“Later, like,ummm, in a few minutes or, like, tomorrow?” Coco frets, wanting to know how long she will be living in punishment purgatory.
“Later, like, when I decide I’m, like, good and ready,” I mirror back, both girls knowing how much I hate the omnipresent use of the wordlike. Now, in addition to lying, poor grammar will once again be on this mama’s path of wrath. Lou doesn’t say a word, but her exasperated huffs let me know she thinks I’m overreacting to what is for sure every mother’s worst nightmare, her children dragging home her errant husband.
I watch the girls walk out of the living room and wait to hear the predictable slam of the bedroom door from a couple of pissed-off teens. “And don’t slammydoors!” I yell before I slowly turn my body back toward Simon. I emphasizemyfor Simon’s sake. Now that he’s here, I want him to know I no longer consider thisourhouse. It’s mine.
With forced nonchalance I mask my disbelief that he’s here, in my house, when I expressly told him over text to get lost. The only thing I want to know at this moment is how he got from receiving my texted equivalent ofdrop deadto sashaying through my front door with Lou and Coco like they were out grabbing pizza. I should have accepted Gabriel’s offer to help me sell my house and move when he came to visit shortly after Simon’s disappearance. At the time, I claimed it would be best for the girls, given our family’s traumatic circumstances, to stay in their childhood home, but what I was really doing was harboring desperate hope that Simon would return, and I wanted him to know where we were. Apparently, that hope wasn’t misplaced, it was just mistimed. His actual timing nearly gave me a goddamn heart attack.
STILL SATURDAY, MARCH 9
Let it go already, Prince Harry.I gnaw on the straw of my Diet Coke and judge the wounded prince, whose latest breaking news—and I use that phrase loosely—is once again the cover story of a discardedPeoplemagazine left in my cart. To my count, Prince Harry has “broken his silence” about twenty-six times since moving to the United States. For famous people who claim to want nothing more than to live a private life, he and Meghan Markle sure work hard to keep themselves front and center in the tabloids.
My on-again, off-again love affair with the ex-royals is dependent on which issue of airport entertainment is left in my cart by passengers who think they are tipping me with their cast-off magazines. I wish I could say there were as many copies of theAtlanticbestowed upon me asUs Weekly, but realistically the ratio is about one to eight hundred, and as a result I am the addicted recipient of travelers’ trashy reading habits. I stay in the know about newly released movies and music, high-profile separations, and who’s sporting a baby bump during awards season. All useless information that I store away for random chitchat with my passengers. During my downtime, I should be studying for the exam I have coming up in my Pioneering Entrepreneurs class, but given Simon’s startling reappearance, trashy mags are the exact mind-numbing drug my brain needs to avoid implosion. The ex-royals are keeping me preoccupied from journaling alist of possible ways to eviscerate Simon. Spiking his matcha latte comes to mind.
I’m debating whether Taylor Swift really “Wore It Best” when Dieting Donna from JetBlue customer service slides into my parked cart. I don’t stop gnashing on my straw to acknowledge her disturbing my foul mood. Right now I prefer to swim, or drown, in the festering sea of me.
“You think you can drive me over to Terminal 1,” Donna trills, full of cheer and hopefulness given my obvious lull in driving passengers. “My break’s almost over, and you know what a stickler my manager is for time.” A waft of Panda Express encases my chariot. I look from Donna’s bag full of lo mein to her capable legs and pull a long sip from my crushed straw, the gurgling of my empty cup the only sound between us.
“I’m sore from yesterday’s gym workout. Too many squats.” Donna rubs her quads for added emphasis, annoying me with jabber I’m not interested in hearing. “Like I told you, new year, new me.” There’s been a new Donna every year as long as I’ve known her.
Given my embittered brain, I keep my mouth busy with my straw, so I don’t point out to Donna it’s impossible to exercise your way into a new you while continuing your old fast-food habits. That’s basic nutritional science right there.
“Didn’t you tell me you were determined to drop fifty pounds this year?” I finally respond when Donna’s eyes look at me expectantly, willing me to fire up my cart so she’s not late. With my insult, Donna clutches her plastic bag handles a little tighter. It’s not my fault she hoofed it all the way over from Terminal 1 for pot stickers.
“You told me that under no circumstances am I to give you a ride since you invested in a new Apple Watch and you want to complete your movement ring each day.” I throw Donna’s words back at her, like I’m trying to pick a fight. And maybe I am, but it just happens to be with the wrong person. “I believe your exact quote was, ‘sitting is the new smoking’ while you marched in place showing off your rose goldwrist coach.” God, I wish I could finish my cigarette right now instead of heaping my misdirected anger on undeserving Donna. I almost have the energy to feel sorry for someone other than myself.
“Thought you were my friend, not the resolution police.” Donna mopes, grabbing the extra-large chocolate malt milkshake she had placed in my cup holder when she thought she was hitching a ride.
“Just following your instructions,” I snipe back, attempting to hide my cruelty behind tough love. Watching her limp away, I do start to feel guilty for taking my rage out on Donna and her sore quadriceps. I turn over the cart key to go after her. Donna’s manager really is an asshole when it comes to being late.
Ding.
A text from Coco. I’ll apologize to Donna tomorrow with a Kit Kat.
The girls refused to come out of their room before I left this afternoon, so I’m relieved to see Coco respond to the note I left them on the kitchen table. I figured it would be her since Lou is a champion grudge holder.
4:56 p.m. (Coco)
We know you’re mad at us for lying. And for seeing Dad. But we’re mad at you for not telling us he was home. That was so not okay. You don’t get to decide if we see Dad or not.
Ouch. I have to read the text three times, digesting that the biting words are Coco’s, not Lou’s. Lou shares her emotions the minute she feels them and then holds on until the entire family has been exhausted by her antics. Coco is more reserved with her words, or so I thought. And I do get to decide if they see their father.
4:57 p.m. (Coco)
Dad told me he doesn’t have a house key so I gave him mine.
After I sent the girls to their room, the million and one comments and questions I had meticulously customized over the past twenty-four months anticipating Simon’s return raced through my brain in garbled language. Unclear where to begin in the grips of alarm and adrenaline, I slowed my internal roil enough to start with the basics. I asked Simon how he was able to contact Lou and Coco since he split long before the girls got their own cell phones. Simon deflected my question by remarking on how well I was taking care of myself. Admittedly, what vanity I do have is small but mighty, and I was relieved that the day my nomadic husband resurfaced, I had put some effort into my appearance. No woman wants to look grubby in front of a former flame, even if the fire’s gone out. And given how rarely I do pull it together, I could at least appreciate the timing of Simon’s return being today of all days from a revenge perspective.
With curls cascading down my back, a bit of a face applied, and my one pair of work pants that make my backside look lifted, I believe Simon’s actual words were, “Toni, you look as gorgeous as always.” It felt like a minivictory to hear that Simon recognized what he abandoned until he followed up with, “You’ve really kept the wheels on the bus.” For a reluctant transportation specialist, Simon’s added compliment was not much of a bonus.
I was about to respond by inquiring if commenting on someone’s looks is considered best practice for a life coach who spouts what’s happening on theinsideis the path to eternal salvation, but I held myself in check with a blank face. I did not want to give Simon even the tiniest hint that I skimmed through his website, let alone memorized every page. In at least two tabs he used the metaphor of keeping the wheels on the bus, so I know the sentiment, genuine or not, was pulled from his quiver of cliches.
“No pictures of me?” Simon observed out loud, confusion in his tone as he perused the bookshelf where a visual montage of our family once lived. As he ran his fingers over my collection of textbooks, Simon’shands looked more wrinkled and calloused than I remembered, like he may have built a school or something worthwhile while he was away.
“Are you surprised?” I had to know if he was really that oblivious. Or arrogant.
“More hurt,” Simon confessed, turning back to me with an endearing pout. I softened at his melancholy, but then quickly bounced back to bewilderment. “But not surprised.”
“At least your time abroad didn’t make you stupid,” I clapped back to avoid being pulled into his facade of warmth. It’s not that images of reuniting with Simon hadn’t occupied my mind, they had, but the scene playing out in my living room was not one of them. I imagined our reunion would be more along the lines of me as a multimillionaire CEO and him scraping by living in a yurt. In my fantasy, my assistant is out for the day, and I have to go to the nearest Target to pick up personal care items for me and the girls. At checkout, as I burrow through an oversize Fendi bag for my wallet, holding a conference call on my earbuds, a faintly familiar voice asks if I would like my items in a large or small bag. Annoyed by the interruption of my very important call by such a banal question, I turn to find out who would be so rude. My pretend scenario ends with Simon bagging my items wearing a company-issued red canvas vest.
