He gazes heavenwards like she’s the most irrational woman in the world. “Jesus, Riss, I’ve mopped the floors, okay, you’ve only told me like a million times!”
“He’s crawling now, and,” she closes her eyes and stops herself. “Alright. I’ll pick him up from Susan’s tomorrow around four, okay? Be good, baby, I love you,” she tells DJ as she smooches him all over the face and neck before handing him over to his dad.
“Call me if there’s any problems, okay? See you tomorrow,” she says, and her voice breaks on the last word.
Luckily, DJ didn’t cry as we walked off, I think as I load my bike into the back. It was hard enough for Marissa as is.
When I enter the truck, it’s the first time it truly feels like a cage. Marissa’s thick, suffocating sadness fills the cabin. My skin is too tight as I start the engine.
I want her to smile. I want to fix this. I am becoming infected by her pain.
I go over the mental checklist I’ve made with my therapist years ago as I force myself to sit with the discomfort, but it doesn’t help as much as it should.
The only person you can influence is yourself.
The mood other people are in is not about you.
Making yourself feel good by fixing others is an unhealthy coping mechanism.
This is different. I want Marissa to be happy, not so I can feel good, but because I love her.
The thought makes me smile, and I reach over to squeeze her hand.
“You can cry if you need to,” I say, and she looks at me with wet eyes.
“I already am,” she admits.
“Wanna talk about it?”
“Not particularly,” she says and then proceeds to talk about it. A lot.
“And now DJ probably thinks I’ve left him. I tried explaining to him where he was going and for how long, but I don’t think he knows. He was so traumatized when I was kidnapped. What if he's reliving that now?” She concludes.
I don’t have an answer to all that, so I simply say, “That is a lot to feel.”
She nods as she stares at the road in front of us. “And this is so stupid and awful, but I’m worried he’s gonna like her.”
She doesn’t have to specify who.
I want to tell her that no one who’s met both of them could possibly prefer Rebel, but that’s not exactly true, is it? Maybe if I say “no one in their right mind who’s met both of them”?
“You’re his mom,” I say instead. “He adores you. He looks at you like you hung the moon.”
She only bites the inside of her lip, presumably to stop further tears from forming.
*
Marissa joins me downstairs after her shower, wearing gray leggings and another oversized T-shirt, this one with Tweety Bird on it. Her hair is up in a towel.
“Wanna watch a movie after dinner?” I ask, praying that she hasn’t made any plans.
“Sure.”
I grill us two steaks with a side of asparagus and some boxed mac and cheese. Life is all about balance.
We eat mostly in silence, and she keeps glancing at her phone like she’s expecting an emergency.
Marissa loads the dishwasher while I pop some popcorn, put the potato chips in a bowl, and take the sodas out of the fridge.
