CHRISSY
“I swear to Louis Vuitton, Lolita, one more motherfucker who doesn’t even know who Aaliyah is calls me ‘cheugy,’ I will not be responsible for what comes out of my mouth.”
“Are kids even saying that anymore?” Her face narrows on mine in thought. “By the time I learn a new word, it’s already—" she puts on her best Cher Horowitz impression, “—like, so last year.” She laughs. “I swear, I don’t understand two-thirds of what comes out of my teenagers’ mouths at home. I just smile and nod, and occasionally yell at them or turn a blind eye if I just don’t want to know.”
Man, I amnotready for the teen years yet. The fact that those are right around the corner for Brad is either giving me imminent diarrhea or making me want to make another baby before I blink and all of mine are already grown, I’m not sure which. Maybe it’s fifty-fifty.
What Iamsure of is that I’m going to attempt to drown myself in a fishbowl of tequila (probably the home of fish number ninety-four at this rate) the first time I trip over a crunchy sock, or have to replace the tissues in his room every week instead of once a year. I shudder at the thought.Not yet, I reassure myself.He’s still your baby for a while longer.
My Stanley tumbler is done refilling, so I screw the top back on and wait for Lola to finish her snack in the breakroom before we head out together to meet our respective four o’clock appointments.
Hell month, aka Homecoming season, is upon us.
Thank God there’s a second cup in my other hand, full of creamy, pumpkin-spiced goodness. It’s my lifeline today.
Between a full lineup of back-to-back demanding teens every weekend for a month straight, and the harsh words Chance laid on me the other night that won’t stop rolling around in my head, on repeat twenty-four-seven, this PSL is the only thing giving me life right now.
That, and the ridiculously cute hug I got from Preston before I left. He attached himself to one of my legs, trying to sell me on spending the day with him. In his words, “Sad-der-day is for us, Mama.” If that didn’t make me feel like the worst mom, leaving my kids on one of only two days I get with them, it was what Brad told him next.
“Saturday is our day with Dad, P. Not Mom. She’s never here weekends.”
Well, fuck me sideways.
Now my own kids think I can’t be bothered to spend time with them.
Preston kept squeezing the life out of my leg, but honestly, it felt more like he was squeezing life into it. I tried to remember the feeling, store as much of that love of his as I could for the frustrating hours ahead where my patience would be tested, and I’d wish I was back at home, with my little loves in my arms instead.
Chance convinced him to ease his King Kong hold on me by making a game for the youngest kids to “push” me out the door as their way of saying bye to me today, and that worked.
But looking back as I walked to the Tahoe, seeing my husband there, holding Lea, Preston by his side, Ford and Brad playing a game at the table behind him… It felt a lot like I was leaving everything behind that mattered to me. Wasting the best days of my life being away from them.
I guess that’s the life of a makeup artist, and other moms who have to work weekends, but I can’t stop wondering if it’s what I wantmylife to be.
The more I think about how I pushed Chance over the edge after girls’ night, the more I remember all the stories I heard earlier that night. What life is like out there for a single gal in her thirties or forties. Whatmylife could be if I push him much further, continue alienating him and making him think he’s the only thing wrong with our marriage.
It sounds bad enough to be a teen right now, or a twenty-something, judging from all the tea spilled in my chair on a weekly basis. Trying to navigate finding someone you like enough to fuck once or twice seems like a challenge worthy of its own Netflix show.
But imagine trying to find someone you’re willing to link yourself to long term, or start a family with. And atmy age?
My God.
They really need to invent an AI that works out successful pairings, because dating apps and social media arenotdoing it according to my clients and friends.
Those awful stories sounded so funny when we were cracking up about them over a pitcher of margaritas, like they were just a punchline, highlighting some of the worst this planet has to offer single women. Ha ha, isn’t that funny? An entire world full of losers, a whole ocean full of creepy and funny fish, but none worth catching.
Those same stories sound a lot more stark and terrifying when I consider they could be my future if Chance decides he’s done with my high-maintenance ass. Not funnyat all.
All this time, I’ve only looked at it asmebeing unhappy withhim.
Now that the shoe is on the other foot? Holy shit, I don’t think I’ve taken a full breath since he walked away from me and left me in the living room, without half of my soul in its place.
Is this how he’s felt since I unloaded on him that night on the patio?
To say I’ve beenunsettledsince our last talk would be an understatement.
I’m nervous. Jittery. On edge.
Not quite able to process everything he said, all the ways I may have been letting him down this whole time, but it’s sunk in more and more every day.
