Being Anti-Social

By Leigh K Cunningham

Mace Evans is single at thirty-eight. When her much unloved older sister, Shannon, declares that Mace is anti-social, she embarks on a journey to understand her condition; whether she was born that way or if it is the accumulation of thirty-eight years of unfortunate encounters with other humans and dogs.

• Language: English
• Publisher: IndieReader
• Release date: May 19, 2012
• ISBN: 9789810719043

Leigh K Cunningham

Leigh K Cunningham is a lawyer with a career as a senior executive for a number of public companies in her home country of Australia. She has three master’s degrees in law (Master of International Trade & Investment Law) and commerce (Master of Commerce) and an MBA (International Management) where she graduated as ‘Top Student’.Now a full-time writer, Leigh has won seven awards for her four titles with her latest title, BEING ANTI-SOCIAL chosen by IndieReader as one of the Best Indie Books for 2013. BEING ANTI-SOCIAL also won gold at the Readers' Favorite Book Awards (Chick-Lit) and gold at the Reader Views Literary Awards (Humor).Leigh's other title for the adult fiction market, RAIN, won gold at the 2011 Indie Excellence Awards (Literary Fiction) and silver at the Independent Publisher Awards (IPPY) in the Regional Fiction: Australia/New Zealand category. RAIN was #1 on the Amazon bestseller list for Women’s Fiction.THE GLASS TABLE and its sequel, SHARDS - Leigh's titles for the children's market, won silver medals at the Mom's Choice Awards (2010).Leigh's next title, REWRITTEN is due for release in 2014.Leigh is the founder and Executive Director for the Association of Independent Authors, a global membership organization advancing the interests of self-published authors.

Book preview

Mark

Chapter One

IN MY THIRTY-EIGHT years, many names have followed me; most lack a generosity of spirit, but most are also probably true. My much unloved older sister, Shannon, has added another—I am anti-social she announced as she swaggered past me with her silver platter, not bothering to stop so I could partake of her home-made satay sticks and curry puffs. I put down The Girl Who Kicked the Hornets Nest and glared after her. I took offence—not so much at the words, but by the malice that accompanied them. I looked around the Evans family gathering expecting to find others aghast by such antagonism, but conversations and laughter continued unabated.

I reclined deeper into dad’s armchair to contemplate my new label, and while I was thankful my siblings and in-laws never attempted to draw me into their pointless chit-chat, it seemed to validate Shannon’s tirade. Not fearful of further retribution, I slithered down the hallway in search of a computer and solitary environment.

My affliction, according to one source, is a hostility toward or disruption of the established social order marked by engaging in behavior that violates accepted mores, like gangs. This is definitely not me—I could never fall in with a gang; that would require networking for a common purpose with other like-minded individuals. I am also not one for violating accepted mores—I don’t buck systems, which is how I came to be at yet another family shindig without will or purpose, and certainly under duress. I do what is expected, especially when mother is involved, to avoid the ugly consequences.

I continued with my research, buoyed by the initial results that proved Shannon wrong. I anticipated bursting her balloon in front of everyone should they wish to listen. The next source defined ‘antisocial’ as an unwillingness or inability to associate in a normal or friendly way with other people; not merely shyness, but an antagonism toward or disrespect for others, rudeness. I read the words several times looking for some aspect that did not fit my particular condition then one of Shannon’s spawn jumped through the doorway and fired his plastic arrow at me. I chased him away with a scowl and a growl and returned to the brutal definition before me. Perhaps there was something in it, and just maybe they were written with me in mind.

I stared at the anti-glare screen that sheltered each word under a green hue and a sense of relief and acceptance flowed, like the patient who had languished undiagnosed for years until a medical breakthrough finally identified the disease, but offered no cure.

More googling generated a list of suppliers for custom printed t-shirts. It would be useful, I figured, to warn others in advance of my disposition, but then I worried it might inspire a complete stranger to ask about the t-shirt and its sentiment—a chatty, bubbly stranger worse still. My time on dad’s antiquated PC did however resolve one annual dilemma—what to buy Shannon for her birthday. I placed an order for a t-shirt that read, Everyone is entitled to my opinion.

Satisfied with my efforts, I attempted to spin around in the fossil of an office chair and was flung to the floor by a rusted swivel—and an ideal place for further contemplation. Where and when did the anti begin? Was I born this way, or was it the by-product of a series of unfortunate encounters with other humans and dogs?

My birth and subsequent naming may well have been the beginning. They called me Mace—that’s ‘ace’ with an M in front of it. It’s a boy’s name for starters and I am not. A mace is a medieval weapon used by knights to break amour, or a liquid used in riot control that causes tears and nausea, and in Latin, Mace is a spice made from the nutmeg seed. My parents have not been asked to explain themselves, out of fear mostly, because knowing mother as I do, I am not likely to understand her explanation, and no good could ever come from such a discussion. So it remains a mystery that they will take to their graves still feeling quite good about it I expect.

My siblings, all four of them, have normal two-syllable, sex-appropriate names: David, Jason, Lauren (good sister) and Shannon (bad sister). It seems I was singled-out for special attention the minute I arrived in this world, and not a lot has changed since.

There is a very good reason why gestation takes a good nine months—to give the parents ample time to get the naming part right. It is not too much to ask therefore that adequate time be set aside for such an important assignment. It could have been worse I suppose—they might have called me Pringle, Apple, Sage Moonblood, Pilot, Rocket or Blanket.

That is it, our family unit—five children and two parents, plus three offspring from Shannon and two from Jason.

Given what you so far know of me, you will probably be surprised to learn that I have friends, who are all friends of each other: Kimberley aka Kimba, Sophie, Amber and Erin. We have been friends forever, a habit that began at school and has perpetuated for decades since. If I stopped for a moment to think about it, I might not actually like any of them any more, except Kimba, and not just because she is like her nick-namesake: a cute, white lion who believes that true peace requires communication and mutual understanding. Kimba is the voice of reason, which is often drowned out by the irrational musings from Erin, pessimism and woe from Sophie, and the shallow preoccupations and obsessions of Amber that spew forth like Vesuvius.

It might also surprise you to learn that my life has not been completely devoid of relationships (although I am currently single) and I have been able to live with another human being, in harmony too. There was a man I loved and another I did not. I sacrificed the former for a meaningless fling with the latter for reasons that remain unclear to me and anyone who knows me and them. I had it all with Benjamin, Ben, my Benny then he left me because of Joshua, or rather, because he found out about Joshua.

Ben was the perfect husband. It pains me therefore to say that I knew he was perfect for me then and now, so why, how then, did the ruffian Joshua Steele find a way in? This question remains unanswered despite obsessive analysis and study for the past six years since our divorce, and neurotically so since Ben died four years ago depriving me of any chance for redemption. I did try to win him back, but he could not overcome the betrayal even though he said he would love me until the day he died and from beyond his grave. He said this before he knew he was going to die and again before he died, so I know it was true, and the pain in his eyes had said so too.

I was with him the night leukemia stole his life at the age of thirty-four. There was not enough time to make everything right between us because I was only informed of his imminent passing after the battle had been waged and lost, and only then with reluctance did his sister call to let me know Ben’s time was up. I guess the moment was a sweet one for her and the final retaliation for what I did to her brother.

The night of the Joshua revelation still haunts me. I relive it whenever any of the reminder flags pop up, for example, when switching on a light in the darkness. It was well after midnight that night when I arrived home. I had been pulling an all-nighter at work in pursuit of an immovable deadline, but try telling that to a husband who had just learned of an affair. The hallway lamp that usually revealed the path to our living room was unlit. I was annoyed as I shuffled my way past all known obstacles, cursing Ben for being so inconsiderate while I was collapsible with exhaustion. In our living room, I saw a seated silhouette illuminated from behind by a full moon streaming through our uncovered French doors. I screamed and fumbled with the light switch.

What are you doing? I yelled. You scared me. Then I saw the suitcase, and his swollen eyes.

What’s going on? I asked.

I never imagined my life without you—, he started to say and tears rolled over new lines etched into his once ageless skin. A taxi had pulled up out front and before I had found words to say, Ben was gone. In a mental haze, I wandered through to the kitchen where I found a note that simply read, Joshua Steele. I went to bed with a pounding heart, but with a belief I could make things right.

I tried to call Ben the next day as soon as I had finished the apology script. I wrote it out in longhand and was truthful and complete to the extent possible, leaving out details that would cause angst for a male psyche, for example genitalia and performance-related issues. I also modified the when, where, and how often, for similar reasons. In the end, it was not that truthful, if I were to be truthful now. The why was not explainable anyway, and remains so even after years of counseling, hypnotherapy and past life regression. I had my own unanswered questions like, how did Ben find out about Joshua, and what exactly did he know.

I tried non-stop for three days to contact Ben. I tried everything and everyone, but none of his friends or family would help. He doesn’t want to see you, they said. How could you do this to him? He loved you more than life itself. What kind of a woman are you? Leave him alone. Move on. He has. There were other less constrained suggestions I will not go into. Ben filed for divorce, we sold the house we loved, and communicated solely through lawyers, and that was that.

I later learned from badgering his friends, Adam in particular, that Ben was working in the Arabian Gulf on an oilrig. He had always wanted to work on an oilrig so I was happy for him in a way, but disconsolate also that I had driven him to such isolation and this was his only means for coping with the end of us and what I had done.

I did not cope either, but no one wanted to hear that from me—it was a price that only I could pay. Mother’s words were true enough, As you make your bed, so must you lie in it. As a child, I used to think this meant that my untidy bed making would result in a sleepless night, but of course, I know now that she meant to teach me about consequences. The lesson is so learned.

It is a wonder that we became us, Ben and me, given our first date. He had bored me senseless rambling on about separating water and gas and removing the hydrogen to make oil. The night was only made bearable because I was able to stuff myself stupid with wood-fired pizza while he talked through his nervousness. When the bottle of merlot was empty, Ben had barely taken a sip from his glass, and in that respect, he was a good date, but marrying an engineer was not an option.

However there was something magical about Ben, when he was not talking about chemicals. ‘It’ was not definable, but everybody felt it, could see it, and love it absolutely.

For the little time we had left together before he died, I did not want to waste any of it going down that path, but I had to know—how had he found out about Joshua. Joshua was the answer. Joshua had contacted Ben and told him everything, well, almost everything—he failed to mention that I had ended the affair. I asked Ben if this would have made a difference if he had known this back then, but he said no, he didn’t care about when it ended, only that it had begun. Not that it mattered anymore—my love was dying and six years had been lost, apart with separate sufferings, and all that was left was this moment in time with no salvation.

The hatred I felt for Joshua was crushing and remains so to this day despite hundreds of hours and thousands of dollars in every known form of therapy. I would undergo a frontal lobotomy if it would help and if they could remove specifically every cell that had his name in it. I have to let my anger go, I’m told, to dissipate the loathing as if it is a thick fog that lifts to reveal a beautiful, warm, sunshiny day that appears inevitably when a fog does lift. I can visualize it, as I am supposed to, and I can even breathe better as the metaphoric fog rises above my head, but that is as far as it goes because I want to hate Joshua, and I want to feel the power and pain of cold and icy. My mentor and life coach, Oscar Wilde, says we should always forgive our enemies because nothing annoys them more, but then he also said that good advice should always be passed on as it is never of any use to oneself.

It has been pointed out to me that Joshua only owns half of the blame, and if I hear again that it takes two to tango or any other bothersome cliché, I might end up in a mental institution after a rampage with similarly tortured souls. Statements of the obvious do not help anyone, and I already suffer of my own accord. But I can rationalize Joshua’s greater responsibility by saying that it was the way Ben found out that was the crux of it all, and that was Joshua’s doing, solely, one hundred percent. I had planned to tell Ben in time to free myself from the guilt, and because I was certain of his forgiveness. He would have forgiven me. He did, in the end, before he died. Not that it helps now.

Chapter Two

I RECALL a sense of disassociation as a child, as if I was a temporary placement in our home until a better child-parent-sibling match came along, but no such match was ever found. Birth order might explain it—I am the fourth child of five, stuck in the middle with two others who are a perfect match for the Evans family. And consistent with the birth order, attention in our family was distributed unevenly, favoring the first and the last, and for some strange reason, the third, the bad sister, which probably had nothing at all to do with birth order, but a preference for odd numbers, or just plain odd.

David, our eldest, was favored because he was the first and is exceptionally bright. I’m not sure if he is bright because he was the first or because mother and dad gave him the best of their DNA, or both. Firstborns are usually the most intelligent they say because they benefit from the undivided attention of parents still in the honeymoon stage of parenting. To this day, David can do no wrong and he has failed the rest of us by failing to put a single step in the wrong place. I tried to follow in his footsteps for a while, looking to him for direction and guidance, but felt much like Eddie the Eagle soaring high above the Earth with champions where I had no right to be, and there was that incident on the trampoline that grounded me for life.

Children in the middle tend to be loners and have trouble maintaining relationships due to a lack of interest. We are not over-achievers and rarely stay focused on anything long enough to finish what we start, but we do tend to be artistic and creative. Journalism and writing are fitting careers for middle children because there is flexibility in the working hours, and projects change regularly, which suits short attention spans of which I am a reputed master according to mother, ergo it must be true.

The last born, forever known as ‘the baby’, is also favored. Curiously, they also seem to be the cutest and most affectionate, probably because so much attention and adoring is poured over them, especially by the parents who cling to the last time they will experience each milestone.

Of all the siblings, the last-born is the best match for the middle child, so say the experts. This is true. Lauren, our ‘baby’, is my favored sibling. David and Jason I like also, but they are older and have always functioned as a separate pair. Then there is Shannon, the other part of the Evans family middle. Shannon is mother’s side-kick—they are also a pair. If I had a choice, she would not be in our family—it would probably be just me, dad and Lauren.

Prior to the trifling moment of my birth, Shannon was the baby, so the demise of our relationship probably began then as her limelight dimmed while people fussed over me, albeit only temporarily since full lighting was restored on her even before I was out of my cute, new baby phase for Shannon is full of cunning.

To mother’s sheer delight, Shannon is a replica of her. Mother used to laugh like Julia Childs whenever Shannon donned one of her aprons to follow her around the kitchen and copy her every move. Delighting mother is a task I have been unable to accomplish, partly because I made no effort, unlike Shannon, due to a lack of interest, and partly because mother and I are not peas in a pod. It is easy to imagine that I am not hers.

Shannon and mother are homemakers—they cook, sew, clean, talk incessantly of baby things, attend church, volunteer, and are members of book clubs and other circles of compatible individuals, all of which inspires me to reach for a medicinal quantity of merlot.

Contrary to my middle-child status, I have been rather successful in my career as a finance executive, which is how I came to stumble upon Joshua one night while compromised by said merlot.

I do have a drinking quandary, I confess, and Joshua should have been reason enough to quit or at least seek help. Then Ben left me so I had reason to accompany merlot every night, then Ben died and merlot gave me a reason to live. I prefer to drink at home these days—it’s cost-effective, comfortable, private, and risk-free to an extent. Friends come over often enough, or I go to them, but seldom can I be enticed to dine or drink out. I do not like bars or clubs, which are notorious places for meeting people. At this stage, I do not drink before noon. I like merlot with everything, except cereal and milk.

I have not always been this way. I used to go out, but I am well and truly over that now. Amber is not, but then she is recently single, again, and ready for another man to fill the void. Amber has always been in a relationship with at least one man at any given time and started two-timing in grade four. She cheated on her first husband also, but the consequences for her were nothing short of ridiculous. Samuel forgave her blatant indiscretions and did everything written in romance to woo her back each time, with great success, until the last one. Amber claimed to be truly in love that time, but true love for Amber lasted two years.

Amber likes to go to bars and clubs, where I no longer go, because men clamor for her attention and she is able to choose from a wide range of options. This may have something to do with a reflection she shares with Elle Macpherson, and is often mistaken for her more famous look-a-like.

Amber is not happy that I refuse to go out these days, which I do not understand—Erin is keen to kick up her married heels so Amber does not need me for a wingman to be discarded the minute a man of interest is in her orbit. Maybe I do understand—I would not want to spend a whole night out with Erin either. She is fine in small doses in a group setting, just as Oscar Wilde once said of George Bernard Shaw, He has no enemies, but is intensely disliked by his friends. So why is she my friend, you and I might ask? I do not know, except to say, this is how it has always been.

Erin was standing alone on that first day of high school, which is the worst place to be when you are twelve. Amber and I passed by her and Amber said something not so funny to which Erin laughed hysterically, and that’s how she became one of us—Amber likes people to laugh at her jokes, and most people do whether it is funny or not, but Erin seemed genuinely amused. If it was not for us, I do not know what would have become of Erin since it is impossible to imagine her in any of the other friend combos at our school. I am pretty sure that we did come to like Erin back then—she was amusing in a non-humorous sort of way, always saying something inappropriate or irrelevant, and laughing at everything we said, which made me and Amber appear clever and witty.

Erin may well have survived high school without us because she was the fastest girl on two legs and being a winner at anything always brings one in out of the cold, although it was not popularity as Amber knows it. Erin spent a lot of time on a podium during athletic season, and on stage at school award nights (for sport), but curiously, she did not use this God-given gift by becoming an Olympian, choosing instead to study public administration for a career in bureaucracy. As it turned out, this was a good path for Erin—stability and predictability being more her scene than ambition and dedication.

Erin married a fellow bureaucrat, has two children, two cars, a nice house, and the job security she sought. You might be wondering why then she would be keen to go nightclubbing with Amber while on approach to forty—because she can, and because she has only just come to appreciate the

Reviews for Being Anti-Social

[justjenniferreading · Rating: 5 out of 5 stars]

When I requested to review this book I have to admit I did it simply because of the title. I didn't really read the description - other than it was fiction. So when it arrived at my door I wan't sure what to expect. After reading the first few chapters I was glad that I had gotten it. It was a story that I can somewhat relate to. I used to have trouble reading books that have Australian characters - mainly because the language is pretty different. But I'm finding that the more I read the more I don't really notice the "Aussie" English. I have gotten to where I can understand most of the slang and different definitions. So this is one of the first Australian set books that I didn't have to re-read to figure out what I was reading. And that excites me because it opens up so much more literature to me. But back to the story...I really liked Mace. I kind of related to her. I think she used her sarcasm as a shield, something to hide behind so she doesn't have to expose herself. A lot of the thoughts she had were what I could see myself thinking in her situation. So I connected with her almost immediately. As I got further into the story I realized that a few different choices I could almost have been Mace. I really enjoyed her point-of-view on life, which made this such an enjoyable read. I also liked Mace's group of friends. They cover just about every personality and each one of them is unique enough to give the group a good dynamic. Outside of how well these friends complemented each other I like how strong their relationships as a group and as individuals is. When one of them needs something the friends make sure they get it. This group reminded me of my step-mother's group of friends. So on top of having a connection with Mace I could understand her friends. The only part of the story I couldn't relate to was Mace's relationships with her mother and older sister. In Mace's eyes she isn't close with either of them. She feels like they are judgmental and disapproving. So when Mace's mother is diagnosed with Cancer Mace's goal of being closer with her mother she has to deal with a lot of other emotional baggage. In addition to great characters the book was well-written. The story was well-thought out and very well executed. Being able to draw so many characters into a book and be able to keep them from all being one-dimensional characters is a great feat. Plus the story was emotionally catching: there is humor, sadness, love, spite, caring, indifference. It was so compelling that I couldn't bring myself to out it down. I read it in two sittings. I have to say this was a great book.

[lauramoore_1 · Rating: 3 out of 5 stars]

Mace Evans is the new, older, and Aussie, Bridget Jones. She has the same dry humour and attitude towards dating and relationships, and her carefree nature is enough to get her into a lot of sticky situations. I love chick-lit because it's a great break from the more serious reads, and sometimes you just want some light-hearted books that will make you giggle to yourself (unfortantly laughter occurs despite where you are, which sometimes leads to embarassing moments). Leigh Cunningham definitly delivered in the area of hilarity, and some literal laugh-out-loud moments. At times I felt Mace to be annoying, whether it was her outlook on relationships or just situations she put herself into. I found it hard to connect with her at times, because of some of the decisions she made. Despite, getting fustrated with Mace, I still flew through this book, and found myself interested in where Mace was ultimatly going to end up. I enjoyed Being Anti-Social, but had a few minor issues with it, none of which I couldn't see past to be able to enjoy the story though. I found out that this is Leigh Cunningham's second novel, and that her first novel, was more deeper and darker in subject matter and I'm looking forward to seeing a different side of her writing, because this book was on the opposite side of the spectrum.

[autumnblues · Rating: 5 out of 5 stars]

Amusingly clever and witty with a touch of sorrow, entertaining through and through.Being Anti-Social is written in a first person format, so it reads like a memoir and could be anyone's life. Mace is 38, the middle child of 5 siblings, with an introverted personality and a sensitive nature that drives her to consume large amounts of merlot paired up with chocolate. Mace uses psychology to dissect and disseminate her birth order and also her name. But most important to Mace is her personal quest to prove her sister wrong and the reasons why her sister would believe her to be anti-social. If not for her friends, Mace would probably spend most of her time at home and it pains her when family get together's are on the horizon. Mace takes the reader on a ride through her dysfunctional relationships with men that leaves one wondering if it is possible for someone to really be that naive or just desperate, while at the same time leaving the reader with a good laugh.I could relate to the personality Cunningham envelops Mace into, and as a reader, I can truly relate to her character and feelings of loneliness as her girlfriends and siblings enter permanent relationships leading to marriage and children. Her relationship with her parents and siblings is positive overall, except for her sister Sharon who is on Mace's list of those to avoid. I found the scenes with her mother painful and heartbreaking and I felt this added the most realism to the story. Mace is a complicated character who is at times up front and sarcastic in her thinking and throughout the book the author has her quoting Oscar Wilde, whom she calls her mentor. Because of her strong characteristics I feel this book is not just for anyone and would appeal only to a specific crowd. I don't mind the quoting a bit, however I can see how it can be distracting for some readers. Being authors are not perfect, I am sure Cunningham can use this as a learning tool if she decides to write a sequel to Mace's life, which I would highly look forward to reading. In conclusion, Mace found what was most important and pleasing to her, which includes gratification and comfort in her own individuality.

[aeisen_3 · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

I really enjoyed this book! The main character Mace begins to reflect on herself after she is accused of being anti-social by her sister. I enjoyed the wit and sarcasm that Mace uses to narrate her life. The book was great. It was funny and smart. I would highly recommend the book and look forward to reading other books by Leigh Cunningham.

[melanie_walsh_4 · Rating: 5 out of 5 stars]

One word - hilarious! Being Anti-Social is a far cry from Cunningham's previous novel, RAIN, which was decidedly darker and aimed more for lovers of sad, emotional stories that can and will bring you to tears. Being Anti-Social on the other hand is a lighter read and a bit of a throw-back to Bridget Jones' Diary, except for an older protagonist (Mace Evans is late thirties) and it is set in Australia rather than England. You'll find the same dry humor that was a highlight of BJD, and a protagonist who seems to end up in all sorts of hilarious predicaments and relationships. Other than Mace's relationships with the men in her life, her group of friends and her family provide plenty of complications and challenges. The ending is delightful and fulfilling. Mace might well become the pin-up girl for those of us who would like to escape the intensity of today's 24/7 pressure to be constantly 'networked' and 'switched-on'.If you enjoy dry humor and wit, it's on every page of this easy, enjoyable read.

[davedarling · Rating: 5 out of 5 stars]

I laughed all the way through Being Anti-Social, award-winning author Leigh K. Cunningham’s second novel for adult readers.I laughed not because this is the usual situation-comedy froth but because Cunningham’s main character, Mace Evans, chooses to see the humor in the “anti-social” life she’s created for herself—and perhaps enjoys more than she’s willing to admit.I also laughed because I adore Oscar Wilde’s pithy contrarian aphorisms, which Cunningham sprinkles throughout her story like flowers cleverly positioned in an unusually wild garden.Mace early on admits she regrets going along with my favorite Wildeism: “The only way to get rid of a temptation is to yield to it.” Her doing so—her affair with a man whose talent in bed she can’t help but admire—ends her marriage to Ben, a man she considers a “perfect husband.”Will the fallen Mace find another man to replace Ben, or will she continue her “anti-social” life, so described by her condescending sister, to the end of her days?Or is it so wrong to prefer such a life, in which Oscar’s witty—some might say “cynical”—remarks apply every step of the way?Late in the story, observing another character who’s on a strict diet confronting a table laden with food as delectable as Cunningham’s novel, Mace can’t help but quote Oscar again: “I can resist everything except temptation.”Yes, and I can resist everything except the temptation to read Cunningham’s next novel.

[ronfritsch · Rating: 5 out of 5 stars]

Being Anti-Social, set in present-day Melbourne, Australia, is award-winning author Leigh K. Cunningham’s second novel for adult readers. Because I thoroughly enjoyed her first, Rain, I looked forward to reading Being Anti-Social as soon as she published it. I wasn’t disappointed.Mace Evans is one of five children in her family, with two older brothers and two sisters, one older and one younger. She’s 38 when the novel begins, and she’s unmarried, childless, and “anti-social,” according to her older and “unloved” sister, Shannon. She’s also a severe disappointment to her mother. On the other hand, she respects and admires her younger sister and her brothers. She considers her father “cute, cuddly, lovable, and a beacon of life.”Despite her proud independence and desire to be left alone, Mace is also one of a group of five women who’ve been friends from their high school days—but she admits she continues to like only one of them, Kimba, “the voice of reason.”Mace is “rather successful” in her “career as a finance executive,” even though she tells us her co-workers consider her “unfriendly,” “abrasive,” and “offensive.” On the other hand, she’s kind to her secretary and secretly enjoys the fights her peers so frequently engage in.The novel begins with Mace’s admission of the crucial mistake she made in her life. She fell in love with Ben, married him, and remained in love with her “perfect husband” to the end of his short life. (He’s dead from leukemia when the novel begins.) And yet she caused their separation and divorce by embarking upon an affair with another man, Joshua, who was “a star when it came to bedroom achievements.” After Mace ended the affair, Joshua vengefully told Ben about it.Mace and her siblings, friends, and co-workers journey through a few years in their late thirties and early forties. They have affairs, fall in love, marry, have children, separate, divorce, and attend funerals. Mace finds it easy to commence affairs with attractive men who ultimately prove disappointing to one degree or another. The question for her, and the reader, is whether she’ll ever find a man to replace Ben.Mace herself might not wish to claim to be a sympathetic protagonist in the story of her life, but she is, nevertheless. She insists she doesn’t care what the people in her life think of her, and yet, she admits at one point, she does.In her dealings with her family, friends, and co-workers, Mace Evans reveals an intense dislike of pretense as well as an ability to openly mock those who are guilty of it.Mace is also delightfully sarcastic in the manner of Oscar Wilde, her “mentor and life coach,” a number of whose bons mots she quotes at appropriate moments in her story. Consider this: “I might become a crazed old spinster who wears quilted dresses and odd socks, and drinks merlot yoghurt smoothies while terrifying neighborhood children—it would not be all bad.”And so I found myself laughing, time after time, as one can only do while confronting the sweet sorrow of human life and death in the world we live in and simultaneously maintaining one’s sanity.Thank you for this story, Leigh. I loved it from its beginning to its end.