“I just feel like I need to develop that side of myself,” she goes on, breezing past the awkward silence left in the wake of her words. “I’ve done the retreats, the wellness, the Tuscany thing . . . It’s time I focus on what really matters.” She uses bothhands to make a big gesture toward herself. “I just need to lean into being a mother.” She makes a large sigh. “Mothering.”
Thatcher nods, like he’s seen this a million times before and is ready to do battle one more time.
“Yeah,” he says. “I can see where that would be something.”
I go back to preparing dinner. Anything to keep my hands busy as the realization that I’m in deeper than I thought slams into me with crystal clarity. I’m building something here—with him—that I don’t want disrupted. I don’t want her to fracture this tender beginning just by being allowed back in.
Liz keeps talking—plans to take Jamie for cocoa, maybe do drop-off one morning “if that’s still allowed”—all of it bright and glossy and just out of focus, like she’s narrating an Instagram story or choosing the captions for the pictures of parenting she’s creating in her mind.
It’s all a curated idea of what having a kid is like, but none of the delicate balancing and hard work that is Thatcher’s daily life.
I make a mental note to review her social media as quickly as possible.
“I’ll swing by tomorrow, okay?” she says finally, already moving off the chair and back toward the door, her empty water bottle left for someone else to deal with.
Thatcher just nods. “Sure. He has to be there at seven thirty tomorrow, if you are dropping him off.”
She blanches. “So early? Really?”
Thatcher shrugs. “You could pick him up from school. He gets out at three thirty.”
“I’ll do that, then.” She smiles.
“He has agility training at four and then practice at five thirty, and you’ll need to take him by Wickmans to replace some gear. And his friend Arch may need a ride.”
“Maybe you can text me all of that?” she asks hopefully.
“Sure.”
She flashes one last smile before slipping out.
When the door clicks shut behind her, the quiet feels heavier than it did before.
Thatcher exhales, slowly, and I wonder what I can do to protect him from the ticker-tape of emotions on his face.
“So that’s Liz,” he says, then catches my eye and we both give a kind of laugh. Not because something is funny, but because there really can be no other reaction.
“So.” I mimic his tone back, then spread my hands wide. “Mothering.” I say it with the same emphasis she did.
Gage grimaces. “Yeah. She has . . . phases? I was her blue-collar phase.”
“Not her boyfriend phase?” I ask, and he shakes his head quickly.
“No. We were together in the eyes of our friends, but it was very . . . distanced.”
He fills me in on the nuances of their relationship, such as it was, and I can’t help but shake my head. She was happy to leave him in his bubble, that’s for sure.
“Sounds like the sort of thing you might like,” I tease, but really, I want some reassurance. Because Liz’s breezy approach to life is light years from me.
“Then? Yeah. I thought it was having the best of both worlds—a relationship without getting too deep—but it wasn’t made to last, even with Jamie in the mix.” Thatcher sighs, leaning against the counter and pulling me to him. “I worry about Jamie the most.”
I nod, stepping in to kiss his worries away.
Chapter sixteen
Gabe Thatcher
The Bench Social Media Group
