She storms back into their room and slams the door. I hear it lock from the other side, and Lukas looks up at me plaintively.
“It’s okay, buddy,” I tell him, even though I don’t feel it myself. I’m not sure how much of Ivy’s problems are because she’s a young girl infatuated with an older boy and how much because she wants to get back at Kim and me for, as she puts it, ruining her life. “Want to play games on my phone?”
“Ooooh, yes!” Luke says.That trick works every time, and it’s possible I’m abusing it, but all I really want to do right now is talk to Kim.The bathroom door is cracked but not all the way open—I guess she did feel like I could handle the situation, but wanted to hear the whole thing, and I can hardly blame her for that. I open the door and find her leaning against the marble counter, still in her night shirt. She looks at me with wide eyes.
“Another successful encounter with our daughter,” I say.
Kim’s face scrunches sympathetically, and she puts her arms around me. “I’m sorry. I wanted to help, but I also . . . didn’t.”
“It’s fine. It’s not like I’m not used to dealing with our kids on my own.” I cringe.That sounded accusatory, and I’m about to apologize, but Kim speaks first.
“Did you . . . does she talk to you like that a lot?”
Shit. I’ve spent so long not wanting her to know how often Ivy throws fits at my house. I know she and Kim must butt heads, being so alike, but to hear Ivy tell it, her mother always does everything right. “Not likethat,” I say. “I mean, it’s far from the first time she’s yelled that she hates me, but usually she cools off after fifteen minutes or so and we talk about it.”
Kim is staring at me like she can’t believe this, which makes me feel even worse about the state of my parenting. “Our Ivy. Yells that she hatesyou.”
“Yeah,” I say.
Kim laughs. “I always thought that she only said that to me. She’s always telling me how you never make her clean her room. Or take out the trash.”
“Ha. Well, from what I hear, you never leave dishes in the sink, or use paper plates, or forget to do the laundry until she runs out of underwear.”
“I did all those things when we were married.”
I smile. “I know. But maybe when Ivy was yelling that she’d rather be with you, it hurt enough that I was more inclined to believe her.”
Kim rolls her eyes up at the ceiling. “She’s been playing us against each other. I thought we were really good at keeping that from happening.”
“I don’t think we can totally blame ourselves. Our daughter is obnoxiously clever.” I groan. “And we need to make her apologize to Marguerite about the phone, and then see if the data is still there so we know exactly what happened.”
“What are we going to do about her?” Kim burrows deeper into my chest.
I really don’t know. “She’s right and she’s wrong.Technically there are more things we could take away from her—going to the beach while we’re here, for example. But I’m worried it would just make it worse.”
She nods. “But we can’t reward this behavior, either.”
“We should make sure Marguerite locks her phone, to start with.”
“That’s the thing,” Kim says. “I’m pretty sure she does.”
“Great. I do not want to know how Ivy figured out the password. It’s like parenting Ethan Hunt.”
“And when Luke grows up, it’ll be like parenting MacGyver.”
I laugh and squeeze her tighter. Our family might be a mess, but it feels good tobea family again.
I only wish I had the confidence that this time, I’d be able to do it right.
Eighteen
Kim
Ivy’s mood doesn’t improve over the next several days. For that matter, neither doesTroy’s. We’re behind schedule, the paparazzi continue to mob our shooting locations, andTroy pulls me aside at one point to ask why we couldn’t wait to “do this until we’re ramping up publicity, when it would actually be useful,” as if Blake and I should be timing our family decisions based on what’s best for the film. One of the stunt men broke his ankle, a sound tech guy showed up to work wasted and dropped a boom mic on one of the extras, and all the press surrounding the filming is becoming increasingly negative—and solely focused on Blake and me. Film sets always have their own mood, just like people, and this one is in desperate need of a Xanax.
I’m hoping the break for Comic-Con—and especially the couple days back home—is just what we all need.
Ivy, at least, does seem in slightly better spirits as we fly back to LA in the private plane the film provides for us due to my rider about accommodations for Costanza (thank you, Josh). She sits in the big leather seat, her long legs drawn up under her, chatting with Luke about all the costumes they hope to see at the con. Well, Luke does most of the chatting, but Ivy isn’t rolling her eyes or letting out any aggrieved sighs, so I count that as progress.
