The Rule of Three
Mason
They say these things come in threes. First, my knee—and now I watch as my wife’s lawyer pushes divorce papers my way. It’s finally happening. It’s been six months in the making, but seeing that document right there in front of me makes it all the more real. I wonder what disaster number three might look like, though I doubt it can get any worse than this.
I glance over at my beautiful “wife,” who sits across from me in my lawyer’s office conference room. Her eyes, which once looked at me with reverence and love, are now cold and empty. I know what she’s trying to hide behind that seemingly cold, stony mask: guilt. She’s the reason we’re here.
I can’t place the blame entirely on Jeanie, but I’m not the one who fucked my best friend. Now I’m minus not only a wife but a friend. Aiden was the best man at my wedding, too. He wasn’t my first choice, but it had been years since I had spoken to Atticus, and I thought it’d be awkward to ask. Atticus would never have fucked Jeanie—I’d stake my life on it.
When I busted my knee, it was the end of not only my career but also the slow deterioration of my marriage. I was broken in more ways than one, and while my career fell apart in my hands, I failed her as a partner. Basketball was everything, and with one awkward twist of my knee, I was out for life. It’s been a little over a year now—I still can’t work out as hard as I’d like, and I sure as shit can’t run. How was I supposed to take care of Jeanie when I couldn’t even look after myself? I dug myself a hole, crawled into it, and stayed there, wallowing in my misery.
Dreams shattered. Body shattered.
Luckily for me, my best friend since college stepped in to care for my poor, neglected wife. What a bro. Now she’s pregnant with Aiden’s baby and wants out. I let out a long breath and shake my head. Done deal, Jeanie. Have at it.
It’s at times like these that I recall my father’s advice and regret not following it. He always told me to find a woman who knew how to be good company—not just a lover, but a friend.
“When you both get old and the beauty fades, what’s left, Mason?” He always pointed to his head during this part. “Unless dementia takes that too, you’ll have nothing left but your head. Go for the mind. Pick a sharp and funny one, a caring one. Look after her noodle, nurture it, and she’ll be there to hold your hand through the shit. And make sure you like her family because you end up marrying the whole lot of them.”
Jeanie never held my hand through the shit—her family is materialistic, narcissistic, and vapid. I thought she was different—the black sheep of the family. I should have paid better attention to the red flags. There I was, waving goodbye to my entire basketball career—the one I sacrificed everything to pursue and spent decades building—and when it was all gone, Jeanie made it all about her. I scoff softly and glare at the divorce papers. Fuck it. I won’t take any blame. It’s not like Aiden accidentally slipped into her vagina, and they just decided to keep going because why not, right?
I grab the pen and sign on every line they point to—no sense in drawing this out. They deserve each other.
Sebastian said I was a fool for giving Jeanie one of the apartments and a car, but I honestly don’t care. Jeanie moved and made some sacrifices to stay by my side when things were still good—she shouldn’t walk away empty-handed, and I have more money than I could ever spend—though the new Porsche 911 caught my eye. I don’t know how I’d fit myself into it, but…
Once the paperwork is all in order, I wait for everyone to leave before I make my way to meet with my therapist, Jim Beam, at the closest bar.
It doesn’t take long for some woman to come over and chat me up. For eight years, not once did I look at any other woman. It would have been easy, too, just like now: go to a bar, sit, and wait to be recognized. I release a small, annoyed huff. It’s annoying how easy it is—I don’t even have to lift a finger. A lot has changed since I was a kid. Growing up, the guys were always expected to make the first move. As Miss D Cup here tries to get my attention with her dirty pillows on full display, I can’t help but think of searching up the definition of the words “modesty” or “demure” for her to read up on. I rather doubt she’s heard of either.
The longer I sit there, nursing my drink while trying to ignore the woman talking at me, the more I realize I’m going to be alone for a long time before I find myself a quality woman—and I will find one. Eventually. They’re out there somewhere. Until then, I guess I’ll settle for anonymous sex. I glance over at Miss D Cup and groan softly. No matter how low I sink, that’s just not me.
It’s times like these that memories of Angela Hicks come flooding back. She was my crush in high school. She wasn’t the most beautiful girl on the planet—we were all pretty awkward back then. But she had it all—the full package. She was sharp and witty, fit, played on the girls’ basketball team, and had a laugh that made everyone around her smile. She was kind, looked after her friends, and never let me get away with my shit. She didn’t care that I was captain of the guy’s basketball team and kept my feet nailed to the floor whenever my head got too big for my shoulders. She used to do this one thing every time I’d do something stupid; she called it a “Flyby Ass-whoopin’.”
Angela would literally come out of nowhere and smack me upside the head while laughing hysterically as she kept going, not even slowing down to look back. Sometimes I’d do stupid shit just to hear her laugh like the maniac she was. Probably still is.
There was only one problem: Angela was my best friend’s sister, which made her off-limits. For me, it was an unspoken bro code. I kissed her once at a graduation party, and to this day, no one’s driven me half as crazy as she did. She ran away after that, saying that we shouldn’t be doing that kind of stuff or her brother would kick my ass. Atticus never found out though—or if he did, he never said anything about it.
After that, I went off to play basketball in college, my career took off, and I never saw Angela again. I sometimes wonder what she might be doing—if she’s married or still living in Georgia. I lost contact with nearly everyone back home, not purposefully—it just sort of happened that way.
I chuckle at the memory of the one time Angela practically dunked over me. She used me as a springboard to get to the hoop and hollered, “Get dunked on, bitch! Suck it!” before running a victory lap around me, laughing before she eventually calmed down. I should have married her right then and there, but what do kids know?
“What’s so funny?” asks the brunette—her name escapes me, though I’m sure she introduced herself earlier. Whatever.
I glance at her, taking in her dull, glassy eyes, and wonder what might have brought her here, to a bar in the middle of the day. She’s probably got her own mess to sort out, just like the rest of us. But I’m not interested.
“Angela Hicks,” I mutter, the name slipping out before I can stop it.
She gives me a lazy smile. “Oh, is she your girlfriend?” Real subtle.
I let out a sigh, a bitter mix of regret and longing filling my chest. I wish. I wish she were my girlfriend. I wish my life had turned out differently. But instead of voicing any of that, I slide off the stool and toss a few bills on the bar.
“No,” I say quietly, shaking my head. “I’m not that lucky.”
Without another word, I head for the door. I need to get the hell out of here before I drown in all the what-ifs. This path—day drinking and reminiscing in dark corners of bars—is a slippery slope, one that’s far too easy to slide down. I know myself too well. If I start numbing myself with bourbon during daylight hours, I might never stop. I’ve seen too many guys walk the road I’m heading down, and I don’t want to be another tragic story.
I’m not strong enough to crawl out of this pit alone.
As I walk back to my apartment, an idea forms, one that nags at me like a persistent itch. Maybe it’s time to go back—not just home to my dad’s place, but really go back. To Georgia. To where it all started. Maybe it’s time to reconnect with my past and figure out what the hell I’m supposed to do now. There’s nothing left for me here in Brooklyn—no career, no wife, no future. Everywhere I look, I see reminders of what I lost, of the life Jeanie and I built together, only for it to crumble in my hands.
My father’s always been full of solid advice, even if I haven’t always listened. Maybe being around him, back where things were simpler, will help me find my footing again. I have no doubt that Dad would keep me out of trouble, at least. It’s not like he’d let me slip into the kind of self-destruction I see lurking around every corner here.
The thought gains momentum as I push through the front door of my apartment. Before I even realize what I’m doing, I head straight for the bedroom, yanking a bag from the walk-in closet and starting to pack. There’s no hesitation—just a gut feeling, an instinct telling me that leaving is the right move. And I’ve always trusted my instincts.
Except once.
I pause, fingers tightening around the fabric of a shirt. There was one time I ignored my gut and let someone else’s advice override my own judgment. Now I’m older, hopefully wiser, and I won’t make that mistake again.
Going back to a town where everyone knows my name and tragic past won’t be easy. There’s no hiding there. No disappearing into the crowd. But as I fold another shirt and lay it carefully in my bag, I can’t help but let my mind wander to the possibility of bumping into Angela. I see her as she was: thick, glossy black hair framing her face, nerdy glasses perched on her nose, and that confident, unshakeable presence that made her so unforgettable.
A pang of fear shoots through me. What if she’s moved on? Married? Kids? That’s probably the third disaster waiting to strike me: Angela Hicks, the girl I never got over, happily married with a gaggle of kids.
