NINE
CHANCE
A delicate knee presses closer to my face and my eyes blink open blearily.
It’s not my wife’s, sadly. Last night was good for us, it was needed, but I have a lot of work to do before I can see her waking me up likethatanytime soon.
I process my surroundings for a few seconds before things begin to make sense.
Tiny bodies are strewn throughout the bed.
Mostly human, one canine.
Lea’s somehow curled up between me and Chrissy, her knee against my cheek, her shoulder digging into my wife’s back in a way that makes me wince from here. Hey, that might actually give me an opening to give her a back massage later. What can I say? When you live and die over sales like I’ve done for the past dozen years, you start to see everything as an opportunity.
Preston is on the other side of the woman I spent all last night closing on giving me another chance. His favorite person in the world.Mine, too, bud.Her small frame barely hides him from my view, but I can see some of his dark brown hair poking up under her arm that must be slung over him.
Sir Wags is in the classic ‘doodle pose,’ on his back, all four legs in the air, the front two bent at the wrist, comfy as can be, up against my lower legs and feet. It’s cute as shit, but it’s sweltering with so much body heat trapped in one bed. Plus, it’s Tampa Bay, for crying out loud. Even on a good day you’re gonna get a case of swamp ass. No need to start on it so early in the day.
Not sure when most of these additional bodies got in here, could’ve been any time throughout the night. We don’t lock the door unless we’re having ‘Mamí/Daddy time.’ We didn’t always do that, even, honestly, until the day after one particularly terrible evening, when Chrissy was called in to see Preston’s preschool teacher as he’d had a nightmare during his nap that day and woke up inconsolable.
Chrissy had to hear from the teacher how Preston heard Mommy screaming and went to help her, to find that she’d, in his words, gotten caught in one of daddy’s ties and was stuck to the bed. He told the teacher that Daddy was trying to help her out, but the poor kid couldn’t figure out how she got there, and now he had developed a fear of her getting stuck to various objects. The fridge, the fish tank, the bathtub, or, what apparently scared him the most, her getting stuck to something outside, unable to get back inside their home.
Like Chrissy didn’t know damn well what her son had walked in on the night before. The teacher didn’t have to be such a bitch about it, honestly. Chrissy waslividafter that meeting, convinced the teacher was a prude who thought we were unfit to be parents because we aren’t boring vanilla motherfuckers, but I was pretty sure she was just jealous that she never got what she needed in the bedroom. Anywho, Diana collected Preston from school, we did a little Cub Scout lesson on safety for the whole family, and he was fine after that.
Regardless, the doors get locked when it’sourtime now, religiously. Unfortunately for me, that wasnotwhat last night was looking like for us.
Our conversation from the patio replays through my head, the raw emotion in her voice, the cracks that shone through, doing double damage to me as it all sets in; her pain taking root deep in me as I wrap my head around everything she said, everything she felt.
I’m losing her.The realization that sank in out there on the patio hasn’t left me.
The plan that began forming immediately after takes shape more solidly, outlines of actionable items becoming visible within my mind, and I focus on what I’m going to do to prove to her how much I still love her.
Lifting the sheets carefully, so as not to wake the sleeping ones, I start to get out of bed when our partially open door moves and two more bodies creep in the room.
“Morning, buds,” I whisper to them.
Ford is rubbing his eyes tiredly, Brad looks more like he’s sleepwalking, but they both murmur some version of good morning as they come over and climb up into the bed with the rest of our clan.
This ritual won’t last forever. The kids grow up week by week, constantly changing, and I don’t take my time with them in each phase along the way for granted. Brad’s already too cool to hang out with us half as much as he used to. It won’t be long before Ford starts to pull away from us, too.
To say nothing of what Sunday mornings would look like without Di next to me if I can’t salvage this.
I decide there’s worse things than swamp ass at six thirty on a Sunday morning and settle back in to snuggle with my family for as long as I can soak them in for.
* * *
Ding dong.
Sir Wags howls like it’s a SWAT team trying to break down the door.
Little feet trample down the hallway from the playroom to the front door.
Every living creature in this house under five foot except the fish (number nine, by the way, Feeney) is screaming bloody murder, and I’m left wondering who the actualfuckrings the doorbell these days?
A knock comes next, triggering another set of wails from the animal that cost upward of two-thousand dollars and was bred to snuggle, yet somehow thinks he’s a fucking Belgian Malinois with the ranking of lieutenant, solely charged with taking out a domestic terrorist every time the mail gets delivered. Fucking ridiculous.
Chrissy is in the bathroom, still getting ready, and I’m much closer to decent than she is at this point, so I hustle to get my khakis up and buttoned. By the time I’m covered up, I realize I don’t have my phone on me. Of course, there’s a missed text from minutes ago.
