“I think DJ prefers my system, isn’t that right, buddy?” I ask him, then decide to make a game out of having him pick different produce for the week.
It ends up being loads of fun, and I even manage to convince Marissa to throw a few snacks into the cart for herself. She grabs two cans of the energy drink Beavis and Butthead forced us to ingest, and upon seeing my incredulous face, she bursts out laughing and puts them back. “I was just messing with you.”
We browse the detergent aisle when she suddenly says, “I needed this today. Thank you.”
“You’re welcome. Do you want to talk about it?”
She sighs and tries to flick a braid back over her shoulder, only to realize it’s not as long as it once was. She does that sometimes. It’s like a phantom length.
“I guess Dylan finally read the papers he was served with. He’s angry about having to take parenting classes. He told me we could have dealt with this between us instead of involving the court. Accused me of being jealous and vindictive. I didn’t take the bait. I calmly reiterated that this will ensure fair parenting time for both of us. Then he said he wanted to take DJ for aweekend visit in two weeks. Only one night, thank God, until he gets the hang of it.” She inhales shakily, like she’s trying not to cry. “I had no reason to say no. I mean, I want DJ to spend time with his dad, but… what if Dylan doesn’t give him back?”
I stop in my tracks and grab her by the arm. She turns her body to me but doesn’t look away from her son.
“First of all, that’s kidnapping. There are laws against that, and I still have a lot of police contacts that would immediately make it a priority to intervene.”
She gives a small nod.
“But more importantly, I would drive to Tucson myself, and I’d burn their clubhouse to the ground if Slim dared to do that. I would stop at nothing to get DJ back to you, okay?”
I fucking said the wrong thing again because she starts crying for real. A little old Hispanic lady gives me the stinkeye as she walks by.
“I’m sorry,” Marissa says as she wipes her nose on her shoulder. “It’s nice when someone has your back. It made me wonder whether this was how people with fathers or older brothers always felt, and then I kinda lost it. I seem to be doing that a lot lately.”
I decide not to focus on the male relative box I’ve just been shoved in. I use my thumb to wipe some of her tears away.
“It’s fine. It’s been a rough few weeks. Emotional aftershocks, right?”
“Yeah,” she whispers. “Weeks, months, years. Sometimes I feel like I never recovered from giving birth.”
DJ starts fussing due to being ignored in the cart, and Marissa readily sets her pain aside to tend to him, and that’s when it hits me.
She doesn’t do that with me. She doesn’t swallow the hurt.
She cries.
She’s vulnerable with me because she knows she can be.
She trusts me.
I feel like the biggest man in this store for the rest of the trip. Not even Marissa’s arguing about who’s gonna pay at the end gets to me.
As I’m backing out of my parking spot, I hug the backrest of her seat, and I drive my family home.
*
Living with your woman who’s not your woman is hard.
It starts in the morning - I come home from the gym, and Marissa and DJ are usually laughing in the kitchen, their eyes still puffy from sleep, but I can’t kiss her eyelids or smell her hair.
No, I can only politely inquire about the quality of their sleep or whether they like their breakfast.
Several times, I almost kiss Marissa on the mouth or forehead when saying hello or thanking her for dinner.
Idiot.
For a week, I even had the opportunity to observe how she navigated the office environment and her new responsibilities. She was magnificent.
Because I know her so well, it was obvious to me how scared and unnerved she was, but as always, my girl bit the bullet and did the job. She’s sharp and very capable, but doesn’t fully trust herself yet.
