“Grandma…Grandma and I don’t get along,” I reply diplomatically. “I know it’s hard, but I really don’t want you to stress out about?—”
“Dad hated Grandma,” he adds, cutting me off. “Mom too. She always got cranky when we went over there on Thanksgiving.”
I can only imagine. My sister, who operated at a baseline cranky state, was probably downright vile when forced to spend a holiday with our parents. Sadness tugs at my insides as I think about the line she must have tried walking between allowing Parker to know his grandparents, and wanting to keep them away from him. I wonder how much she was hoping they’d change.
“Well, I don’t think we’re going to do any holidays there,” I tell him slowly, trying to navigate my way through this conversation in an age-appropriate manner. “I know you heard me talking to my lawyer on the phone, and I’m sorry about that. Fighting in court isn’t what you’re picturing. It’ll be fine.”
“Do you promise?” he asks, jumping on the assurance immediately. “You promise I won’t have to leave?”
“No, Parks, I can’t promise. But the lawyer thinks everything will work out, and he’s the one who knows what he’s talking about.” I jostle his knee. “I’m just a hockey coach, remember?”
“Fake job,” he jokes, a ghost of a smile on his face as he quotes my mum. I smile back, even though the expression feels unnatural right now. Feels like a lie.
“I wish your mum and dad would come back, too,” I finish softly, and he immediately looks back down at his lap, trying to hide his face. “And you can talk to me any time youmiss them, because I do too. Maybe it wouldn’t be so bad if we could miss them together.”
He nods, rubbing a fist over his puffy eyes. I want to hug him again. Cradle him to my chest the way I did when he was small; convince him everything will work out and have him believe me.
“Des?”
“Yeah?”
“Do you think Jack is mad at me?” he asks tentatively, voice small and exhausted. I shake my head. I’m pretty sure mad is a factory setting Jack doesn’t possess. I have a feeling Jack is nervously planted right where we left him, uncomfortable and tense and likely wishing he’d passed on this particular invitation to come over.
“No,” I answer honestly. Parker grimaces, cheeks colored with humiliation. I feel for him, worried he’s embarrassed himself in front of someone he looks up to.
“Areyoumad at me?”
“No,” I repeat, a touch more firmly.
I know we’re going to have to talk about him snooping through my stuff, but it feels so insignificant right now, and the pair of us are too emotionally drained to make the effort. I’m less worried about him seeing my fumbling attempts at creating a budget, and more concerned about the fact that he’s obviously stressed about the custody battle; the fact that he’s scared he’ll be taken away. My own fear sits heavy inside me, pushing at the careful boundaries I erected to keep it contained; to keep myself sane. I thought I’d been doing a good job keeping the worst away from Parker.
“Can I stay in here for a little bit?” he asks, picking at the wadded-up ball of tissue in his fist. I hold a hand out for it,trying not to make a face when he places the wet, snotty pile in my palm.
“Sure. Come out when you’re ready.” I stand up and go to dispose of the tissue in his bathroom, washing my hands. It’s pretty clear he’s asking for privacy, and probably also wants to hide from Jack. Pushing his desk chair back to its place, I touch the top of Parker’s head. He glances up at me.
“Are you…you’re not worried about me and Jack, are you? Me spending more time with him than you? Are you wishing it could just be you and me again?”
“No.”
“Are you sure, Parks?” I press. “Because you come before Jack, or anyone else. We’re in this together, so I need you to tell me if anything bothers you.”
He scrunches up his face, wiping the back of his hand under his nose. “What are you talking about? I already told you I like Jack.”
“I know, but…actually, never mind.” I give the crown of his head another rub and a little shake, which makes him smile. It drops almost immediately.
“Jack’s going to think I’m a baby,” he says, glancing up at me, face scrunched and a great deal less puffy than it was five minutes ago.
“No, he won’t. It’s okay to have emotions, and it’s okay to cry.” Still touching his hair—curls damp from the shower, and so like mine—I brush my hand through a couple times. It’s a testament to everything that’s happened tonight that he isn’t slapping my hand away. “Come out when you’re ready, all right?”
He nods and I head for the door, peeking back at him as I close it softly behind me. It takes all the strength in my body not to slump against the hallway wall, and slide to the floor.This, right here, is why being an adult is a fucking scam. Thirty years old, and all I want right now is someone to take care of me; to give me the kind of hug I gave Parker, and tell me everything will be fine.
Instead of closing myself in my room and engaging in a little crying of my own, I turn toward the living room. I feel a little bad for Jack—invited over for an evening of emotional turmoil instead of relaxation. I’m also a little worried, because previous experience has shown that Jack doesn’t react well to stressful situations. He’s probably feeling awful, which makes me feel pretty awful in return.
The main light is off in the kitchen, and the living room is dimly lit by the single lamp on the end table. Jack, seated on the floor with his back to the couch, doesn’t hear my soft-footed approach. I stand at the mouth of the hallway, watching. He’s bent over the washing basket I’d pushed to the side to deal with later, carefully folding the clean clothes and putting them in piles on the coffee table. He’s got an orderly row of shirts, boxers, and a pile of socks that he’s paired and rolled together. For some reason, watching the careful way he folds a pair of underwear makes me want to cry.
Pushing up off the wall where I’d leaned, I step into the room and draw his eyes. His hands, clasped around one of Parker’s shirts, fall to his lap as he gazes up at me. I walk over and take a seat next to him, crossing my legs and slumping back against the couch.
“Sorry, Jack.” I can’t even find the energy for the nickname, the emotional fatigue so potent my entire body feels sluggish. It’s not even eight o’clock, and I’m pretty sure I could go to bed right now; sleep all the way through until morning.
