As I stomp down Scollard Street toward the subway station, my heart is full of angry thoughts. Screw you, Mr. Emery. I never rode Jackson’s coattails. Damn that man! He never liked me.
When I say he never liked me, I mean never. Even when I was seven years old and climbing trees with Jackson in the backyard, he used to curl his lip at me. He let me know at an early age that I wasn’t good enough for his only son, that the tomboy daughter of a middle-class single mother would never belong in his millionaire household.
Many times during the past year and a half I’ve reminded myself that the only silver lining to getting divorced at twenty-seven is not having Herbert Emery as a father-in-law anymore.
My rage carries me into the subway station. But by the time I’m swiping my Metropass at the turnstyle, my anger is already giving way to the heavy drag of sadness.
I am, after all, the only person I know who co-owns a business with her ex-husband. It’s weird. I’ll admit it. And it’s not like we’re silent partners, either. I see him every day at work. Or almost every day. We don’t share a home anymore, but it wouldn’t be fair to say that I’ve moved on.
Will I ever?
When I was nineteen, I literally married the boy next door. By then, Jackson and I had already known each other all our lives. We grew up in the suburbs of Toronto, both in tense homes. His was tense because his father was super successful and overbearing. Mine was tense because my mother was verbally abusive and occasionally violent.
Jackson and I found refuge in our friendship from an early age, retreating to the treehouse in his backyard when things got too crazy at home.
Sometime during high school, our relationship changed from sleepovers in the treehouse to sleeping together in the treehouse. We headed off to the same college a year later. And when I was nineteen, we eloped during a spring-break trip to Vegas. That was ten years ago.
Five years ago Jackson and I came up with the idea for Fetch while watching a reality TV show. At first, it was just our weird little brainstorm. But when Jackson’s company relocated to Vancouver, he was out of work. So our idea became a plan. I quit my banking job to help him start the business. Three years ago we turned our first profit, and we’ve been growing ever since.
And eighteen months ago… Jackson and I were having coffee together at his desk when he very gently brought up the idea of divorce. “We’re great friends. We run a kickass business together. But I don’t think we’ve ever set the standard for world’s most romantic couple,” he’d pointed out.
Even though my gut said he was right, my heart broke right then and there, crumbling and landing among the crumbs of the oatmeal cookie I’d just eaten.
I was crushed. I still am, if I’m honest. The rejection still stings so sharply that I’ve done nothing but work like a dog for the past year and a half.
Jackson moved out, leaving me our apartment and all its furnishings. He’d meant it as a kindness—so I wouldn’t have to search for an apartment or buy new things. But now I live in a museum of our old life. I still eat my morning cereal out of bowls we chose together at the Eaton Centre. After a shower, I dry off with towels that I bought because he liked that particular shade of blue.
Maybe we hadn’t had the most passionate relationship on the planet. But passion isn’t everything. We’re so well suited in many other ways. And losing someone you’ve known your whole life leaves a big hole.
Now his father wants to push me even further away.
As the train pulls into the station at the hockey stadium, I actually consider Mr. Emery’s idea. If I sold my stake in the company, I’d have enough money to move somewhere else, to get a fresh start. I could travel like I’ve always wanted to, and then find a new job.
It’s not like it never occurs to me to put a little distance between Jackson and me. But, damn it! That business is half mine, and it’s a success. My mom spent my whole childhood trying to convince me that I’d never succeed at anything. And now I have.
Even if the success is only half mine.
I hadn’t known Jackson was so hot to expand into other neighborhoods. We’d mentioned expanding “someday” before.
Maybe he’s been waiting all these months for me to realize I need to move on? Now there’s an unsettling idea. But I can almost see it. He’s a kind man—his father’s opposite. It would be just like him to wait me out. To let me realize for myself that it was time to go.
We were always good to each other. The only couple I knew who never fought. And he wanted a divorce. Because that makes so much sense. Whenever anyone asks me about it, I always say we’re amicably divorced, and how great it is. Though only the first half of that is true.
Luckily, there’s hockey to ease my pain.
I emerge into the excitement of game night. Red jerseys swarm toward the turnstiles as I circle this happy chaos in search of Jenny.
“Over here!”
Turning, I realize she’s been hard to spot because her jersey matches too well with the photos on the wall behind her. She wears a replica jersey for the team captain and a giant smile.
“Come on!” she squeaks. “Puck drops in fifteen minutes. And we have to buy food.” She hefts a sign under her arm as I approach.
“Wait.” I eye the poster board. “What does that say?” Jenny is a little, um, freer spirited than I am, and for all I know the sign offers a blowjob for every goal scored.
She angles the cardboard and lifts her arm so I can see the message she’s written there. C’MON BOYS! THIS IS OUR YEAR! Thank God. Now we probably won’t end up on ESPN’s psycho-fan-of-the-night segment.
“Let’s get pulled-pork sandwiches and beer. My treat.”
“You don’t have to pay,” I protest.
“I know. But this way if the future Mr. Hailey gives us seats again sometime, you’ll have to invite me because I bought you dinner.”
“You’ve got this all planned out, huh?”
“You bet I do.” She gives me a slightly evil grin, and my appreciation for her quadruples right on the spot. Jenny was one of our first hires at Fetch, right before we officially opened our doors. She’s one of our managers, and definitely my best friend. I’m technically her boss, but we just pretend I’m not a lot of the time.
I own a business with my ex. I party with my employee. Maybe my life is a little claustrophobic. Sue me.
After we buy some food we make our way down to the best seats in the world. “Wow,” I gasp as we get our first view of the warmup skate.
“Wow,” Jenny echoes, her eyes widening as our idols whip past on their blades. We’re so close to the action we can hear the scrape of steel against ice. “This is as close as I’ve come to having a religious experience.”
“You said that when we saw U2 last year.”
“But Bono wasn’t stretching his powerful thighs ten feet in front of me.” Jenny sighs happily as big forward Blake Riley glides past the glass with a smile. Then he blows a kiss right at us. No—right near us.
“Love you, baby!” someone calls from two feet behind me.