It's Megan's weekend with me, so I take her to her weekly painting class at Sage's store, Birchcraft. The class is a great concept that Sage and Arlo came up with to use the spare space they have at the back of the store.
They've only just started the class, but it's already all Megan talks about.
The room where Arlo teaches is quite large and bright, with big panel windows on the far end. Closer to the door, Sage has created an area for the parents with a couple of couches and a coffee machine.
Stella said last week there were pastries Sage got from his brother's coffee shop, and they were to die for.
No such luck this week, I notice, as I make myself a coffee before I take a seat to wait for the end of the class.
I see George and another one of Megan's friends, Ava, are also in the class. Arlo is so patient with all the kids and seems to genuinely love what he's doing.
Seeing Fletcher again is unavoidable. I've been bracing myself for it all week. That card still on my fridge has been daring me to do something. Take action.
The class is coming to an end and Fletcher is blissfully absent. But I'm not naïve enough to think my luck will hold out.
Fletcher silently comes into the room with ninja-like skill. No one else seems to notice him but me, even though he's wearing the most decadent, well-fitted pair of jeans known to mankind.Andhe's wearing a Henley shirt with the sleeves pushed up to show his forearms. If there was ever a Harrison Kryptonite, Fletcher has found it.
He walks right in front of me, headed to the coffee machine. He bends over to take a cup from the cabinet, even though there are plenty of clean cups on the counter.
That's when I know he's purposefully messing with me. My eyes may want to follow his ass, but I'll be dammed if I'll give him the satisfaction.
When the class ends, Megan comes over to tell me all about her painting and ask to go out for dinner and ice cream. I agree and manage to leave the room without a backward glance toward Fletcher.
There. See? I wasn't affected at all.
13
FLETCHER
“Daddy,I’m going to practice sketching Rosie,” George says, running up to his bedroom as soon as we get home from taking Ava back to her dad and Arlo.
I have to laugh at my son’s sudden interest in drawing and painting. Both his parents are artists, but until recently, he’s never once shown any desire to pick up a pencil or a paintbrush.
Fran used to get frustrated with him. In her mind, George should at least try.
I wanted to paint for as long as I can remember, but I don’t care that George isn’t like Fran or me. He’s an independent and fearless little boy who’s not afraid to try new things.
To me, that’s more important than fitting in a single box early on in life and never experimenting with other things.
Our fridge isn’t full of unintelligible scribbles. Instead, we have photos of George holding various critters he’s caught in the backyard or treasures I’ve hidden for him to find on the trails by the cabin.
I check on Rosie, and she’s hiding in her favorite spot. George fed her yesterday, so I don’t expect she’ll want to come out to play for a few days.
“George?” I call out.
“Yeah?”
“Do you want to go to the park?”
“No.”
I lean against the kitchen counter and look around. Everything’s clean. George wants macaroni and cheese for dinner, so there’s no preparation needed.
“Laundry!” That’s it, I can do the laundry. Except, when I check the basket in the utility room, there aren’t enough clothes to grant running the washing machine.
I wish I didn’t feel so unsettled. My usual weekends are chill. I take George to the cabin for the weekend, or we go to the park. I read a book or catch up on the news while he plays. Chill.
Since I’ve met Harrison, I haven’t chilled. I’m like a coiled spring, ready to snap, and I don’t like it.
