With that, I storm out of his office, ignoring Archie’s gentle shoulder pat as I pass him by. I’m fuming the entire ride home, it’s a miracle I make it to Grandma Millie’s driveway in one piece. The entire interaction plays through my mind on a loop, and as much as I’m pissed at myself for putting myself in this situation, I’m even more pissed at Earl for stealing so much of my youth and staining what should be an exciting time in my life.
His switch up from a kind, generous, loving man trying to get his wife back to a piece-of-shit asshole trying to threaten my livelihood was diabolical. By the time I walk through the front door and follow thesounds of an old princess movie playing on TV in the living room, I’m a powder keg ready to burst.
The only thing that brings my heart rate down a notch is the sight of Ivy lying on the carpet on her stomach, head tucked in her hands and the straps of her tank top pulled down her shoulders. Sadie is straddling her back, her hair sticking up messily from her braid as she leans over and fills in a black and white koi fish scale with a bright violet marker.
This is all what matters. My daughter, my best friend, and the Little Bean growing in my belly. My only job right now is to keep them safe and healthy, to keep myself safe and healthy. But to do that, to put Earl and his threats and Mindy and my marriage out of my mind and focus on my family, I need to do something for myself.
I think it’s time for a little revenge.
I lie down on the carpet next to Ivy, getting only a mumbled “Hey Mama,” from my daughter, who is solely focused on coloring in Ivy’s shoulder tattoo. My best friend looks over at me, all black hair and brown eyes lined with dark eyeliner and cherry blossom body spray. Just her undivided attention helps regulate my senses.
“How’d it go?” she mouths, likely expecting a thumbs up or down in response since we can’t speak freely right now.
We’ll do a full debrief later when Sadie is asleep, but for now, I press my tongue into my cheek.
“Vee,” I whisper, just loud enough for her to hear. Thankfully, the sound of the movie and her coloring project have Sadie’s attention. “The Earl has to die.”
7
OPERATION GOODBYE EARL
IVY
I think the aggressively eighties, Florida-chic green floral wallpaper in Grandma Millie’s room is mocking me. It’s nearly impossible to form a full, coherent thought with the onslaught of tacky, repetitive hibiscus patterns staring at me, but I soldier on anyway.
It’ll be nice when Stephen comes into town from California and we get the remodeling started. Once we’ve converted the room above the garage into another bedroom and added the nursery to the back of the house, I’m going to dive right into redecorating. I’m all for shabby chic, but right now, this place is just shabby.
Tapping at my keyboard, I put the final toucheson my presentation just as Delilah quietly slips past the door, a tiny white monitor with a small screen in hand.
“God, I can’t believe my kid is old enough to be reading her bedtime stories to me and not the other way around,” she half-whispers as she quietly shuts the door behind her. Already in her pajamas, the worn, rolled-up flannel pants sit low on her hips, showing off a small sliver of tan skin below the hem of her old Fox Hole High School Gay-Straight Alliance t-shirt.
Once upon a time, the thin fabric would have shown off the jewel hanging from her belly button—a spot that I pierced for her in the cafeteria bathroom during one of our free periods junior year that miraculously never got infected—but Delilah never put the belly button ring back in after her first pregnancy.
It’s a shame. I always thought she pulled the bedazzled butterfly belly button ring off in a sexy, unironic Britney Spears kind of way.
“Do you really need the baby monitor? Sadie is almost nine years old. If she’s reading to you at bedtime, it seems excessive to listen to her all night long.”
Delilah sits on the corner of the bed and crosses one leg over the other, massaging the arch of her foot with her thumbs. Her toenails are painted a lightshade of pink that contrasts beautifully with the olive skin she gets from her father. I wonder if she paints them herself or if she gets pedicures, and then I wonder how I can’t know that about her.
Have I really been away that long? And if she paints them herself, what will she do when she’s too pregnant to bend over? Will she let me paint them for her?
“I know, but we’ve only been staying here a few days, and she doesn’t always sleep well in new places. I’m not going to turn the camera on; I just want to listen to make sure I’m up if she has one of her bad dreams and can’t fall back to sleep.”
The sound of defeat in her tone tugs at my heartstrings, and I immediately regret commenting on her parenting choices. I can’t even begin to imagine what it's like to go through what Delilah is going through on my own, let alone with a child. Setting my laptop to the side, I scoot to the end of the bed and steal her foot from her. She lies back with a contented sigh as I take over massage duty.
“You’re a great mom, Lilah. Sadie and Little Bean are lucky to have you.”
She hums, covering her face with the back of her arm.
“A great mom probably would have chosen a better sperm donor for her children.” She audiblysighs, and when she pulls her foot away and sits back up, I can see the unshed tears shining in her chocolate-brown eyes. “Am I doing the right thing, Vee?”
“You want another baby, don’t you?”
“Yeah, I do.”
“And you want this baby, right?” I ask quietly, placing my palm on the small swell of her lower belly. She’s soft and warm, radiating heat through her threadbare t-shirt. Not yet showing, but now that I know to look for them, I can spot the subtle changes in her body. The way her breasts seem to fight the constraints of her bra, the rosy hue to her cheeks, the beautiful spill of skin over the waistband of her leggings that serve as proof of life growing inside her.
Delilah is gorgeous, ethereal, and I have to pretend like I don’t notice if I’m going to keep any bit of my sanity.
