God,” Kerry says, wiping her forehead for effect. “I was hoping you weren’t accepting this as your new physique.”
Mary and Becca swat each of Kerry’s arms and exclaim her name in unison.
“It’s okay,” I say. “We don’t have to pretend like I haven’t gained some weight.”
“You should come kick-boxing with me,” Andrea says.
“I will definitely take you up on that. We’ve got one month until work starts in September, and I plan on walking through the doors of Roosevelt Elementary a changed woman.”
“Good for you,” Becca says.
Andrea’s glass slams onto the bar. “Speaking of work, did you read the board minutes?” She pulls her phone from her cleavage and scrolls through it at lightning speed. “Dr. Reynolds was let go!”
My eyes go wide. Our principal was fired?
“Are you serious?” Mary snatches Andrea’s phone and we huddle around it to read the e-mail.
Board minutes are like gossip columns in the education world. Salaries, firings, and retire-ings are e-mailed to every employee working for the Board of Ed.
“Good riddance. I’ve had enough of these female principals on a power trip,”
Kerry says. “We need some testosterone in our school. Someone to scare all those little shits into behaving.”
Sammi shakes her head. “It’s going to take a lot more than a man in a suit to scare our students.”
“Forget the kids,” Mary says. “We need to teach parents how to discipline their children. I’m tired of getting hit, and then asked what I did to make the kid hit me.”
“Amen to that.”
The six of us have been friends for as long as we’ve been teaching at Roosevelt Elementary school. We refer to ourselves as the kindergarten dream team. Not every grade level in our building is as tight-knit as we are. Not every teacher pulls her own weight. But in our group, we’re like a well-oiled machine.
You need a good support system when you’re battling a room full of five-year olds. Teaching kindergarten isn’t for the faint of heart.
I shudder at the thought of going back to work with my maiden name. The looks, the whispers, the questions, all from co-workers who act like they care just because they want the gossip. At least I have thirty-one more days of summer bliss.
I lean toward the bartender who’s mixing a drink in front of us. “Can we have a round of shots, please?”
“What’s your poison?” he asks.
“Whatever’s strong enough to help me forget about these balloons hovering over my head.”
He chuckles. “Got it.”
Soon after we down our shots, the bartender pours us another round. “These are from those gentlemen over there.”
All six of our heads swivel in the direction of the bartender’s finger. Four smiling men raise their own shot glasses.
“What does this mean?” Sammi asks. “What do we do?”
Andrea pats her on the back and hands her a glass. “We do the shot, babe.”
“Won’t they think we’ll want to sleep with them if we do the shot?”
“They’re men. They already think everyone wants to sleep with them.” Kerry lifts her chin and throws back the amber liquid.
Hating the Boss Page 1
