Her eyes narrow. “You’re not saying no, though. Neither of you!”
“Ive—” Blake starts, but Ivy cuts him off.
“I’m adding thisTo.The. List.” She dramatically writesTHEY WILL HAVE A BABY on her paper in bright purple marker. “Because it’s not fair. Luke, tell them it’s not fair.”
Luke has that trapped look again. “But babies are cute. People babies and animal babies—”
“Luke, stopbeinga baby!”
“Ivy!” both Blake and I warn at the same time. Ivy rolls her eyes and mutters an apology.
Luke wrinkles his nose at her. “My list says ‘Ivy is mean.’”
I have a hard time arguing with that.
“Ivy is having a difficult time adjusting,” Blake says. “But we’re doing our best to address all the concerns, and we’d appreciate it if she would do her best to lose the attitude.”
Ivy tugs at the ends of her long auburn hair, wrapping it around her finger. It reminds me of how she used to do that as a little girl when she would sleep. It was adorable, and I used to love watching her do it, even though in the morning she’d end up with tangles.
Until one day, I had the thought of her long hair wrapping itself around her neck, strangling her.That thought caught in my brain, until I could picture nothing else every time I put my daughter to bed. I would wake up over and over to check on her, and drove Blake crazy asking over and over if we should cut her hair—without, of course, telling him what I was really afraid of, because I knew how insane it sounded, knew there was no way he could understand.
I finally called a stylist one day when I couldn’t take it anymore, and he cut her hair chin-length. Ivy cried, because she missed her “princess hair.” I cried, later and by myself, because I was so afraid of my own mind.
The fear is starting to claw at me, and I force myself to take deep breaths again—in slowly, out slowly. I’m not sure if I look paler all of a sudden, or if my breathing exercises are more noticeable than I’d thought, because Blake gives me a concerned look and reaches over to take my hand.
It helps. I give him a small smile.
“My turn,” Ivy says, with a little less attitude—I can tell she’s still just as upset, but she’s trying to be calm about it. “The paparazzi are worse now.They’re everywhere and they won’t leave us alone, even with all the security, and it’s really annoying.”
Blake sighs. “Yeah. It is annoying, huh. But that’s kind of our lives, you know?The paparazzi always get worse when anything new happens with us. And this is a big one. But it will die down and go back to the way it was before.”
Marguerite’s kept us updated every day, and it sounds like the security is definitely keeping the kids safe from getting swarmed, but there’s not much they can do about the shouted questions every time they go outside or to some place that can’t easily be cordoned off.
He’s right that it will die down eventually, but until then, our kids are getting asked how they feel about us getting back together, whether they miss Roger and Simone (I think even Portia got thrown in there), if there’s a wedding date yet . . . all big emotional stuff they should be able to process in private and not have strangers try to exploit. It makes me furious and guilt-ridden, all at once.
It’s not like they’ve never had to deal with paparazzi intrusion, but I already felt bad enough about that.This is a whole other level, and I feel so selfish doing this to them.
I bite my lower lip. “Maybe we could do an interview somewhere big likePeople. Give them the information they really want, and they’ll back off a bit.”
Blake looks sharply at me, and I don’t blame him—I literally just hours ago said we were going to keep things vague with the press. But if it’s what our kids need . . .
Ivy’s angry expression smoothes out so suddenly, I can practically see the lightbulb going on in her head. A devious lightbulb. “Yes,” she says adamantly. “Let’s do that.”
I remember as a kid wondering how my parents always seemed to know what I was thinking, especially if I was planning to do something I shouldn’t. When I became a parent, I realized it’s not that there’s some psychic ability gifted along with the baby. Kids are just never as sneaky as they think they are.
“No, Ivy,” I say. “You’re not going to do an interview about how we’re ruining your life.”
“Absolutely not,” Blake agrees.
Ivy’s twelve-year-old death glare at having her brilliant plan crushed could be weaponized. “Even if you are ruining my life, and the world should know.”
I feel a headache beginning to form right between my eyes. “I’ve seriously had enough with this sassy tone.”
“This is my voice now,” Ivy says. Luke’s eyes widen, and he begins scribbling on his paper.
“Ivy—” Blake starts, but Ivy cuts him off. Again.
“Neither of you care about us anymore. All you care about is yourselves.”
