Kemi answered on the second ring.
“Givelle Real Estate,” she said in her usual business tone. “This is Kemi speaking.”
“How’s everything looking over there?” I asked, reaching for the half-empty bottle of whiskey and pouring myself another shot.
“All good,” she said, changing her voice as soon as she realized it was me. “Steady flow. Your father popped in for a bit, but no emergencies. A couple of clients called asking for you, but what else is new. I’ve got it all under control.”
I took the shot. “You sure?”
“Yes,” she said slowly. “Now… Why are you calling, boss man? This evening is supposed to be for Mrs. Givelle, remember?”
I laughed under my breath and rubbed my hand across my jaw. “Yeah… well. Kennedi called, and you know how that goes. Khloe ran out the door like her ass was on fire.”
There was a pause on the line. Then Kemi said, “She’ll be back. You two had plans, right?”
“Yeah. But I already know how this plays out. Kennedi’s not staying. She’ll come home, maybe mope for a second, and then she’ll be right back out the door heading to cheer practice or to hang out with her friends. And I’ll be sitting here again, behind on work, behind on everything… for what?”
I poured another shot but didn’t take it yet.
“I stayed home for her. Took the whole damn afternoon off. And I still ended up here alone.”
Kemi was quiet for a second, then I heard her typing in the background.
“Look,” she finally said, “just breathe. Stick with the plan. Don’t throw the whole night away just because she had to step out for a second.”
I took the shot.
“That’s the problem, Kemi. The plan keeps changing. It’s like I’m always making room, always adjusting, just to get some damn quality time. And if I don’t, it’s another problem. But when I do, something still always comes up. It’s exhausting.”
I realized how pissed I sounded and sighed. “Sorry, I’m dumping all this on you.”
“It’s no problem,” she said with a soft laugh. “Trust me, I understand.”
She did. Kemi had been around almost two years, and in that time, she’d overheard enough of the tension to know how real it was. Her desk was right outside my office, so she had front row seats to the show. Hell, sometimes she even covered for me so I could take a break, slip out to meet Khloe for lunch or pick up something nice for her when I knew she was upset with me. She never said much, but every time I passed her desk to sneak out, she’d flash me a smile and say,“Happy wife, happy life.”
But some days, I wasn’t sure if happy was even on the table anymore.
“I’ll see you first thing in the morning,” she said.
“If anything comes up—”
“I’ll call you. I promise,” she cut in.
Before I could say anything else, she added, “Go try to enjoy your night, Mr. Givelle.”
Then she hung up.
The whiskey was starting to make its way into my bloodstream. I didn’t plan on drinking much, but I also didn’t plan on spending another day wondering how the hell I worked my ass off and still somehow felt like I was failing in life.
I leaned against the kitchen counter, staring at the empty glass like it might give me some sort of answer.
I took off to give her the time that she said I rarely gave. But it’s like no matter what I do, it’s never enough to feel like I’m doing something right for us. Providing? I got that part down. Sacrifice? That’s damn near my middle name. But being seen? Being understood? That part has been slipping through my fingers.
Khloe used to be my peace. My soft place. Now it feels like she’s always disappointed in me, even when I’m doing the very thing she once said she needed, which was stability, structure, and security.
Maybe I missed something. Or maybe we both did.
The sound of the front door opening broke my thoughts. Khloe walked in first, her purse slung across her shoulder and keys dangling from her fingers. Kennedi followed close behind, arms crossed, hoodie up, clearly annoyed.
