“Okay, that was not one question, I think that was eleven.”
She gives me a playful scowl. “I mean it. With how many times you’ve recommended that—” she whispers the next word while her eyes dart around the room, ensuring no one overhears her, “—vibrator—” (she’s such a fucking prude sometimes, I swear to Versace) her voice raises back to its normal level again, “to me, I know you’re not against, um, self-care, shall we call it? So I’m being genuine when I ask: is this something that you really want to let come between you? And if it’s really bothering you as much as it seems to be, maybe it’s worth tackling with him, getting on the same page, making sure you both understand each other’s needs and mindsets on the subject.”
I appreciate her input. I mean, I did ask for it.
But how can I explain to her that I know it’s unfair.
I know that it’s broaching on a double standard, it’s not like my very owncollectionisn’t named after various fictional men. But somehow him looking at a real-life chick that isn’t me? It feels so, so much more real. It was substantial, not a figment of the imagination. Like watching my worst nightmare come to life. Him, with some other woman. Him, into her, and not me. The way I see it, it’s as close to cheating as we’ve ever come, and I’m one possessive bitch. I don’t share my makeup kit, and Idefinitelydon’t share my man.
Look, I don’t even mind if he has to handle his own needs when I can’t be there for him. That’s (sadly) a part of life as we get older and have all these small humans that rely on us twenty-four-seven. There are more times than not that we can’t sneak away together like we used to. Of course I wouldn’t begrudge him the chance to take care of himself when he needs to.
But how can I explain to my best friend who has known me through my darkest days, and my brightest ones, how devastated I was to discover that my soul mate doesn’t want me anymore?
It might sound shallow, or trivial, to someone who doesn’t have the same emphasis on the physical relationship as Chance and I do, but it genuinely made me doubt everything we have going for us if he isn’t attracted to me anymore. It’s always been a foundation of our relationship. The thought of him being disgusted by me makes me actually, physically nauseous. It’s put a new lens on every interaction we’ve had in recent years, and I’m not sure I can live with how it makes me feel like he sees me.
Instead of eventryingto explain that to her (even though I know she’d try to understand, she knows me better than anyone, probably even better than Chance), I manage to crack a weak smile and nod, like I’m really considering taking her advice. We both know I’m not the one who is going to open up to him on this subject though, and I breathe a sigh of relief when she lets the subject rest at that.
I put the tumultuous thoughts away—lock them deep in an underground vault in my mind, like I’m becoming a pro at doing—and splash a wide smile on my face that stretches my full cheeks so high that they actually impede my line of vision as my gaze homes in on my best friend. “So, about David’s sex drive… Exactlyhowoften are you getting off these days?”
The choked, mortified sound she makes in response tells me the subject has, indeed, been changed.
SEVEN
CHRISSY
“Aren’t you supposed to, like, reverse them or something? Flip ’em upside down and add together?”
Our middle son shakes his head in disbelief at the man he takes after physically. “No, Dad. That’s formultiplyingfractions. For adding, you just find the common denominator—”
Chance’s muttered, immature retort cuts Ford off from explaining the rest of the formula. “The common denominator is that both of these fractions are stupid.”
Bradshaw and Preston laugh at that, but Ford just rolls his eyes and continues like he wasn’t interrupted. “Then you add the top numbers together and reduce it down as low as you can. It’s simple.” He shrugs, like if we can’t do that much, he can’t help us.
I got home from brunch to find the boys all back inside after a rowdy morning of football with their dad in the backyard. (Lea mostly watched from the sidelines, but she did run a few passes—and even scored a touchdown, carried in her dad’s arms, I was proudly informed in toddler-speak). They’re now diligently working on their respective weekend homework assignments at the dining room table, with the youngest two being given a little bit of tablet time as a treat.
Apparently, Brad had called Chance over to help him with his math homework, and I didn’t make it four steps in the door before I got waved over, too. The three of us combined were struggling to understand this stupid worksheet, and I swear math has gotten harder since I was in school. Our second-oldest showed pity for our little huddle and took to explaining the secrets of the universe to us, which we’re all watching him expound on with varying degrees of rapt interest and bemused mystification.
Ford takes the pencil from Brad’s hand and sketches out the problem to show us all how it’s done. Both Chance and I definitely lean in closer to watch, because fuck if I remember how to do this shit. Pretty sure I slept through eighty percent of my math classes in middle and high school, but hey, would ya look at that! I can still use percentages in everyday life (exhibit A: my previous sentence). Huh. Go figure!
Chance pulls back, rearing his head and looks at Ford suspiciously.
“Wait a second. You’re a grade below him. How the heck doyouknow this sh—stuff?”
After years of surprisingly clean mouths, the older kids—okay, fine, Brad mainly—have become far too cavalier repeating phrases they hear us utter, and we’ve really been trying to keep a purer tongue around them recently.
Chance caught himself this time, but a few months back, it tookweeksto get Brad to stop calling other drivers on the road “cock gobbler.” It didn’t even matter if they were cutting us off (like the one their father had initially deemed an unwitting throat goat), or lovely Samaritans going the speed limit in the right-hand lane. He was indiscriminately labeling every single other driver on the road a cock gobbler. We managed to convince Preston and Lea that their oldest brother was just making turkey noises every time he did it, and we’d all start gobbling furiously to raucous, precious little laughs (smooth, if I do say so myself), but this increased interest in adult language has us being a little more cautious with our verbiage around small ears.
(If you were wondering what happened with that, in the end we had to convince Brad to let out every possible swear word he could think of in one final tirade—when his younger siblingsweren’taround to hear it—and be done with it. Chance and I applauded his creativity with fervor and gusto, and I think the novelty wore off for him after that. Every now and then, Lea or Preston will still start randomly gobbling in the car, but we’re hopeful that, too, will fade out eventually. Fingers crossed the habit is gone by the time they take their driver’s test, at least.)
“Because he’s anerd!” Bradshaw retorts. Before either of us get the chance to jump on the name calling—we arenotraising bullies, thank you very much—the nerd in question (what? he kinda is one—just not in a bad way) spoke up for himself.
“At least I’m smart, buttwad! You just smell grossandyou’re never gonna get a good job!” Ford’s triple attack, covering both defense and offense, causes his dad’s brows to raise dangerously high on his forehead, and he stands to intervene.
“Whoa, whoa, whoa!” Chance holds his hands up in the universal surrender pose, making his way between the two of them. “Let’s dial back the savagery here, fellas.” He swivels his head to look back and forth between them, Brad with his darker hair and eyes, Ford with his lighter complexion and sandy hair. They both stare him down defensively. “I think you’re both gonna have awesome jobs when the time comes, okay? Ford, you’re gonna make a heck of a science dude, and Brad, the NHL will be lucky to have you. You both have to keep studying to get there, though.”
His calming tone starts to work its magic, but then Chance stops his intervention for a second. Sniffs the air between them all, tries to hide a disgusted face, then proposes a new plan. “But I tell ya what. After you donate some of that brainpower to helping your brother out with his math homework, Ford,” Chance’s sparkling eyes sharpen on the younger of the two boys, calling to his compassion and the camaraderie we try to cultivate within our family, “because you’re a good brother who’s helping him get into that good school so hedoesget the chance to be in the NHL in another decade or so…then it’s shower time all around.”
Protests, whines, and pleas pierce the air, but his dad face is on tight. His mind is made, the compromise is set, and they won’t whine their way out of it. He shakes his head firmly once, then resorts to old faithful. “Andersons unite!” Chance’s voice booms through the small living space, ending the discussion for good.
