I have no idea what part of this spontaneous trip she’s referring to, but knowing her, maybe the whole thing?
“What… is your… obsession… with this man?”
I stop dead in my tracks. It takes her rebounding off my body for her to realize it too. The ballerina bun that was once neatly wound into a tight knot at her crown now has four dozen flyways spiking in every direction.
“First of all, he’s a hot musician from our hometown. Howoften does someone from Boise, Idaho, become famous? But also… did you evenwatchthose videos I sent you?”
It’s a rhetorical question, really. If she did, she’dknow. I open my phone camera, press our heads together, and say, “Smile.”
One look at the photo has me pinching the bridge of my nose. Her expression is a mixture between an animal caught in headlights and a teenager asked to sit through a piano recital.
No, it’s okay. She’s been living under a rock. She doesn’t have a clue about those Levi’s that paint his thighs or how his voice drips like honey when he gets to the chorus or what a thrill it would be to wear his face.
It’s not until she says, “Okay, that’s creepy,” that I realize I’m muttering out loud.
My eyes snap back to hers, and I continue closing in on the line. She returns to her marathon sprint.
“I’m just saying… this feels… like something… a twenty-year-old would do.” She crashes into me a second time when I stop at the edge of the line and whip around.
“Jules, a country music concert?” I squint at her and then turn over my shoulder.
Standing on my tiptoes, I lean from side to side.
Dammit, she slowed me down. There’s a gigantic line already, and now I’m going to be stuck justifying the next twenty-four hours to someone who spends Friday nights at home eating microwave popcorn for dinner. There’s absolutely nothing wrong with getting a babysitter and going out in your thirties.
“You don’t get out enough.” She deserves this. And frankly, after the hellish week of divorce papers I’ve had to deal with, I do too.
She nods. “I’m aware. But what if Henry has one of his episodes at bedtime because Jake forgets to leave the hall lighton? Or if he tries to make pizza for dinner instead of his peanut butter banana? Or?—”
She’s talking so fast I can hardly keep up, except for that last part.
“He’d eat a peanut butter banana over a piece of pizza?” Asking this question brings me back toherreality. This isn’t just a night out. It’s a plane ride away from her son. Even though I have no one to answer to anymore, I won’t even begin to understand what it’s like worrying about a child all the time. Not to mention, one with autism.
“Not helping, Sum.”
“You’re right, I’m sorry.” I grab her by the arm and look into her eyes. “Did you leave a note for Jake?”
I expect it when she nods. The woman is more prepared than Santa Claus. She has to be.
“Okay, then it’s fine. It’s one night.” I shrug to make my point, even if I still feel guilty at seeming so nonchalant. I care about the stress this is causing her.
Her eyebrows pinch together, and I give her arm a gentle squeeze, listing off all the things she already knows but may need to hear again.
“Jake is Henry’s father. He’s spent the night with him plenty of times before, and if he faces something unexpected, he’ll figure it out. He gets to go out all the time. You deserve to have a little fun too!”
She chews on a fingernail for a second and then presses said finger into my sternum. “I’m sending you my therapy bill this month.”
I grin. “Sounds like the perfect way to spend my divorce settlement.”
She laughs.
I wrap an arm around her shoulder. “And you know how else I plan to spend it?”
“On popcor?—”
“On a T-shirt with another man’s face on it,” I cut her off. “It’s called self-care, babe.” I kiss the top of her head.
“Aren’t those two things in the same category?” she argues.
