“How do you feel about that?” Sharon asks the banal question with a brisk curiosity that sounds genuine.
“Annoyed.” Drawing in a breath, I add, “But probably not as much as I should be.”
Her eyes narrow. “What do you mean by that?”
“Uh.” I swallow hard. “I don’t know.”
Pursing her lips, Sharon says, “I think you do.”
My pulse starts pumping a little faster. She’s right, of course. I’m annoyed at having to handle a divorce case, and I didn’t want to ever deal with Stu and Caroline again. But seeing Paige more often, in situations that have nothing to do with the picking up or dropping off of kids? That’s not irritating. It’s…a challenge? A possible escape route out of the status quo?
When I remain quiet, the older woman finally asks, “Have you pursued any other romantic relationships yet?”
“No.” Bitter humor rises in my chest, but I push it down, focusing on the wall behind her. In between a pair of bookshelves packed with dark volumes, there’s a row of framed diplomas, including the one for her Ph.D. in psychology from UCLA.
“I know you said that would look bad in case you and Paige end up in court over this, but have you at least thought about it? Wanted to?”
“Not really.” Still avoiding her eyes, I shift on the couch cushions, the leather giving off a groaning noise.
That sex is the only topic it’s hard for me to talk to her about is probably what clued me in on why I still find myself in this office, month after month.
Because that’s not something I’d want to discuss with my mother, either, is it?
And that’s what she’s become: a substitute for the mom I haven’t had since I was a kid.
Sharon looks down at her notes, flipping pages. “Last time you said that you’d finally told Paige about everything you did around the time you two started having problems. You said she was upset but that it turned out to be not as big of a deal as you’d been afraid of.”
Shit. My chest grows tight. Why had I thought telling her that would be the end of her questions about it? I brush my hand over my mouth, worried she’ll see my thoughts on my face.
Because what I told her at my last appointment? It was a lie.
“Has that topic come up between you again?” she presses on, her sharp gaze probing.
I shake my head. “Nope.”
A crease appears on my therapist’s forehead, and she tilts her head as she asks, “You don’t think that’s odd?”
“It was a long time ago,” I reply with a shrug, my pulse racing. Is this a new low for me? Seems like you have to be a special kind of fucked up to lie to the person you’re paying to help you deal with the shit you’re lying to her about.
Guess I just got tired of her asking about it, though. Got tired of that restrained disappointment of hers, the quiet disapproval. It makes me cringe.
And my answer to her question was never going to change. How could it? A burning sensation starts in my gut at the memory of the look on Paige’s face. The hurt in her eyes, the utter disbelief.
What did I do to deserve this, Logan?
Sharon is watching me with her pen poised above her notes. “And how do you feel about having told her?”
“It’s a relief,” I tell her without missing a beat, because I know that’s what she expects to hear. It’s why she’s been pushing for it for so long, saying that she thinks keeping such a big secret from Paige has been weighing on me.
But how would it help me to make my wife hate me more than she already does? I can’t even start to picture how that conversation would go. Would it make me feel better? I seriously fucking doubt it. How would it be a relief to see my own shame and disgust reflected in her eyes?
She’s pissed enough at me already. If I told her everything, told her the full and dark and ugly truth of what I did, she probably would never speak to me again. There’s just no sense in making things more fucked up than they already are, is there?
“Well,” Sharon says when it becomes obvious I’m not going to elaborate, scrawling something on her notepad before looking up and fixing her tight-lipped stare on me again. “I think it’s time for you to find a way to move on, Logan. You’ve been in this limbo for almost a year now. It doesn’t seem like there’s much hope for a reconciliation, so maybe you should consider pushing for finalizing your split.”
It’s like she kicked my legs out from under me, and I’m falling flat on my face. My therapist has hinted at this before, but she’s never said it so plainly. She prefers to let me figure things out for myself.
“She wants to take the kids away,” I point out. “There’s no way I’m letting that happen.”
“Mhmm,” the older woman says, because that’s not new information for her, is it? “You can't resolve that unless you sit down and talk about it, though. Paige has said she’s open to mediation. Maybe it’s time to give that a try?”
I clamp my mouth down on my gut reaction, which is to say, Fuck that shit. What does she think Paige and I’ve been doing the past year? Burying our heads in the sand? No, we’ve talked. And it pretty much always goes down the way Wednesday’s conversation did. Mediation would be a train wreck at this point.
I get that Paige feels untethered here now and wants to live closer to her own family, but I still can’t wrap my head around why she’d think there’s any chance in hell I’d let her move five hundred miles away. That I’d be okay with her taking my kids away from me. Take them away from my dad, for fuck’s sake. She’s seen the connection they have, how much they worship their grandfather and how spending time with them is the highlight of his life.
There’s no talking about that. There’s no negotiating. She’s not doing it, and that’s that.
“I’m thinking,” I grind out, clenching my hands into fists, “it looks like I moved out, abandoned her and the kids, and that I don’t care. So if I push her now and she files for divorce, a judge might just give her full custody.”
Sharon’s countenance turns thoughtful. “You think that’s why she’s been waiting? Because the longer you go on like this, the stronger her position gets?”
My chest puffs out as I scoff. “I know that’s why she’s been waiting.”
Because to my wife, life’s like one big chess game, and she’s goddamned good at it. Always thinking ahead, envisioning her opponents’ moves and planning how to respond. Not for the first time, it crosses my mind that my life would’ve been so much easier if I’d fallen for a dumber woman.
Which is kind of like telling an alcoholic he’d be better off being addicted to drinking water.
“So,” says Sharon at length, “what are you going to do about it?”
Well, there’s the question of the century—and another reminder of how Sharon’s become a proxy for what I haven’t had in my life for almost three decades now. She doesn’t coddle. She tells it to me straight. She makes me see things in simpler terms, and I trust her.
Like a mom might. If she were a good one.
As I’m sitting there on the couch in my therapist’s office, I don’t have the answer to what she’s asking.
But her words still feel like a slap over the head, hitting me with a startling realization.
I’ve been letting Paige get away with calling the shots.
It’s time to do something about that.
Chapter 5
Paige
“Hey, Freya,” I say from the kitchen doorway, “where’s your swimsuit?”
“I dunno.” Perched on a stool at the bar counter, my oldest daughter mumbles the curt response without looking up from the game she's playing on her iPad.
I place my hands on my hips. “Can you help me find it, please?”
“No, thanks.”
Her casual tone—as if she's politely declining a glass of water or something—sets my teeth on edge. Why does she have to pick the worst possible moments to behave like a brat?
“Okay,” I say, keeping a tight rein on my
temper, “I know the way I phrased that sounded like it was optional, but I was actually just being courteous. You need to help look for it, or you can’t go camping.”
Her head whips up, her shoulder-length blonde hair falling back to reveal her face. “Really?” she bursts out, her blue eyes round and hopeful. “I don’t have to go?”
Ugh. That's what I get for taking the lazy route and ignoring one of the cardinal rules of parenting: no empty threats.
“No—” I start to respond, but I'm interrupted by Abigail flying in from the hallway on her kick scooter. Her little brother comes toddling after her, the toy gun in his hand pointed at her and spit flying out of his mouth as he hisses out his imitation of bullets whizzing. I turn sideways and press myself against the doorframe as they streak past me.
The noise fades, and I focus my attention back on Freya. Normally I'd sympathize with her, because I'd rather have all my nails pulled out than go camping. But, unlike me, she loves the outdoors, and she’s only pretending she doesn’t want to go because…why? Pure contrariness?
“Sorry,” I tell her as mildly as I can muster, “I didn’t mean it that way. You do have to go. Which means you need to find your swimsuit.”
After flattening her lips and giving me a death glare, my firstborn bends over her iPad again.
And my patience snaps like a bone smashed with a baseball bat.
Marching over to the counter, I snatch the tablet out of her hands and slap the cover shut over the screen. “Now.”
With a snort like an enraged bull, she slides off the barstool and shuffles out of the kitchen.
Squeezing my eyes shut, I release my pent-up breath. At only eight years old, she's already behaving like a teenager. If that's normal, why did no one warn me about it?
The alternative, of course, is that it's abnormal. Which means it's probably my fault somehow.
That's what happens when you become a parent. In your mind, everything is suddenly your fault. Somehow.
My other two kids come storming back into the kitchen, their volume seeming to have gone up too many decibels, and I feel like I'm on autopilot as I jerk my hand out to grab the scooter.
“Abi, honey,” I hear myself pleading with my five-year-old, “can you take Elliott and go play in the family room? You can keep an eye out for Daddy and Grandpa. They should be here soon.”
“Okay!” she chirps.
And then my sweet little girl—the one who gives me grief more rarely than there's a full moon—reaches back and jerks the toy gun out of her little brother’s hands.
“No, don’t—” I start to protest, but she's already kicking her scooter out of the kitchen. My boy looks stunned for a split second, and then his chubby toddler’s face contorts and reddens as he lets out a howl of rage before taking off after his sister.
“God,” I breathe out, putting my hand over my eyes. I don't have time for this; I need to finish packing.
“I can’t find it,” comes Freya’s sullen voice from the doorway.
At first I can only gape at her. Then I throw out my arms. “You’ve been looking for less than a minute!”
She crosses her arms and scowls.
Realizing I’m this close to losing my shit, I draw in a deep breath. I’m super mom. I do all the mom things—do them happily and really well. I wipe butts, pack healthy lunches, take them to classes and practices and birthday parties, and I volunteer at school and go to PTO meetings and contribute to all the fundraisers. I make sure my kids have everything they need, physically and mentally and emotionally.
What I do not do is lose my shit.
“When was the last time you had it?”
She shrugs. “Dunno.”
“Come on.” I’m not sure why I hold my hand out to her, because I know she won’t take it. But she does follow along, and together we head up the carpeted stairs to where hers is the first room on the right, the biggest bedroom except for the master suite.
Being the oldest of three siblings myself, I know how important those perks are, how it goes a long way toward making up for having to always be the responsible one, the one who didn’t get to be just a kid all the time.
In silence we start searching the pink and frilly room from top to bottom, and I don’t say a word about her lackluster effort while I look under and behind everything, moving toys that are on the floor instead of in their storage bins, picking up clothes that should be in her dresser. For right now, she can be a kid.
I’m still coming up empty-handed and about ready to give up on finding the swimsuit in there when squeals echo up from downstairs.
“They’re here!” Abi yells. “Mommy! Can we go outside, please, please, please?”
“Wait until they’re out of the car!” I call back.
Seconds later, I hear the click of the dead bolt and dings of the house alarm system, alerting that a door has been opened.
“Daddddyyyyy!” comes Elliott’s screeching voice, which soon fades, meaning he’s running out of the house. I experience a moment of panic and almost decide to rush down the stairs to make sure nothing goes wrong, but then I hear the slam of car doors from out front. It still takes a lot of effort to stay where I am.
In the middle of the room, Freya stands with her hands hanging at her sides and a forlorn expression on her face. She so obviously wants to join her siblings, but she doesn’t dare ask to be excused.
My heart twisting, I tilt my head toward the door and gently tell her, “Go.”
She’s gone before I can blink, and I heave a sigh as I move over to one of the windows, tilting the mini-blinds to watch the commotion out front. Unsurprisingly, it’s my father-in-law’s black Chevy Tahoe that’s parked in the driveway below. Logan’s Audi is a fast and luxurious and sexy car—and totally impractical for ferrying three kids in car seats around, so forget about taking it on a camping trip.
Beside the SUV, my father-in-law is crouching down before Abigail while holding on to the leash of his German shepherd, Baldwin, who’s sitting patiently next to them. Mike stays at his granddaughter’s eye level and listens while she tells him something that looks extremely important, judging from the way she’s bouncing and flapping her arms. My middle child has bloomed over the past year or so and has become much less shy around strangers, but she’s always been this spirited with family, and especially with Mike.
And a few feet away from them, there’s Logan. Dressed for camping in a green tee, khaki shorts, and hiking boots, he bends down with arms outstretched as Elliott rushes at him, and then he’s scooping the boy up into his arms. A sharp pain stabs at my chest at how he closes his eyes while he hugs his son close, cradling that little towhead into the crook of his neck.
His son, who looks so much like him it’s as if they were cast from the same mold. The thought has me clenching my jaw so hard it hurts.
Freya comes running out the front door and down the long brick steps, and when Logan spots her, he sets Elliott down and grins as she launches her tall and gangly self at him. Her arms and legs wrap around him like tentacles, and he actually lifts her up and carries her.
The lump in my throat comes out of nowhere, ambushing me. When she was tiny, she was clingy and colicky, and I had to carry and hold her so much that I felt like I’d grown an extra limb. But now she’s so big that it would take all my strength to pick her up—if she’d even let me, which is a statistical improbability.
For him, it’s easy, though. He lifts her with no apparent effort, and she’s attaching herself to him like a burr. My Freya, always the Daddy’s girl. She’s his little princess, and as the oldest, she has the most memories of him. It makes sense that she would miss him the most, because she has more of an idea of what there is to miss.
We’re better off without him, though. I'm doing better, which in turn is better for the kids. Thirty-five percent of kids live in single-parent households. Which makes this almost normal, doesn’t it?
And they have one whole parent instead of two broken ones now. I
have to cling to the belief that it's for the best, or else I'll be lost.
So I turn away from the window and do what I do best: pick myself up and carry on.
Where could Freya’s swimsuit be? Maybe it got left behind at Miranda’s house? Their nanny took them to the pool earlier this week, so it’s possible.
Suddenly I have this vision of Freya tossing her wet swimsuit into her laundry hamper and missing it. I go into the kids’ bathroom, and there it lies, on the floor between the hamper and the wall. It’s dry but smells like chlorine. Oh, well. No time to wash it now.
The rest of the packing is a breeze after that, since I already did as much of it as I could last night. All that's left is to make sure Elliott has all his necessary stuff.
I'm in Elliott’s room tossing extra supplies into the diaper bag when I hear footfalls on the stairs that are too heavy to be a child’s, and then Logan appears in the doorway.
“Is that it?” he asks, pointing at the bags that I left zipped up and ready in the hallway.
After a glance his way, I focus on the fresh pack of wet wipes I’m stuffing into the bag. I don't want to look at him, don't want to feel that pull of desire, the way my body betrays me whenever he's near.
“It’s not enough?” I don't care about sounding friendly, not today, so I don't even try.
After a brief pause, he replies, “Just making sure we don’t leave anything behind.”
“Well, if you do,” I comment sourly, “at least you can blame me.”
“Right,” he snaps, and then he disappears.
Yanking the diaper bag onto my shoulder, I leave the room and find him gathering up everything to take it downstairs.
Am I being a bitch right now? Probably. But I think I'm justified in being a little peeved. The kids need so much more stuff on a camping trip than they do for a weekend at Logan’s place, and I'm the one who has to pack it all.
Not that things would be any different if we were still together. I wouldn’t ask him to help, anyway, because the only way to make sure it’s done properly and nothing’s forgotten is to do it myself.
Mend (Waters Book 2) Page 6