The Divorcee Murder Club

Treinta Y Ocho ~ 38

                Sunlight beams through the vast windows of the diner onto fluffy stacks of buttery pancakes covered in brown syrup as I sit across from Jackson and Sammy. It was a long night, and now I can barely keep my eyes open as we chew, so I must not be the only one.

But I’ve spoken too soon.

“So, still want to kill Ramona?” Jackson asks, wiping his mouth and setting the napkin down.

I nearly choke and dart my gaze to Sammy, who continues cutting into his omelet without a hiccup. Of course, this kind of breakfast chit-chat is probably ordinary to him. 

“Maybe. I don’t know,” I say, but Jackson doesn’t let it go.

“So what triggered this?” 

I slurp my coffee and then clear my throat. “Fucking my ex.”

That gets Sammy’s attention as he looks up and takes a bite of his food. Then he points his fork at me. “Go on.”

“Ramona has always been this wedge— this splinter in my relationship and marriage with Celia. I guess I started daydreaming about what life would be like if she wasn’t around.”

“Come on, man,” Jackson smirks. “We both know it would have resulted in the same outcome, only with someone else.”

I furrow my brows, the fork in my hand pinched between two fingers as I stab a piece of pancake. “What do you mean?” 

“I mean that Celia has issues. She cheated on you for years with Ramona, and according to Gwen, people cheat because they have deep issues they’re masking by escaping through an affair. Instead, they need to work on whatever trauma is causing them to seek validation elsewhere.”

“Sounds like bullshit to me.” I sip my coffee.

“It’s not. Gwen says affairs become an addiction, and until that person cuts off the addiction, they’ll remain in a pattern of cheating until they face the core issue of what is driving them to cheat. And even though you’re a complete asshole ninety-five percent of the time, Celia choosing to cheat is not your fault.”

“That we can agree on.” I nod.

“She chose to cross the line over and over again. The only responsibility you own is the part you played in the marriage failing, which is your inability to communicate openly. Your stubborn ass bottles things up, but you can’t do that. You gotta let people in. Especially the people you love because when you bottle that shit up, it eventually explodes and pushes everyone away,” Jackson concludes.

Sammy bobs his head. “Your friend has a point. I’ve only known you for a few hours, but I can tell you keep people at arm’s length. I used to be hot-headed like you, but the only thing it achieves is loneliness. Trust me. As a consequence, my daughters barely talk to me now.”

“You really ought to see Gwen again,” Jackson says.

“Who is Gwen?” Sammy asks. “She sounds like a smart lady.” 

I sigh and sit back against the squeaky faux leather of our red booth. “Our therapist from the divorcee support group we attend.”

“A therapist.” Sammy quirks a brow, then shrugs. “I see one myself.”

“Isn’t that against mafia rules or something?”

He laughs and looks at me. “Kid, the mafia don’t exist.”

“Right.”

“But part of the deal when I got released from prison was I had to see a therapist. At first, I hated it, but after a while, I got used to it. Now I go because I learned how my actions have affected my daughters, but I want to rebuild my relationship with them. So, this is all to say that you should stick with therapy.”