“Can’t. I’m supposed to meet Candi, er, Candace at her doctor’s appointment before work, so I had to get up,” he says matter-of-factly. “And I don’t need to waste money.”
Candi?Is her name reallyCandi?
And he didn’t get up early to spend time together or help with my car problem. Fabulous.
“I guess you finally heard back from her.” I prod for more information.
“A few days ago,” he says.
“I’m trying to be supportive, but it helps to know what’s going on.” I’m irritated that he talked to her and made plans but hasn’t talked to me, the person he claims hewantsto be the mother of his children.
“I don’t see how it affects you at the moment,” he snaps, “but she did say I should include you so you don’t feel left out.”
Well. How sweet of his married baby mama to think of me. She sounds lovely. I’m not sure whether to laugh or cry at this whole conversation.
“That’s … considerate,” I say in a neutral tone to hide the vomit bucket of sarcasm I’m holding back.
“Yeah. She wants to go to lunch one day and get to know you. She thinks it’s best if we’re all friends. I gave her your number and told her to talk to you about it. And Sarah needs you to watch the boys next week. She’ll call you.”
Cool. Cool. I’ll pencil all these stimulating activities right into my planner. Monday:Make plans with boyfriend’s hookup partner.Tuesday:Babysit boyfriend’s feral nephews for free.
I like his sister, but why does he assume I’m available?
Given the circumstances, meeting the baby mama makes sense, but I feel like I’m going to throw up nonetheless. I sit on the closed toilet lid and try to figure out when people started viewing me as a parent. Or is it a personal assistant?
A better question might be why I still act like one. No one asks me; they just assume it’s okay to add items directly to my to-do list.
Stop being selfish, I scold myself.
I don’t mind helping his sister, but I don’t know if I’m ready to co-parent his pre-born child.
Oh, my goodness. Is this how DC feels replacing my battery and picking me up from work?
“Do you know where I can get my car fixed?” I blurt, opting to change the subject. “We think it needs a battery and probably a new alternator.”
“We? Who iswe?” he asks with an accusatory edge. “Did you already have it checked out? I can’t do anything about it. Did you call my dad?”
Ugh, the “Dad” answer again. It’s a sticky subject. His brother and dad are both nice enough, but Nathan thinks I should consult them for any and all mechanical matters, which is a great plan in theory, but our schedules rarely line up. It’s alsoawkward, because Nathan expectsmeto find a way to meet up with them thirty minutes away while he’s at work or golfing.
They’ll tell me the same thing Daniel already told me. Then I’ll have to go buy parts I know nothing about and get to them in the car that is,as previously established, unreliable. Nathan won’t participate in any way, but he’s deeply offended if I get help from anyone else. His solution to everything is “Ask Jackson or Dad.”
I know Nathan’s not a mechanic, but this feels like a prime example of when a couple should work together to solve a problem. Am I expecting too much?
“Daniel boosted my car so I could get to work last Thursday, and your brother boosted me so I could get home Sunday when you weren’t …uh … up to talking. Jackson thought it was the battery, but with the inconsistency of it dying or being fine some days, Daniel suggested maybe the alternator,” I explain. “Plus, he just replaced the battery. It happened with my mom’s car before, so he’s probably right.”
“Daniel, huh?” he says with disdain. “He’s awfully concerned about you all of a sudden.”
You’vegotto be kidding me.
I’ve noticed when Nathan isn’t helpful, he pouts when other people come to my rescue. Men, obviously, but notexclusivelymen. It’s as if he knows the behavior makes him look bad, but rather than step up, he acts likeI’mdoing something wrong. And what am I supposed to do?Notaccept help when I’m stranded?
I walk back to my room, picking up the Bret Michaels bobblehead and notebook from my nightstand, and sit at my desk, thumbing through the pages. Nathan recites a familiar diatribe oflesspassive andmoreaggressive accusations that range from implying I don’t know how to operate a vehicle to creating problems solely to get attention. I pull the phone from my ear to take a deep breath and glance at the time.
“Seriously, Nathan. He was in the parking lot. He works in maintenance, and we’ve been friends since before I met you. You know this.Of coursehe helped me when my car wouldn’t start. Wouldn’t you? And Jackson boosted my car when you were in bed and not speaking to me on Sunday. You had already ignored me for two hours, and I needed to get home.” I’ve resigned myself to the fact that a pleasant conversation will not be happening for us today.
“Unbelievable. I wouldn’t mess with a girl who is engaged, that’s what. And you didn’t even tell me about it. You probably gossip to all your friends about me so they’ll feel sorry for you,” he complains.
“A girl who’s engaged? I forgot you prefer them married.” I scrunch my eyes shut and brace myself for the consequences of my big mouth.
