“You should wait for the real thing to come in from Iowa. It will be embossed and everything.” I waggle my brows, but Brooks waves a hand my direction.
“Pssh, I don’t need the embossed one in a frame. This one is the first with my name on it. Right there. It’s special.” He drags the paper closer with the tip of his finger, then taps the line listing him as the father.
Of all the times Brooks has seemed attractive to me—which are many—he’s never seemed sexier than this moment. The pride that stretches his grin well into his cheeks and the gleam in his eyes over something so simple sit in my heart. Brandon likes playtime with the boys and it was always my favorite part of our marriage, watching him swing the boys around in the back yard or play wrestle with them on the living room floor covered in couch cushions. But those scenes were rare, and they were always brief. The last rays of sun if he got home from the college in time, or before bed on the days he stayed to work late.
Grading. Office hours. Faculty meetings and enrollment studies. There were so many things that kept him at the office late, and now, I can’t help but assume they were all bullshit. He didn’t come home when he could because his dick was too hungry for someone else. He passed up tickle time and tag so he could cheat on me.
Brooks disappears up the stairs just as my phone dings with a text. My stomach fills with dread at the sound. I hate messages now because they’re almost always from Brandon. And they’re usually curt and tinged with his special brand of superiority.
I carry my phone to the kitchen chair, where my books are still piled up from my morning study session. I close my eyes and draw in a deep breath.
Please be from my sister. My mom. A coupon for my favorite online clothing app.
I pop my eyes open and see my ex’s name, and my chest tightens.
BRANDON:We’re heading back. The boys had a great day. I would really like to do more things with them. We’ll talk.
My shoulders sag, and the polarization of his words mentally knocks me around. On the surface, Brandon wanting to do more with our sons is a wonderful thing. I should be thrilled about it. Healthy co-parenting looks like this on the surface, or so says the book I’m reading on the subject. Yet I can’t help but feel the weight of skepticism. His words feel like he has an ulterior motive. Like he wants to show off how much fun he can have with them and win their favor. And all of it is against me.
I shake my head to rid myself of those sour thoughts. I have to keep my resentment separate from his relationship with our boys. So what if he never seemed to have time to do things with us as a family before. He’s putting in the effort now, and isn’t that more important? That the boys know they are equally loved despite their parents’ separation?
I type back.
ME:I’m glad. Talk to you soon.
Bile creeps up my esophagus, so I set my phone screen-down on the table and walk away for a few minutes. I unroll the yoga mat I stole from my mom when I moved, and sit in the center, stretching my arms up and closing my eyes while I focus on my breathing. I used to be good at this. I could do all the poses, and clear my mind at the drop of a namaste. It’s going to take more than a few deep breaths and a good stretch to get my head right now, though. Regardless, I give it a whirl, stretching forward until my fingertips reach the edge of the mat. My phone vibrates on the table, though, and my eyes pop open as my jaw tightens.
“I’m heading out. But I was thinking . . .” Brooks speeds down the stairs in his pre-game clothes. I’ve learned all too quickly that I like the way a man looks in baseball shorts andcompression pants, and shirts. I like the wayBrookslooks in these things. And in dark blue. And with hair that’s a little too long for his hat.
I pull my legs in and hold my ankles as he passes me, then picks my phone up from the table. I’m about to protest—I don’t really want to see what else my ex has to say—when Brooks hands my device to me, and I realize the ding wasn’t from Brandon; it was from Brooks.
“I get free tickets for every game. And Louisville is a good team, so it should be a good game tonight. And if you and the boys are bored, maybe?—”
I hold his expectant gaze, then look at his text, which includes a link for three tickets. My mouth ticks up on the side on reflex.
“I bet they would like that,” I say.
“Yeah?” He threads his hands together behind his neck and squints one eye at me as if he’s not sure.
“Uh, the boys think you arewaycooler than I am. I know they’ll want to go.” I press the download button for the tickets and save them to my phone.
“I mean, Iampretty cool,” he teases, exaggeratingly lifting a brow as he reaches toward me to help me to my feet. His grasp feels warm, and his grip practically engulfs my hand, and when he doesn’t let go right away, even after I’m standing, my belly warms.
Shit. Not again.
I break our hold and quickly bend at my waist to snag the yoga mat I barely used. I turn my back to Brooks to tuck the mat into the hallway closet, where I decided it shall live, and by the time I come back to him, he’s busy tucking a few energy bars into his gear bag. I’m not sure whether he’s running away from our spontaneous electricity like I am, but he rushes out the door with a quick, “All right, see you at the game,” and suddenly, otherthan the five-month-old who is fast asleep in the playpen behind the sofa, I’m all alone.
That’s been the hardest part since Brandon and I split. It’s the moments when I’m all by myself that my mind grows loud and my thoughts work against me. I feel like a failure, not as a mom, but as a woman. Like I chose wrong, married wrong, couldn’t keep our relationship intact, and am getting exactly what I deserve—solitude. I know my mind is a liar, but it’s also so very noisy.
I stand in the center of this big, empty house filled with very few of my things, and unravel all the decisions that landed me here. Am I better off? Are the boys? I know what the experts would say. I’ve read all their books in the two months since I moved out of the house I literally built with my ex. I get the impact of my decisions—showing my boys what a woman is worth, my independence and loyalty, and how to coexist with an ex-spouse in a healthy way.
But why do I feel as if this is all falling on my shoulders? Why does Brandon get to keep the house that I decorated? That I cleaned for three years, and that I rocked our boys to sleep in late at night. I won’t walk away with nothing in the end; Brandon, for as much of a jerk as he is, has said a few times that he intends to push for an even split of our assets. I won’t have to battle for money. But time? That’s another story. And time with the boys, as wild as they are, is priceless.
I’m not sure how long I’ve been standing in place and staring at the empty wall by the front door to my temporary home when Deacon and Riggs barrel through and rush past me. It may have only been seconds, but I think it’s veered closer to several minutes.
“Mom, Deacon says I can’t keep the truck dad bought us here. He says it’s a toy for Dad’s house.” Riggs pulls out a chair atthe kitchen table and promptly flops into it on his knees before plunking a hefty toy monster truck on the tabletop.
I shake my head and pinch the bridge of my nose, rehashing my son’s tattle in my head. I’m not quite sure who he’s telling on, his brother or Brandon.
