Page 3 of Sleepless Nights and Hockey Fights

It’s been over two years since my husband of a decade and a half broke the news that he’s gay. And even then, it was almost a relief. Things hadn’t been right for a while, and finally understanding the reason made it easier to come to terms with. In fact, in some ways, our friendship is even stronger now than it was before. But we’re still in transition mode in a certain sense.

Blake’s phone rings, and he pulls it from his back pocket. “Shit. I gotta go.” He looks up at me again, driving his fingers through his long hair to slick it back. “The band is hitting the road in two hours, and I still need to pick up Jess and Gordie.”

I force another smile, knowing that hardly anything comes between my ex-husband and his band. When we were married, it was more of a side gig, but they’re playing full time now.

“Where to this time?” The band has a decent following and they make enough money to live on, unlike a lot of musicians. But Blake isn’t rolling in it, by any means. We always kept our heads above water when we were together, but things have been tighter since our split. Yet another thing that keeps me up at night.

“We’ve got a couple of gigs in Tallahassee, then we’re off to South Carolina.” He can’t help his grin at first but soon manages to bring himself back to earth. “Hey, Dollface.” Blake’s voice softens as he steps close again, addressing me with the nickname he’s used since the day we met. “Don’t worry. The therapist will know what to do for Matty. I’m sure half the boys in Matty’s class are raging with hormones and behaving like jackasses.”

Blake isn’t crossing into my personal space this time, instead allowing me to choose. I close the distance and he wraps me up in a hug.

“I hope you’re right,” I say into the shoulder of his thin T-shirt. What I don’t say is that it will be hard for a therapist to do much of anything if Matty refuses to enter their office in the first place.

As if to punctuate my thought, the front door closes with a bang, Matty’s voice delivering a barely audible, “I’ll be back later.”

Blake and I both pull back to look at each other. “By the way,” he says, “He’s got two boxes of crackers under his bed.”

My nose wrinkles. “Seriously?”

One corner of Blake’s mouth lifts. “Hey, at least it’s not stiff tube socks he’s collecting under there.”

My dumbstruck expression has him laughing all the way to the door.

“Sorry to bug you,” I say as I knock on my boss’s open office door. “But I wanted to touch base before I leave to take Matty to hockey practice.”

“Come in,” she beckons from behind her marble-topped desk with a wave of one graceful hand. “Sit.” When my only response is to stay put and look at my watch, Coco delivers one of her well-practiced side-eyes. I swear the woman could talk the Pope himself out of Sunday Mass. “Sit,” she repeats in a firmer tone.

I don’t try very hard to hide my sigh, but it only makes her grin.

“You still have another twenty minutes before you need to leave, and you’ve been running around all day like a chicken with its head cut off. Take a minute to breathe, will you?” she admonishes.

She’s not wrong. Today has been nuts, and I’m operating on only four hours of sleep. Who knew one of the signs of impending menopause was sleepless nights that turn you into a zombie? First, my car wouldn’t start, so I had to dig around under the hood and tighten the terminal nut that keeps coming loose. Of course, that resulted in a grease stain on my most versatile ivory blouse, which necessitated me changing outfits faster than a Vegas showgirl between acts and breaking the speed limit to make it to the morning meeting at Farnsworth Realty.

Friday being the biggest day of the week for new listings meant endless trips to the printer and back while juggling client emails and phone calls. As the newest—and thus lowest-ranking—agent in the office, I pretty much get the scraps when it comes to property leads while the more lucrative prospects are handed off to Maude and Jason, two other agents with more seniority and not a small degree of entitlement to match.

Honestly, it’s for the best, though. I’m not ready for a big listing.

Coco studies me for a few silent beats while I force my feet not to tap on her wood floor. I finally can’t take it anymore. “What?”

“How’s your sex life these days?”

I choke on my own saliva and proceed to cough into the inside of my elbow for a good thirty seconds. “Coco!” I manage to scold once I’m partway recovered. “I thought bosses weren’t allowed to ask stuff like that!”

Even her laugh is classy as hell, a light tinkling sound that’s purely feminine. “Darling, we’re off the clock. This is girl time.” She pats her silver-blond updo and stares me down more effectively than even Dame Maggie Smith could have.

I purse my lips. “In that case, I might ask the same of you,” I volley back. This turns out to be a poor decision.

“Fabulous, as always. I may even stop my Botox, these men are keeping me so young.”

“Oh, god,” I mumble under my breath.

She lowers both palms to her desktop. “Look at you. You’re a hot commodity just waiting to be snatched off the market by some hunky stud.”

“I’m not a house for sale, for god’s sake. And I’m fine with just me and Matty.” This isn’t strictly true. Some days I’d give my right arm to have a partner to share my troubles and triumphs—other days, I remind myself I need that arm to give myself the only orgasms available to me.

“Liar, liar, panties on fire,” Coco croons as she swipes her phone up with one hand, the perfectly manicured index finger of the other tapping at the screen.

“You’re callingmea liar?” I cock my head in disbelief. “Just yesterday I heard you telling that guy from that fancy investment firm that you’re forty-six.”

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