He smirks. “You’re bad.”
“You kind of like that side of me.”
“I think you need to be spanked later,” he teases.
My jaw drops to the floor.
“Ewww,” Trevor scoffs. “Don’t say stuff like that in front of us, please, Dad.” He looks throughly disgusted, while Tristan seems confused and mildly traumatized.
Brian used to always say stuff like that, and used to be able to get away with it.
Not so much anymore.
It’s cliché to say, but they really do grow up too fast.
* * *
I’m foldinglaundry yet again when I get his call. I’m surprised because Joel never calls me. The occasional text, but no phone conversations. I think we both know it would be inappropriate since we’re both happily married. There’s something very intimate about a telephone conversation. Unlike a meeting at a coffee shop or smoothie shop, a phone conversation involves just two people — there’s no one else around. And especially if conducted in one’s quiet space, like a bedroom, it can become quite private. It’s a big no-no as far as I’m concerned.
As it stands, Trevor is playing Fortnite on the sofa next to me, and Tristan is on his device. It’s Saturday afternoon, and I’m wearing sweats. “What’s up?” I ask, trying to sound casual.
“I need to see you, Mischa”
My throat is in my heart for a second. “Uh… sure.”
“Can you see me now?” he asks.
“Uh…” I look like hell — no makeup, hair up in a ponytail, and sweats, but I’m dying from curiosity. “Yes.”
“Our usual spot in thirty minutes?”
“Sure, I’ll be there.”
“Where are you going?” Tristan asks.
I’m meticulously folding Brian’s purple boxers. “Coffee with a friend. Just for a bit.”
As much as I want to rush out of there, I need to finish my load of laundry, and everything needs to be folded perfectly. I’m sure he’ll understand if I’m late.
Joel looks completely disheveled when I spot him at our usual spot in the corner. He looks absolutely devastated. He’s holding a smoothie but I don’t think he’s drinking it. The place is packed with teens, and I don’t bother ordering anything. I run straight to Joel. “How are you?”
“Been better.”
“I’m so sorry.”
“You were right,” he tells me.
“I’m so sorry, Joel.” I really am. I wish I’d been wrong.
He’s staring down at the table, devastated. “When I asked her about it, she starting crying and she showed me.”
I can’t look up at him. Instead, I study the silver flecks in the granite of the table. I study my nails, and notice a chip in my pink polish.
“I asked her what’s going on,” he continues. “I had no clue. How can a dad not know? I’ve been so caught up in my own life, in the salon, in my stupid hobbies, in…” his words trail off as he glances up at me.
“It’s not your fault,” I tell him.
“She’s stressed out about school,” he tells me. “She also has a learning disability… dyslexia.”
