“Hi, son.”
My father holds up his open palm before stepping up on the sidewalk and making his way to me. I survey the immediate area, not for help but to make sure nobody is catching this moment I’d rather not live through.
“Why are you here?” I drop my bag by my feet, in case I need my hands. When I was a kid, he sometimes pushed me around. The odds of that are unlikely now, mostly because of the sheer physical calculations of my body compared to his. Still, the reaction is ingrained in me. I feel better having all my tools at my disposal. If I need to block a punch, I can.
“I figured maybe stopping by your work would be a better way to see if we could talk. I understand how me showing up at your home felt like a violation.” He rocks back and forth on his feet as he talks, and his eyes struggle to remain fixed on me. I’mpretty sure he’s tweaking. I’m sure he was the other day, too. That’s how he exists, and there ain’t no amount of prison that’s going to cure him of that.
“Yeah, well, it’s a violation here, too. It says so on the sign,” I say, pointing over my shoulder to the no-trespassing sign affixed to the gate I just walked through. Technically, the front door is open to the public. But I’m willing to run back to the practice facilities if it means he’ll leave me alone.
Instead of getting defensive, my father coughs out a laugh. The hacking takes over quickly, though, and he has to hold out a finger while he covers his mouth and clears his throat of some nasty sounding shit.
“All I want is a cup of coffee with you. Ten minutes over some eggs, maybe. Come on. What do you say?” He steps toward me and holds out his hand. His nails are trimmed low, and his fingers are covered in tiny cuts that look to be infected. I’m not sure whether it’s from razor blades or what, but I doubt it’s from his work in the scrap yard. That kind of work leaves real, actual bruises. My dad’s hands look sketchy as fuck. And they’re shaking.
“Fine. Friday morning, seven a.m. at Earl’s. If you’re a minute late, I’m leaving. And I can only give you twenty minutes. Then I have to get on a bus and leave for a game.” I nod at his hand, refusing to shake it, and instead I spit on the ground. My gaze hits his, and I make sure the expression on my face means business. He seems to get the message.
“I’ll be early. And this is my treat. Breakfast, I mean. And the company,” he says through an awkward chuckle.
“Whatever.”
I turn my back on him and walk toward the back entrance, and don’t let the weight of the moment hit me until I’m alone in the showers. There, I will the hot water to spray down the drain everything having to do with this new memory .
FOURTEEN
LINDSEY
It’s so much easier to be bold in the dark of night, under the auspices of a starry night and a few sips of wine.
It’s been three nights since the one Brooks and I spent together, and between his schedule and my record-setting stress, bedtime has been early and done alone.
I’m sure he thinks I’m giving him the cold shoulder.Maybe I am. I don’t mean to, but I’m freaked out. Not only because the boys basically caught us red-handed and will one day unravel our ridiculous cover story, but also, my parents clearly know something is going on. I had to explain showing up at their house in an old cocktail dress at eight in the morning, and despite my best attempts at telling them it’s a long, crazy story, their quizzical expressions definitely verged on the judgmental side.
My mom did say I was allowed, then pointed at Brooks. She didn’t specify exactly what I was allowed to do.
Brooks and I haven’t talked about what happened, or how it changes things. Rather, how itcan’tchange things. We still need to have that conversation, but for now, I’d rather live off the leftover high from our amazing night, than run whenever I see him.
Totally practical to pull off for a year.
Not that I don’t want more. Because I do. And not just the intimacy, but more . . . period. Sex has a way of tricking the brain into believing anything is possible, and in the moment—or rather,moments—with Brooks, I did. I convinced myself we could live a double life. Have our own secret world at night, after the kids went to bed, then go back to business as usual during the day. Eventually, when my divorce is final and custody settled, Brooks and I could go public. Then I spent a full day with my thoughts.
Now, I realize I am anxious for him to come. I want to see him. To be with him. All of us together. A family. And I don’t want to wait. I want it now. Andnowis the only time I’m certain that can’t happen.
So, I’ve been running. When he enters the kitchen, I leave. When he’s in the room with me and the boys, my headphones are on and my books are open. And well before it’s time for bed, I disappear.
It’s exhausting, and depressing.
I’m in the clear for the weekend, at least. The Mavericks are on the road, and Brooks left early this morning. He was moody, too, which made it easy to play moody right back. I should probably have asked him what was going on, but I was so relieved that he didn’t want to hash out our situation, I let him stew around the kitchen after giving Holly a morning bottle without a single questioning eyebrow. He didn’t even say goodbye when he left. He just kissed his daughter’s forehead and walked out the door, never glancing my way.
It’s probably his way of dealing with the tension I’ve created between us. The guy has had a lot of shit happen in his life, and he has every right to be gun-shy about letting people in. That makes me feel even worse about how I’ve behaved. If I were an adult, I’d suck it up and have the hard talk about my reality.
I’m not truly divorced. My ex is using anything he can to make me look like the bad guy so he can keep the boys in Oklahoma City. And Brooks makes a pretty damning checkmate.
Not that Brandon doesn’t have plenty of skeletons of his own. Hell, he has the boys today, and I’m sure he’s having his girl-toy Caitlyn watch them while he meets me for our first co-parenting class. I dropped Holly off with my parents so I could get here early, and so far, I’m the only co-parent in the classroom without her other half.
Typical.
Brandon was even late to our wedding because he booked an early tee time with his college buddies. He’s not even good at golf.
I keep checking my phone for updates from him, but he’s stopped putting messages to me in writing. His texting consists of time stamps for when he’ll arrive for pick-up and drop-off dates, and that’s about it. I think he’s paranoid that I’ll screenshot his words and use them against him in court, so instead, he no longer types any. He’s probably right. I would. Ihave.Mostly the ones from the past, before we separated, when he promised to be home by morning only to turn around and message Caitlyn the room number for the hotel room he’s waiting in. He didn’t realize I could see those because he doesn’t understand how cloud IDs work. I definitely crossed an ethical line by logging in as him, but I had to know if my suspicions were justified. Seeing the text messages led to spending five hundred bucks on a private investigator, which led to the photos that showed me exactly who she was.
