"Now you want me to feel sorry for you?" I almost laugh. Almost. "You can't be serious."
Jasmine takes a tentative step forward, checking her phone with an air of boredom before tucking it away. "Mitch, it's getting late. We have dinner reservations."
The look I give her could freeze hell itself. She stops mid-step, her mouth hanging open, and takes a very large step backward, her wings fluttering behind her.
I've known Jasmine since we were both sixteen. She's been my best friend since junior year. She was my go-to person when I needed someone to vent to about work, someone who understood the challenges of being a professional pixie woman in a town that still sometimes treated us like we should be decorating gardens instead of running businesses.
I'm the one who helped propel her career as a real estate agent. I even let her move in with us six months ago, after what she claimed was a devastating breakup with her fiancé. I gave herour guest room, cooked her comfort food, and listened to her cry about how she'd never find love again.
I was such a fool. She and Mitchell had an affair for months while she lived under my roof, ate my food, and pretended to be my friend. Looking back now, I can see the signs I missed—the new jewelry she claimed she'd bought herself, the expensive salon visits, the way she was always out with clients on the nights Mitchell worked late.
Turns out I'm either completely naïve or I was so checked out of my own life that I missed a months-long relationship happening right in front of me.
I don't know which option is worse.
What I do know is that Matthew is clinging to my leg like a life preserver, his small body vibrating with anxiety. Nothing else matters right now.
With the last box packed, Mitchell slams the trunk shut and walks right up to us as we stand on the last step of the front porch. There's nothing warm in his lavender eyes as he looks at me.
"Don't forget we have mediation on Friday," I tell him, glad that my voice is as even as if I were giving him the grocery list.
"I know." He gives me a withering, poisonous glare before kneeling down to Matthew's level. He schools his features into a warm, soft smile as he looks at the boy. "Hey, buddy. I'll see you next weekend, okay? We'll play that new video game you like."
Matthew doesn't respond. He stays pressed against my leg, silent and rigid, his small hand gripping mine with surprising strength.
"I love you," Mitchell says, his voice thick. "I love you and your sister so much. You know that, right?"
Still nothing from Matthew. Mitchell looks up at me, silently asking for help, but I don't have any to give.
"Rika, come on. Talk to them."
I consider this for a moment. "I'll talk to Zoe about being respectful when she speaks to you. That's as far as I go."
"What about Matthew? He won't even look at me."
"He's seven, Mitchell. His whole world just fell apart. You don't get to demand forgiveness on your timeline."
"They're playing off you. You're making them think I'm the villain here."
The accusation stings because part of me knows he's not entirely wrong. I haven't bad-mouthed him to the kids, but I haven't exactly defended him either.
"I've been civil," I say quietly. "And I'm not having this conversation in front of Matthew."
He stares at me for a long moment, and I see a flicker of the man I married. The confused, insecure man who needed a wife to prop him up, then resented her for being successful.
"You always did have a stick straight up your ass, Rika." He sneers at me. "Maybe if you'd been a little more attentive to my needs, we wouldn't be here."
It takes every last bit of strength inside of me not to answer this obvious bait. The only thing that prevents me from going absolutely berserk on his ass is the feeling of Matthew's fingers digging into the flesh of my palm.
"I'll see you Friday," I say with a somewhat even voice.
Mitchell turns and walks away. I look down at my feet. I don't watch him climb into his shiny red sports car. I don't watch him back out of our driveway. I don't watch him drive away with Jasmine toward whatever new life they're building together.
When the sound of his engine finally fades, Matthew tugs on my hand.
"Are we going to be okay, Mom?"
I kneel to his level, brushing a strand of pale-green hair away from his big, wet purple eyes. There must be some hiddenreservoir of strength inside my body, because I manage to smile at him.
