After Happily Ever After

By M.J. Reed

We've all seen the movie: man meets woman, they spar for two hours, and in the dramatic final scene they declare their love for one another and live happily ever after. Or do they? AFTER HAPPILY EVER AFTER takes a look at what happens after Harry meets Sally, or Tom Cruise 'completes' Renee Zellweger, or Jack Nicholson takes Helen Hunt for hot rolls. Every week the casualties of these ill-conceived relationships—Hollywood date movie icons all—gather together in a support group to tell their tales of heartbreak and betrayal. If you love movies or love books or maybe just love the idea of an anti-sacharine alternative to the usual sappy romances on the shelves around Valentine's day, then take a chance on AFTER HAPPILY EVER AFTER.

Will you be glad you did? I have no clue.

• Language: English
• Publisher: M.J. Reed
• Release date: Jan 25, 2014
• ISBN: 9781311768803

M.J. Reed

M.J. Reed lives in semi-seclusion in a bunker on the New Hampshire Seacoast. In 1995 the author was diagnosed with hysterical tinnitus, a particularly cruel form of the disease in which he does not hear the characteristic ringing, but rather the 70's pop tune Muskrat Love playing endlessly in his head. He spends his days in self-imposed isolation, watching Seinfeld reruns and preparing for the zombie apocalypse. He has no favorite color, if he were a plant he'd be a sycamore fig, and as for his politics, he doesn't like cats.

Book preview

After Happily Ever After

A Hollywood Valentine

By M. J. Reed

Copyright © 2013 by M. J. Reed

Smashwords Edition

All Rights Reserved

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The Group

The coffee was cold, primarily because no one really drank it. Mostly they just stood around the stainless steel pot, bottled waters in their hands, talking about their problems, each one outdoing the other with tales of failed relationships and grievous mistakes. It was a support group of sorts—divorcees, single moms, dads, separated spouses. They met in a grade school gym, early evenings, and gathered around the coffee pot or the water cooler or just huddled together in groups of two or three on the weathered oak floor. The meetings were supposed to start at 7:00, but it was usually twenty after by the time everyone settled into the folding chairs arranged in a circle under the free throw line. It was an eclectic group; fighter pilot, bartender, sports agent (all the same guy), writer, waitress, prince, Scottish freedom fighter, haunted villain in a mask… And though diverse in appearance, age, and era, they all had one thing in common—when it came to relationships they were abject failures.

Doc, the group facilitator, regularly showed up 30 minutes late, did it so consistently in fact it ceased to be late anymore, just his version of on time. He was one of those older guys whose age was hard to pin down; an old 45, a young 55, somewhere in there. It was probably the hair that did it, dark and wavy, ethnic looking, slightly disheveled. He had a big nose, bulbous, but not entirely unattractive, and he always wore sweaters, bulky things, the kind you expected to see on a Scotsman tending sheep or on a sea captain. The doc took his traditional seat under the backboard, and once the chatter died down, he called the roll, did a quick check for new members, and then got straight to business. He turned his attention to Mr. Grey. You had the dream again?

Mr. Grey nodded. The island, yeah. He took a deep breath and settled back into his chair. It was all so real, sand between my toes, waves crashing, even the smell. He brought his hands up and cupped the air around his nose. And, he smiled, I had this beard. I mean it was longer this time, bushy you know? He shook his head, lost in the faux memory.

What about the volleyball? asked Ms. T. She laughed and elbowed the guy next to her.

Mr. Grey looked up, not understanding her point. That’s not what this is about. Did I say anything about the volleyball?

Not this time, said Ms. T.

Ms. T was the youngest woman in the room. She had two kids and a demented husband. When she joined a few weeks back she chose her group name, Ms. Turquoise (everyone had to choose a color—preservation of anonymity, said the doc, as if they had any), but shortened it to Ms. T, which sounded sort of like Misty when anyone said it.

The doc held up a hand. The dream, he said, getting Mr. Grey’s attention, what do you think it means?

Oh please, said Ms. T, the man’s alone on an island, no wife, and he spends his days porking a volleyball…

"I did not pork the volleyball!"

Whatever. Your dream, your being here, your life, it all means the same thing: your marriage sucks. Ms. T crossed her arms and sat back. Deal with it.

That’s what we’re all trying to do, said the doc, unfazed by the dispute, aren’t we? Isn’t that why we’re all here? Aren’t we all trying to ‘deal with it’? He let the question linger for a few seconds, then continued. "And part