Who would’ve thought the flirty frat boy I fell for would be holding fish funerals not even fifteen years later? If college Chance could see his older self now… My thoughts trail off when he lifts Eleanor into his arms, where she tucks her head into his neck and curls into him, much more comfortable there, and I lose my earlier train of thought at the sight of them. My heart may have melted just then, ovaries popped out a couple extra eggs, but that’s beside the point.
Stick to the plan, Christina. Stay strong.
Chance gestures toward what I’m holding and I unscrew the top off the water bottle before passing it to him. He’s done this stupid ritual for each of the seven, yes, seven, goldfish we’ve lost thus far. He insists that water is their favorite beverage, and the only proper way to send off a member of the squad is to pour some out on their grave.
I hope it’s not giving the kids the wrong impression about death, but so far they’ve accepted the loss of these little pets without too much trauma (except for P thinking he murdered Topanga, but that’ll be fine, right?).
The water splashes the ground, splattering some of the freshly dug dirt rather anticlimactically.
Topanga’s grave lies next to Cory’s, which is nestled next to Shawn’s (just as I think their namesakes would want to be buried), and the other five graves line up in an uneven row beyond his final resting place. His? Hers? Fuck if I know if any of these damn fish were male or female. I’m not sure they even have genitalia. Are they asexual? Dammit, why do I care?
I never gave two shits about a fucking goldfish in my life, but it’s becoming a point of determination for us now. I refuse to be bested by this species.
How can we keep four small humans and one insanely rambunctious dog alive with (almost) no problems, yet these measly little fish die on us every time we turn our backs for, like, ten seconds?
By the time I realize I’ve been abnormally quiet throughout this procession, lost in my train of thought about fish vaginas and penises (or is it penii?), the ceremony is over, Eleanor is standing next to her brothers again, and Chance is kicking the dirt over the spot, the final step of his proceedings.
The three younger kids blow a kiss to it, as they always do. Brad, already nine and getting too cool for us, rolls his eyes instead, but keeps his mouth shut. He likes to act tough. But I did catch him moping around after we lost our first fish, Screech, so I’m not sure he’s quite as unaffected as he’s trying to seem. And then we turn around to head back inside for ice cream, as promised.
Chance leans in close to me as we herd the kiddos back inside and murmurs, “We’re going to need a bigger yard at this rate.” I can’t help the snort of laughter that escapes me. Partially at his joke, and partially at how fucking serious he takes this ridiculous tradition.
He’s such a dumbass. But he’s always beenmydumbass.
“Do you think that battery killed it?” he asks quietly, so the kids can’t hear.
Another snort escapes me in response.
Gah! I am so weak!Keep it together, Chrissy.
I try to keep my voice neutral as I say, “I have no idea. It’s not exactly putting a live wire into a bathtub, is it? But I don’t think we’re raising a little Dexter, if that’s what you’re worried about.”
“Nah,” Chance whispers. “He’s too much like his mom to turn out truly dangerous. He’ll be the cute kind of psycho, just like her.” And with a quick slap on my ass and a wink, he’s disappeared into the house, off to make sure the kids are okay after this latest loss.
Roommates can still laugh at each other’s jokes, right? Do roommates get butterflies from winks and flirty lines? Do they melt at what a good dad their roommate is? Surely their panties aren’t supposed to be more than a little damp after a fucking funeral for a pet fish.
I might be in trouble here.
THREE
CHANCE
My alarm goes off at six thirty on the dot and I wake up instantly, getting out of bed to start my day. I miss the soft wake-ups Chrissy always gives me, but she’s really on one right now, and apparently, she’d rather I be late for work than have to interact with me directly. Lucky for me, this invention called an iPhone has a built-in alarm clock, and after the scare of almost being late that first morning where she left me high and dry, I have mine set for every weekday now.
I really need her to open up to me. It’s been a while since she’s been this mad at me for this long. Actually, I’m not sure she’s ever been this resolute in her avoidance of me before. We definitely haven’t gone a month without sex before, outside of postpartum recovery. But even then, she at least took pity on Chance Jr. and handed out some blowies and a couple pity handjobs. She’s always been thoughtful like that.
This time… she’s really working at not being alone with me.
I’d be more worried if this wasn’t a game she played with me regularly. She gets mad about something stupid I did, easy enough to do, considering how much stupid shit I do, then she makes me work for it, and I either figure out what I did and make it up to her, or I break her down before I’ve figured it out and she gives in.
She knows I don’t mind the chase, and I know she likes holding that power over me. I’ll win her over soon enough.
But it has been more than two weeks since the last time we even tried to fit time in together, when she fell asleep before I got back from putting little Lea to sleep, and she still seems to be pulling further away from me day by day. It’s like the only interaction she’ll have with me is either in front of the kids, or about them. I make a mental note to flirt with her a little extra over the next few days, away from small eyes and ears, and see how she responds. I need to know what I’m working with here.
I need to up my game. Push her harder, and she’ll either give in to me or blow up at me, and I can win her over again. Either way, something has to change.
This has gone on too long now, I need to figure out what the fuck I did this time and get my wife back.
My mind draws a blank when I try to figure out what she could be mad at me for, so I dedicate my shower thoughts to plotting how to break through to her, how to wear her down, get her to give in to me or at least talk to me again. Once I am confident that I’ll get us back on track, my mind wavers to thoughts of work, as it so often does.
