We take a page out of Brady’s “child of divorced parents” handbook, though, and I don’t try so hard this weekend. We sleep in—which, when you’re seven means no one gets up before six-thirty for a change—and, instead of trips to the zoo or science centre, spend most of the time in my apartment, where we play games and watch movies. The approach is moderately successful. I try to teach them to play Clue, but Jacob can’t keep track of the rooms, and Karter keeps trying to peek at his brother’s cards. Operation is better, in that they’re both equally terrible, and because who ever follows the rules for Operation anyway?
On Sunday morning, we go to the community pool, which is down the block from my building, but which I have never been to before. I make them put on their swim shirts, because Dominic will scream bloody murder if either of them come back with anything remotely like a sunburn. Karter puts his on without protest and hops straight into the water. Jacob howls like I’ve told him Santa doesn’t exist.
“It’s not fair!” he says. “These are for babies.”
“They’re for boys who want to go in the pool. The other choice is to not put it on and sit here in the shade next to me, and we can watch your brother swim together.”
He glares at me, letting me know I am the source of everything wrong in the world. His eyes are flat and steely, and his thin shoulders square as he spoils for a fight. If I could show fear in front of my children, I would acknowledge that Jacob will be a huge handful as he hits his teen years.
“I don’t have to wear one at the cottage,” he says.
“Yes, you do.”
“No. Not this summer. Papa says I only have to put sunscreen on.”
Oh, he does, does he? Well, my house, my rules. I’m not even sure how I’m going to keep track of them, amidst the hundred bobbing heads in the water and the six competing games of Marco Polo that seem to be going on at any time. The brightly coloured shirts help tell them apart.
“You can put the shirt on and swim, or you can sit and pout. These are your options.”
He glares. We’re in so much trouble. We’ll be lucky to make it to twelve without some serious behavioural issues, but I hold firm. Finally he slides the shirt on before he hurries off to the edge of the pool and promptly cannonballs over the side, splashing his brother as he goes.
“How old is he?”
I glance to my right, and a guy with a silvery buzz cut, a five o’clock shadow—even though it’s ten in the morning—in the same color, and a shining ring in one ear smiles from the opposite side of the bench.
“Seven,” I say.
The guy nods, then points as a dark-haired boy who waves from the end of the diving board. “Mine’s nine.”
“Cool.” I go back to watching Jacob and Karter. They are racing across the pool. I don’t really want to get in there today. Public pools freak me out. But if they crash into someone as they flail through the water, I’ll have to intervene.
“You been here before?” Silver Hair says. He could be a biker, or else the drummer in a Bruce Springsteen cover band, but the tough exterior is betrayed by the backpack he’s got one hand on, which leaks a variety of water bottles, snacks, towels, and sunscreen. I’m very familiar with this backpack. I have a similar one by my foot.
“No.”
Jacob wins the first lap, and Karter immediately challenges him to a rematch.
“Giving your honey the morning off then?” Silver Hair says. Geez, he’s chatty.
“No, I’m divorced.”
“Me too. Split up with my husband last year,” he says. I give him a sympathetic smile. Just because same-sex people have only been able to get married in Canada for the last fifteen years doesn’t mean those marriages don’t fail like straight people’s, I guess.
“Dad! Dad!” Karter’s voice echoes from the edge of the pool. “Watch me!” Then he belly flops into the water with a smack that makes me wince.
“You... you with anyone?”
I almost say I’m with my kids but stop when I realize what he’s asking. Seriously?
He gives me a nervous once-over and a sheepish smile. “Sorry.” He runs a hand over the back of his neck. “My ex-husband left the country. More interested in his Instagram career than his family. Hard to meet people when you’re parenting all the time, you know?”
I gape. Jesus Christ, is this my life? Picking up guys at the community pool? We’ve traded in the sweat and booze for chlorine and juice boxes.
“I’m seeing someone, yes,” I say. Someone who has a secret he doesn’t want to tell me, but that’s not the point.
Silver Hair fumbles with the straps on his backpack. “Oh. Yeah. Sure. Can’t blame a guy for asking, right?”
I consider him. Despite his hair, he can’t be more than forty years old. He clearly works out, and I can see where he’d appeal to a lot of guys.
