“Do we really need to go to another one of these things, Sands? I have some marketing research I could—”

“On New Year’s Eve? Are you out of your mind? We’re going out!”

“What’s the point? We’ve been to a ton of these things and it’s always the same...Can’t we just stay in, drink some wine, and go over our resolutions?”

“Claire...” She walked over to my front door and opened it. “We’re going out. Now. You don’t have any work to do and you know it. And it’s your turn to drive so let’s go!”

I stood in the winding buffet line and tossed a few veggie chips onto my plate. I looked up at the banner that hung over the bar and sighed. It read “New Year’s Middle-Aged Singles’ Mixer: Let’s Get Jiggy!”

Aside from the tacky banner, the interior of Pacific Bay Lounge left a lot to be desired: Surfboards served as table tops, old park benches were strewn about, and dingy blue and green streamers hung from the ceiling to simulate “waves.”

Tonight, the lounge was way over-capacity—not a huge surprise since lonely people seemed to flock to these types of events. I was so used to them that I’d become quite the people reader: The guy standing by the window was at least sixty, the blond hair dye he’d been using to look twenty years younger was beginning to fade. The woman who was dancing against the speakers was clearly going through a divorce; she was still wearing her wedding ring and she tossed back a shot every time the DJ yelled “Cheers to all the single ladies!”

I’d been there. Done that.

On the window seats that lined the far wall, shy women were fidgeting with their hair and clothes like nervous high school students. Most of them were being forced to be here and had probably never had a fully-functioning relationship in their lives.

I grabbed two beers from the end of the table and sat on an empty couch, observing one man’s poor attempt to get a shy woman to dance.

“Is this seat taken?” A gorgeous man with grey eyes smiled at me, interrupting my fascinating people watch.

“No. No, it’s not...”

“Great.” He sat down and put his beer on the table. “I’m Lance. What’s your name?”

“Claire. Claire Gracen.”

“That’s a pretty name. What do you do for a living, Claire?”

“I’m a marketing director for a software company. What do you do?”

He tapped the label on his beer. “I own and manage a beer company, Leyland Beers. It’s in Nevada.”

“Very impressive,” I said. “So, what do you—”

“How old are you, if you don’t mind me asking?”

Ugh, here we go...

“I’m thirty-nine, and yourself?”

“Wow...” He looked me up and down. “I’m forty seven. Do you have any kids?”

I felt myself smiling. “Two daughters. You?”

“No, I don’t have any kids. Life’s way too short for that—no offense. Can I call you sometime?”

Seriously? Is that all it takes these days? Age? Kids? Phone number? Is the art of conversation that DEAD?

“Umm sure...” I forced a smile. “It’s—”

“Wait. How old are your kids? Are they ‘with-the-babysitter-tonight-age’ or are they ‘secretly-stealing-beer-out-of-your-cabinet-while-you’re-gone-age’? I have to be frank with you because I’m not looking for anything serious, and all you women with kids tend to be more—”

“You know what?” I stood up. “I have to go to the restroom. I’ll be right back.”

I pushed through the crowd and made my way to the outside deck, where lots of singles were watching the ripples of the Pacific Ocean swell up and down. I took a deep breath and inhaled the salty wet air—the one thing I had yet to get used to since moving to the West Coast.

I looked over my shoulder and saw Sandra talking to yet another guy, teasingly rubbing his shoulder and biting her lip. She caught me staring and motioned for me to come over. She was mouthing “He has a friend!”

I turned around and rolled my eyes.

“I take it you’re not having a good time?” A husky voice said from beside me.

I didn’t even bother looking at him. I didn’t want to engage in any more pointless conversations or mundane introductions. I just wanted to go home.

I sighed. “I’m thirty nine. My birthday’s in two weeks. I’ve been divorced for four years and I have two teenaged daughters.”

I didn’t hear him say anything else. I turned to my left and saw that he was halfway across the deck.

I took another swig of my beer and shook my head. I knew I wasn’t helping myself by pushing every potential suitor away, but I couldn’t help it. I still couldn’t believe that I was actually single.

My life had been picture perfect years ago—fourteen year marriage to a man who I thought loved me, pretty Pittsburgh neighborhood in the suburbs, amazing career that was almost on the brink of being legendary—but then one day it was over. Just like that. The priceless picture couldn’t be put back together; it couldn’t be saved.

It was tattered, forever ruined, and I was the one who emerged with the most cuts...

I sent Sandra a text and made a break for the parking lot, turning down numerous offers to dance on my way out.

“Hey, hey, hey!” Sandra climbed inside the truck and shut the door. “We’ve only been here twenty minutes! Don’t you at least want to stay for the New Year’s countdown?”

“No.”

“Why? What’s wrong? I saw the guy you were talking to in there! He was good-looking!”

“Look Sands, I’m not twenty anymore. I can’t keep coming to these things expecting to meet the love of my life. I met mine already, remember?” My voice cracked. “It didn’t work out...”

I leaned back in my seat and forced a lump down my throat.

The thought of losing my husband to my best friend still hurt to think about. The divorce was long over, but the pain still woke me up some nights, still dragged me out of my sleep and hit me over my heart like a twenty pound sledgehammer.

“You’re thinking about Ryan and Amanda, huh?” She handed me a Kleenex. “You have to stop beating yourself up about it. It wasn’t your fault.”

“I was so blind to it!” I began to cry. “I let her in my house! I trusted her with my kids! I trusted them both with everything!”

“I’m so sorry, Claire...”

My marriage to Ryan Hayes was a fairytale—at least it was to me. Don’t get me wrong, it wasn’t entirely perfect, but we had far more amazing days than good days, more good days than average days, and hardly any bad days.

Ryan was everything I ever wanted in a man. He was attentive and caring, thoughtful and compassionate, and he always remembered the little things that made me happy: Hot coffee on the rainy days I spent typing away in our home office, a warm blanket when I fell asleep in front of the fireplace, and endless chocolate chip cookies and candy bars whenever it was my time of the month.

Every time he came home from work, he brought me a single red rose and kissed me like his life depended on it. He treated me to the country club’s spa once a month while he volunteered to watch our daughters for the day. He even surprised me sometimes by beating me home and cooking dinner for all of us.

He was my rock. My soul. My everything.

I honestly thought our love would transcend time, that I was one of the lucky ones who would be able to truly uphold the “til death do us part” mantra.

Yet, somewhere between the thirteenth and fourteenth year of our marriage, Ryan began to change.

He started coming home later and later. He didn’t leave his cell phone out like he normally did; he was extremely protective of it and often took calls in another room. He was more elusive—vague, and anytime I said that I needed to run to the store, he would jump up and volunteer to do it for me.

At first, I figured that the late nights had something to do with his new promotion to partner at the law firm; that his recent clingy-ness to his cellphone was just him wanting to be alert should he receive an emergency client call. I couldn’t figure out why he was volunteering to do every single grocery run since he’d always loathed any type of shopping, but I took advantage of not having to do it myself.