by Shey Stahl
Table of Contents
Love Complicated
Copyrights
Quote
Chapter 1 – Batshit crazy
Chapter 2 – Regrets
Chapter 3 – Hey, dickbag
Chapter 4 – Ridge fucking Lucas
Chapter 5 – The Ex aka The Wolf
Chapter 6 – Aunt K
Chapter 7 – 8-year-olds
Chapter 8 – Call the mom
Chapter 9 – Divorce is ugly
Chapter 10 – Mystery teacher
Chapter 11 – The ideal parents
Chapter 12 – “I can’t.”
Chapter 13 – You’re pissing me off
Chapter 14 – Single mom life
Chapter 15 – You should have. . .
Chapter 16 – Have Mr. Lucas call me
Chapter 17 – Family Tree
Chapter 18 – Looking for trouble
Chapter 19 – Madalyn Campbell
Chapter 20 – Mornings and Cooter
Chapter 21 – He’s not a dad. . . he’s a father. . . sometimes
Chapter 22 – Mommy’s emotionally unhinged
Chapter 23 – When it turns ugly
Chapter 24 – Over my head
Chapter 25 – Propositions
Chapter 26 – Mr. Lucas will seduce you now
Chapter 27 – Keep the bitch
Chapter 28 – Now he cares
Chapter 29 – He brought the Bitch with him
Chapter 30 – I saw him naked
Chapter 31 – Concession confessions
Chapter 32 – Lost in the light
Chapter 33 – What was I thinking?
Chapter 34 – Asshole in attendance
Chapter 35 – Propositions
Chapter 36 – Without thinking
Chapter 37 – Not what I had in mind
Chapter 38 – I’m allowed to cry
Chapter 39 – He cleans up vomit
Chapter 40 – Grady Pee Pants
Chapter 41 – What’s pussy?
Chapter 42 – Cherry pie anyone?
Chapter 43 – Folding seats
Chapter 44 – Bend over
Chapter 45 – Back to the night
Chapter 46 – Dig your grave
Chapter 47 – His truths
Chapter 48 – Hearts and Glitter
Chapter 49 – Motherfucker’s moving
Chapter 50 – The easy child
Chapter 51 – Love Complicated
Chapter 52 – Selfless love
Chapter 53 – Brie, the backstabbing bitch
Chapter 54 – Behind the grandstands
Chapter 55 – Grape-fruited
Chapter 56 – A dad. . . not a father
Chapter 57 – She made me a dad
Authors Note and Acknowledgments
Meet the Author
Thank you for purchasing Love Complicated. To be notified of new releases join my mailing list on my website at: www.sheystahl.com
Love Complicated
Copyright © 2017 by Shey Stahl
Printed in the United States of America
All rights reserved. Published in the United States of America. Except as permitted under the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise), without the prior written permission of Shey Stahl.
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination and are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, dead or living, is coincidental.
The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of various products, bands, sponsors, and/or restaurants referenced in this work of fiction, which have been used without permission. The publication/use of these trademarks is not authorized, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owners.
Editor: Becky Johnson, Hot Tree Editing
Cover Image: Sara Eirew
Cover Model: Mike Chabot
Cover Designer: Tracy Steeg
Interior Formatting: A Designs
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I play it safe. I do the speed limit. I pay bills on time, and if there’s a remote chance of rain, I bring a jacket. See where I’m going with this?
Okay, I’ll keep going.
I’m careful with my heart. I’ve only ever loved one man, and I don’t trust easily.
Where’d that get me?
In the middle of a nasty divorce. And the only ever loving one man? Probably a lie on my part.
Do you notice the woman behind the wheel of her silver over-priced Sienna minivan stuck behind an old lady doing 25 in a 45?
At first glance, you probably already have a few assumptions as to the type of person I am, given I just told you how straightlaced I am. I’ll tell you what though, after a brutal three months, I’m starting fresh and looking forward to the road ahead. That’s what anyone in my position is supposed to say, isn’t it? Ha. Let me tell you something, that’s bullshit!
I’m pissed and bitter, and you know what makes this even worse? Having to drive around this small town with a fake smile and pretending I’m not an emotional, unstable mess inside because of what my husband did to me. The only plus in this scenario, I do love my iced coffee, but I regress. Where was I? Oh right, recharging and the road ahead. Figuratively and literally.
As I return from my long Labor Day weekend with my wild “I’m letting loose because I have a toddler at home” cousin and a fresh start in mind, I glance in the rearview mirror and catch a glimpse of myself. I look different now, don’t I? I chopped my hair to about my shoulders, the “long mom bob” as Hollywood refers to it, and bleached it because Austin used to love my hair dark and long. I’m all about passive aggressive ways to throw a big fuck you his way.
You’re wondering who Austin is, aren’t you? Don’t worry. Unfortunately, I’ll get to that lying sack of dog shit later.
Also. . . while I’m on my “I’m not following anyone’s rules anymore kick,” I’m looking at life for what it is. I don’t know what that is yet, but it starts with no rules. No expectations on life or love, or parenting. Sometimes it’s okay to be a bad mom, right?
Don’t worry, I’m not turning into Mila Kunis in Bad Moms, I’m just done with rules. So this is the recharged me.
But then again, has anything besides my shorter, lighter hair changed? I’m still newly separated, single mother of twin eight-year-old boys, an aspiring cat lady, getting a divorce—from the lying sack of dog shit—jobless, and friendless.
I guess I’m not completely friendless. I have Tori, that cousin I told you about. . . but my best friend, the girl I’d throw myself in front of a bullet for, she fucked my husband.
I know what you’re thinking. What kind of best friend sleeps with your husband?
Brie Baker is who. I’m all for sharing things like jeans, or hell, borrow my car if you want. It probably has four-year-old french fries under the seats but have at it.What I don’t share is my husband’s cock. Brie apparently didn’t get the message in time.And then your second thought is probably who cheats on their wife with her best friend? Austin Jacob is who. He spews bullshit for a living. He’s an attorney with his father’s law firm. Though he’s a tax lawyer, he’s still a liar as far as I’m concerned.
My life is kind of like Cindere
lla, except for instead of having an evil stepmother, I married an evil man. Wait, crap, is that Sleeping Beauty? No. . . maybe it’s Belle from Beauty and the Beast? No. That can’t be right. I’ve got my fairy tales confused. In my defense, I have boys so I don’t read these. Which one was the princess rescued by a dragon who turned out to be a prince?
What am I talking about? I wasn’t rescued by a prince. I fell into the arms of the wolf.
That’s it! I’m Little Red Riding Hood.
Anyway, that was three months ago when I left the wolf, and I’ve come to the self-realization that I’m better off without a husband who is dog shit and a best friend who’s a lying whore.
Now that you have the backstory, take another look at me. I’m driving to school for my boys’ first day of second grade.
Austin had them for Labor Day weekend, and I can’t wait to see their tiny little faces this morning. I’m also incredibly curious to see what he dressed the boys in for their first day of school and praying they at least have stainless clothes on. With boys, it’s hard to say.
It’s the thought of Austin having them for the weekend that sends me into a fit of emotional “I might be clinically insane” rage. You ask any newly separated mother what’s the worst part about divorce, and she’ll more than likely tell you not being able to see her kids every day.
You ask a man and 50 percent will probably tell you, bitch be takin’ all my money.
Our priorities are clearly different.
Beep. Beep. Beep. “Incoming text from Austin,” my Bluetooth chimes in over my stereo.
I know it’s illegal to text and drive, but I still pick up my phone in the center console to check his message myself.
Austin: I’m at the school with the boys and Brie. Where ya at?
Of course he mentions her! My throat tightens and my heart thuds in my ears. It’s like it’s being stabbed to death by his infidelity and texts that always include her now. It’s like. . . I’ve been replaced after giving him nearly twelve years of my life and two kids for the newer, longer-legged less stretch-marked version.
Tossing the phone in the passenger seat, I know I should answer him, but just as I’m about to, guess whose house I pass by on Lake Country Road?
Brie Baker’s. My ex-best friend.
Something inside me snaps like a rubber band on my heart. A reminder of why all this still hurts. Her. She did this. She destroyed perfection. Okay, perfection might be a loose term here, kinda like Brie’s ability to keep her legs closed, but you get my point, right?
She fucked me and our friendship over.
Guess whose car is parked out front of her house on the quiet dead-end? Brie’s. Okay, maybe I wasn’t just passing by. I clearly made the turn onto her street.
Thousands of scenarios come to mind when my eyes narrow in on her red mustang. Mostly the ones of them in the backseat of her car, where the first infidelity took place, according to Austin. And how two grown adults even fit in the backseat of a mustang is beyond me.
That thought, one in a thousand, is the one that has me stopping my minivan in the middle of the road, opening the back hatch of said minivan and pulling out a T-ball bat. Not the greatest weapon of choice, but it’ll work.
I’m sure you can guess what happens next, yes? Have you heard that song by Carrie Underwood “Before He Cheats?” My reaction is something similar to those lyrics. Only it wasn’t before he cheated.
With the bat in hand, I take out her headlights, mirrors, and then the windshield. I’m actually impressed with how well I swing a bat for being out of practice.
I may or may not have keyed the word “Whore” into the hood. I don’t remember. In my fit of morning rage, I act on adrenaline and don’t recall everything I do in the three minutes it takes me to do it.
I do, however, take a moment to admire my handiwork and the old man out watering his lawn wearing his wife’s bathrobe, smiling at me. “What are you looking at?”
When did I turn into such a bitch?
The man shrugs. “Nothing.”
At least he didn’t call the police.
A few minutes later, I’m back on the road, crying, and attempting to make it to the school in the next fifteen minutes and not wreck my van in the process.
Now take a look at me. Red-faced, heart still pounding, glass on my floor mats, and wondering if I can go to jail for what I just did. What the fuck was I thinking?
This is what betrayal does to your mental state of mind. Makes you batshit crazy.
Literally.
Anytime someone dies, I always wonder, did they have regrets? Did they have unfinished business they didn’t get to do or say?
Did my dad have regrets? Had he wished he would have told me the truth? Maybe he didn’t want me to know in fear it’d hurt me more knowing.
Now I won’t know because he’s gone.
Do I have regrets? I have crushing regrets, but I’ve also had the chance to right them a few times and haven’t, so can I call them regrets? I think at this point, they’d be mistakes.
My eyes drift to the track, the pain in my chest suffocating. I draw in a heavy breath trying to relieve the ache. Being here, back in my hometown for the first time in years, it’s a reminder of the last time I was here, anxious, self-destructive and self-important, pushing limits.
Back then, pushing limits with a girl, only one girl, seemed to be what controlled me.
Why her? It’s really quite simple—loving her was a complicated happiness. Despite knowing she was too good for me, I never let go until I had to. I fell completely, forever, into solid fucking love that swam through my veins.
Back then, I wanted to be the breath in her lungs and the rhythm in her chest that would beat for only me. I wanted to forget, but I wanted to remember moments and memories that consumed my heart for years. I wanted kisses under grandstands and to go back to the night I left, kissing her innocence and the feeling of her soft skin against mine.
And even now, years later, I want to go back to the first time I touched her and remember that feeling and live in that moment. I want to get rid of this ache in my chest and the pure fucking torture of being so close now and not knowing how she’ll react to seeing me after the way I ripped myself from her life.
“I’m glad you decided to come home.”
The words move over me, a voice I haven’t heard in a while. I don’t turn around. I know exactly who it is.
Do you notice that guy standing next to the older guy with the white hair and eating a tomato at six in the morning?
I’m not the one eating the tomato. I actually can’t stand tomatoes and gag at the sight of the red acidic vegetable. But that’s a story for another day. I’m actually the one leaning against the chain-link fence, my arms crossed over my chest.
The guy? That’s Glen. The track maintenance supervisor here at Calistoga Speedway.
I don’t say anything to Glen, but instead, I stare at the track and the grass infield. My eyes move over the billboards, the walls and catch fences.
When I left Calistoga ten years ago, I said I wouldn’t come back here. I never wanted to.
Death changed those plans. And now I find myself back home looking at a track that holds every memory I’ve ever had about the girl I left behind.
My eyes move to Glen, and I think about what he said. He’s glad I decided to come home.
Is he really? After the shit I put him, my dad, her. . . this town, everyone through, why would anyone be happy to see me?
Looking at him, a memory hits my chest, damn near knocking the wind out of me.
“You didn’t tell her, did you?” The vagueness of the question spans greater than the history of this track, but something in the way he regards me tells me he knows.
Glen raises an eyebrow, turning to look at me. “About?”
I bury my hands in the pockets of my jeans. “Any of it?”
“No, that’s your business.”
He’s right. It is my business, but I wonder if
she knows why I left. Glen does, but has he told her? It doesn’t sound like he has.
“They’re getting a divorce,” Glen notes, knowing I’ll catch the meaning without him telling me who.
I nod. “I know.”
If you had asked me a month ago what I’d be doing in the fall, I would have told you working construction while teaching camp tours at the natural history museum in Santa Barbara, and barely making rent at my one-bedroom apartment on the beach. I never had any intention of coming back here.
Never would I have guessed I’d be back in my hometown—a place I preferred to never set foot in again—let alone be the owner of the local racetrack that’s definitely seen better days.
Two weeks ago my dad, Mike, passed away after a year battle with lung cancer.
That led me back to my hometown.
Anyone in Calistoga will tell you this town and the surrounding wineries are what drives thousands of tourists here every year, but to me, it holds no resemblance to what I remember. What draws me here is this track and what it means to me. My childhood was here. I was raised on this red clay with four corners and a catch fence. It holds every memory I’ve ever had of my dad and the only girl to hold my heart.
My attention moves to the track’s surface, the ruts, the catch fence that’s seen better days. It seems my dad’s health wasn’t the only thing deteriorating around here. “You let this place go to shit,” I say, distancing myself from him and his tomato. “What were you doing all this time?”
I know as soon as I ask, I shouldn’t have by the death glare I receive and the way Glen’s bushy eyebrows knit together. “Piss off. There’s nothing wrong with this place.”
Unfortunately, I can’t say it’s good to be home, but I did miss Glen and his constant bantering.
Clouded with memories, I stare at the track’s surface and the surrounding fence that looks like it needs to be replaced. “Still looks like shit.” Hooking my hands in the links, I shake the fence. It clings against the concrete barriers securing it to the ground. “This needs replacing before the big money comes to town.”
Glen glances at his watch. “Why are you standing here giving me shit when you’re the one who’s late, Trouble.”
