Bobbie, the Builder | Book I of Builder Chicks

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 those papers 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,” sitting 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 stony mask: guilt. She is the reason we’re here, after all.

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’d 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 marked the end of my career and the beginning of 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. Letting out a long breath, I 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. Scoffing softly, I 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?

Picking up the pen, I sign on every line they point to. There’s 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 honestly, it doesn’t matter. Jeanie moved and made sacrifices to stay by my side when things were still good—she shouldn’t walk away empty-handed. I have more money than I could ever spend, though the new Porsche 911 did catch my eye. Not sure how I’d fit myself into such a small ride, but…

Once the paperwork is in order, I wait until everyone else has left, then limp over to the nearest bar to see my therapist, Jim Beam.

It gets me thinking that more people should look into what marriage legally entails before they do it. Every time I signed a contract with a potential sponsor or team, the lawyers descended to explain every bit of fine print. Marriage ties you to another person just as legally, but no one sits you down and explains what that really means. Or what happens if it doesn’t work out. You let love guide you into it, wrap a big expensive party around it, then spend months figuring out how to divide a life you thought you’d be sharing forever.

It doesn’t take long for a woman to drift over to the stool beside mine and chat me up.

For eight years, not once did I look at another woman.

It would have been easy, too, just like now: go to a bar, sit, and wait to be recognized. Huffing softly, I shake my head, annoyed at 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 tries to get my attention with her dirty pillows on full display, I consider looking up the definitions of “modesty” and “demure” for her to read. Doubt she’s heard of either.

The longer I sit there, nursing a 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 woman—and I will find one. Eventually. They’re out there somewhere. Until then, I guess I’ll settle for anonymous sex…? A glance over at Miss D Cup brings a soft groan. No matter how low I sink, that’s just not me.

It’s times like these that memories of Angela Hicks come flooding back. Like the rest of us, she was still growing into herself in high school. But to me, she had it all, the full package. She was sharp and witty, fit, and played on the girls’ basketball team. And she 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 guys’ basketball team; she kept my feet nailed to the floor whenever my head got too big for my shoulders. She had this thing she’d do whenever I did something stupid—called it a Flyby Ass-whoopin’.

Angela would literally come out of nowhere and smack me upside the head, laughing hysterically. Then she’d keep running without even slowing down to look back. She was fast, too—she used to dance circles around the others on the court.

Sometimes I’d do stupid shit just to hear her laugh like the maniac she was. I hope she hasn’t changed. Life can deliver a hell of a cunt punt, though, so I doubt she’s exactly as I remember her.

There was only one problem with crushing on Angie—she was my best friend’s kid sister, which made her off-limits. For me, that was an unspoken part of the bro code.

I did kiss her once. It was at a graduation party, and I knew if I didn’t do it then that I’d regret it. To this day, no one’s driven me half as crazy as she did. She ran away afterward, saying 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.

Then I went off to college to play basketball. My career took off, and I never saw Angela again. Sometimes I wonder what she’s doing now—whether she’s married or still living in Georgia. Over time, I lost touch with nearly everyone back home.

It wasn’t deliberate; it just sort of happened that way.

Even now, I chuckle at the memory of the time Angela practically dunked on me. She used me as a springboard to get to the hoop and hollered, “Get dunked on, bitch! Suck it!” Then she ran a victory lap around me, laughing until she finally calmed down.

I should have married her right then and there, but what do kids know?

“What’s so funny?” the brunette asks. Her name escapes me, though I’m sure she introduced herself earlier.

Whatever.

Her eyes are dull and glassy when I glance at her, and I wonder what brought her 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 in hearing her tale of woe—I’ve got enough of my own to wallow in.

“Angela Hicks,” I mutter before I can stop myself.

She gives me a lazy smile. “Oh, is she your girlfriend?”

Subtle.

Her question draws a sigh from me, and my chest fills with a bitter mix of regret and longing. 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, needing 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 toward, and that’s not a road I want to travel.

I know myself well enough to admit that right now, I shouldn’t be alone.

As I walk back to my apartment, an idea forms and nags at me. 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, there are 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 and followed it. Maybe being around him, back where things were simpler, will help me find my footing again. I have no doubt Dad would keep me out of trouble, at least.

He wouldn’t let me slip into the kind of self-destruction I see lurking around every corner here.

By the time I step through the front door of my apartment, the idea has gained momentum. Before I even realize what I’m doing, I head straight for the bedroom, pull a bag from the walk-in closet, and start 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 with a shirt in my hands, fingers tightening around the fabric. 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 thinking about the possibility of bumping into Angela. I see her as she was: glossy black hair framing her face, thick, 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 that got away—the one I never got over—happily married with a gaggle of kids.