A while after she dumped me last year, once I realized she wasn’t going to miraculously change her mind, I tried dating a few times—desperate attempts to move on. But every one of the four women I went out with left me with a limp dick and glum longing…because they didn’t smell like her.
Apparently I’m like a penguin. Or a beaver. Or any of the other dumb fucking animals that mate for life.
“Hey,” she says suddenly.
“Hmm?” I rub my thumb across her nipple, feeling it pucker beneath her tank top.
“Come with me.”
“Where?” I ask absently, slipping her shirt strap off her shoulder so that I can press my lips there, and she rewards me with a soft, appreciative sigh.
“To my parents’ house.” She twists around to look at me, meeting my eyes. “You can drive home with us on Sunday.”
I go utterly still, arrested with my hand on her shoulder.
Okay. That was unexpected.
I inch back, frowning down at her. “Are you sure?”
“Mhmm.” She nods, her expression unreadable.
“Why?” I ask, confused and slightly apprehensive. Why is she asking this all of a sudden? Is it for the sake of the kids? I could definitely tell she felt guilty yesterday when they were disappointed that I wouldn’t be coming with her.
“Because I want you to,” she says plainly.
Wow. Her words are like an injection of dizzy pleasure and tentative hope, rushing through my veins, straight to my heart.
Which is definitely a dangerous feeling, full of perilous assumptions, but I can’t help it.
I want you to.
I cradle her cheek and lean down to press a light but lingering kiss on her lips. “Okay,” I whisper.
Her eyes are glittering up at me with an emotion I don’t dare to try to interpret.
But then she gets up to go to the bathroom, and I start contemplating spending the weekend with my in-laws again, after not having seen them since our separation.
Shit.
I don’t know if I’ve ever had an erection deflate so quickly before.
When was the last time I sat in a car next to this woman?
My life seems to consist of these strange little reflections now. Simple, everyday things—like seeing her prance around in her underwear as she was doing her hair and makeup this morning, and having a cup of coffee ready for her when she came out of the bedroom, and the friendly argument about who should get to charge their phone in the car—are inexplicably noteworthy, as if I can’t figure out whether to categorize them as familiar or foreign.
As we’re cruising along I-80 toward Sacramento with my wife behind the wheel of her dad’s car, our discussions aren’t exceptional, though. Mostly they center on the kids, such as Freya struggling with math in school and Abi’s rashes that we haven’t figured out the cause of and Elliott’s habit of sleeping in our beds, which we’d both tried to hide from each other, apparently.
What’s unusual is that there’s no undercurrent of venom to it. She’s not acting as if I’m willing to let our oldest child fail in school and ultimately in life because she’s getting Bs and Cs in second-grade math. And I never suggest that as long as the medicated cream we use on Abi is working, there’s no point in dragging her to any more doctors. There are just the issues and the questions of what we can do to solve them. No rancor, no pointless finger-pointing, and no pettiness.
Apparently we’ve reached a stage of truce, and it’s like a fucking balm for my soul. Even if it turns out our marriage can’t be saved, maybe we can at least move past all the ugliness.
An amicable divorce.
My mind shies away from the thought; it feels like looking directly at the sun.
“What have you told your family about why we split up?” I ask her during a lull in the conversation when my mind turned to what lies ahead—about ninety miles ahead right now.
Behind her sunglasses, her eyes are fixed on the three-lane freeway, but her lips flatten for a moment. “Nothing.”
“Nothing?” I eye her doubtfully. Yeah, Paige doesn’t like to share, preferring to keep things private, but when it comes to an issue like her marriage falling apart, I can’t imagine her family allowing secrecy. Not without extreme harassment, anyway.
“It’s none of their business,” she says shortly.
Fair enough. Though I doubt they’d agree with that, at least not happily. “Did you tell them I’m coming with you?” I go on cautiously.
“Yeah, I texted my mom.” Her gaze flicks sideways at me before returning to the road, and my sense that she’s about to say something she feels uneasy about is proven right when she stiffly adds, “And I told her you’d be staying in the guest bedroom.”
I’m silent for a short while. Then I say, “By myself.”
It’s a statement, not a question, and she confirms it with a quick nod.
There’s a sinking sensation in my gut. I hadn’t given our sleeping arrangements any thought, but if I had—and if I’d managed to consider it clearly and logically—I would’ve expected no different. And I try to tell myself it doesn’t make last night an aberration, a blip on the continuum of our separation, but I guess a part of me hoped yesterday was a complete turning point. Instead it might’ve just been a detour.
“We haven’t shared a bedroom since before Elliott was born,” she says, because apparently this situation warrants an explanation. Or excuses. Whatever. “The kids would notice, Freya especially. I don’t want to confuse them. Make them think there’s something going on that’s…not.”
Yeah. That makes sense. And if there’s one word to describe my wife, it’s sensible.
“Why don’t you tell me what is going on then? And what’s not?” I ask quietly, because I need a glimpse, just a hint, of what’s going on in her head right now.
She falls silent, her brows creasing as if she’s pondering how to answer. “I don’t know, Logan,” she says at last. “Yesterday was good. I haven’t felt like this around you for a long time, and I didn’t want it to end, so that’s why I asked you to come with me.” She turns her head and watches me solemnly as she finishes with, “But I’m not ready to make any decisions beyond that.”
Okay. I nod, but I don’t respond, because what is there to say? Words aren’t going to seal this deal, at least not right now. Time might. Or maybe not.
Like I tell my kids: no matter how much you scream or cry about something that feels unfair, you’re not going to get what you want.
The mood in the vehicle seems heavier and more somber after that exchange. She focuses on driving, her arms locked on the steering wheel entirely covered in a long-sleeved shirt. It’s way too warm for it, and she’s obviously wearing it to cover up the bruises.
Flattening my lips, I start gazing out the window at the passing landscape, which is becoming fewer trees and more suburban sprawl as we approach the state capital.
The car is really nice—a brand-new black Maserati four-door sedan with red interior. When we first got in it this morning, I asked Paige when her dad bought it, because the last time I visited my in-laws, he was still driving his almost-decade-old Lexus, and honestly, this ride is not exactly the style of the conservative aging man that is my father-in-law. She told me he’s had it for about six months now, and then she recounted the effort it took to convince him to let her take it on this trip. Apparently he wanted her to drive her mom’s Volvo SUV instead.
I’m not surprised he caved, though. Paige is Franklin Waters’ first-born, his princess. The apple of his eye, his “mini me,” his perfect child—the clichés could go on forever, and they all fit.
And in about an hour or so, I’ll be entering his house for the first time since I broke his precious little girl’s heart.
Shit’s about to get real.
Frank and Gwen’s house looks the same as the last time I visited, like it’s been frozen in time. It’s a large home of sand-colored stucco, perched on the biggest lot in a cul-de-sac in wha
t’s definitely an upper-middle-class neighborhood, but one where the other buildings are a mishmash of styles and colors and where there are enough quirks to be found in the landscaping choices to make it clear they’re not the subjects of any draconian homeowners’ association bylaws.
It’s a pretty typical sight in Green Hills, the San Francisco suburb where my wife grew up. Apparently it’s the perfect town to settle down in if you have plenty of money but want a quiet life free of any ostentation. Which sums up Franklin and Gwendolyn Waters well enough.
Paige parks next to her brother’s classic red Camaro, which sits by her sister’s black MINI Cooper in the curved driveway next to the three-car garage. The Escalade is nowhere to be seen, which means it’s either in the garage or not here at all. With every muscle in my body like a tightrope, I can’t decide if I’d rather see my kids now or be given a reprieve from my reunion with my in-laws.
We leave our bags in the car and go straight to the front door, where Paige rings the bell, even though I know she has a key, because her parents insist on it. Pretty sure part of them has never acknowledged that their kids have grown up and left the nest.
Paige shoots me a glance from behind her sunglasses. Can she tell that I’m standing here more nervous than the first time I argued in front of a judge? If she does, she shows no sympathy. Maybe she considers this part of my penance.
The deadbolt slides and the door opens to reveal a slimmer and tanner version of Gwendolyn Waters than I’ve ever seen. Above the face that's the same shape and the eyes that are the same shade as my wife’s, she seems to have dyed her shoulder-length graying hair so that it looks more like an ashy blonde. It’s as if she’s reversed her age by ten years since I last saw her.
“Oh, you’re here already,” she says, moving back to let us in. “You made good time.”
“Yeah, traffic was fine,” Paige says, pulling her sunglasses off as she steps inside, giving her mom a kiss on the cheek in passing.
“Logan. How are you?” My mother-in-law’s voice is neutral, her expression friendly—but not effusively so. While entering the foyer with its high ceiling, I tell her I’m fine, ask how she is, and get the standard pleasant response. Then I’m standing there on the shiny floor made of real cherry hardwood, at a bit of a loss. The Waters clan are pretty touchy-feely. In fact, the very first time I met Gwen, she gave me a hug.
Today she doesn’t, instead moving away from me while shutting the door.
Well, what did I expect? Fanfare and fireworks?
There’s a thunderous noise on the stairs, soon followed by the sight of two towheaded girls barreling down toward us, yelling “Mommy!” and “Daddy!” and pushing and shoving each other like it’s a race. Freya, being bigger—and, quite frankly, meaner—manages to elbow her way to the bottom first, and from there she launches herself at me.
Then my oldest child is in my arms, all gangly four and a half feet of her, and I lift her off the ground and hug her close. It all started with you, I’m thinking as I clasp her to me and she clings to me like she’s lost at sea and I’m a raft. Named after a goddess of love, because the first time we laid eyes on her purple, wrinkly newborn face, we fell hard.
Also, appropriately, named after a goddess of fertility. And she turned out to be just the first out of three beautiful, perfect little accidents.
From the corner of my eye, I see Abigail let go of Paige and turn to me, and so I lower Freya to the floor again before I back up to plop down on the second step of the stairs, where I reach an arm out for my middle child to join us, and soon I’m sitting there with one girl on each knee, and they’re taking turns talking over each other, because they both have an endless supply of important stories to tell me.
While they’re describing their trip to the beach a couple of days ago, I seek my wife’s gaze with a smile—and find her eyeing us, looking somewhat disheartened. It doesn’t take a genius to figure out why. Interrupting the girls’ chatter, I give Freya a small nudge and murmur, “Hey, go say hi to your mom.”
I’m worried she’ll make things worse by objecting or dragging her feet, but thankfully she stands up at once and goes over to Paige, wrapping her arms around her mother’s waist. With a look of relief on her face, Paige squeezes tightly, leaning down to whisper something against Freya’s hair. Probably that she loves her and has missed her.
There’s a squeal at the top of the stairs, and I twist to look up, seeing Mia descending, carrying a squirming Elliott on her hip. “This little mister needed a diaper change,” she says as she reaches the bottom, where she lets my boy down on the floor.
And then it’s my turn to feel a sinking sense of being overlooked as the chubby, rosy-cheeked toddler runs with arms outstretched, straight to his mom. Freya shifts aside, allowing Paige to scoop him up, hugging him to her chest. His tiny arms wrap around her neck, and while she’s squeezing him and kissing him and whispering in his ear, I try to swallow down the acid taste in my mouth.
This is my biggest regret. My son calls me daddy, but he has no clue what that means. Paige has been there, taking care of him almost every single day since he was born, and the connection they obviously share makes my chest ache.
“Hi, Logan.” My sister-in-law’s perky voice disrupts my reverie, and slipping Abigail off my lap, I stand up, offering her a tentative smile. Unlike her mom, she looks no different, is still a slightly different version of my wife: green eyes instead of blue, darker hair, a smattering of freckles on her nose, and wearing cutoff jean shorts with a white tank top.
“Mia,” I say, and again I’m left uncertain of how to greet someone who I always used to exchange a friendly embrace with. “How are you?”
“Good.” She steps toward me, and we end up in a kind of awkward, not-quite-a-hug before she backs away. “Tired, though. Your kids are awesome—but freaking exhausting.”
Chuckling politely, I start to reply, but Abi interrupts, asking her aunt, “Where’s Uncle Jay?”
“In the backyard with Uncle Cam, I think,” Mia says, her tone going high and sweet as she beams down at her niece. “They’re helping Grandpa clear brush and rocks to make room for his new greenhouse.”
Oh, dear fucking God. Frank and his landscaping projects, and the way he likes to schedule them to coincide with when he has male members of his family visiting. Nothing really has changed around here.
The girls run toward the kitchen and the patio door, and while Mia and Gwen start to follow, Paige walks up to me and hands Elliott over. Our gazes meet as I accept his light but solid little body into my arms, hers containing a gleam that seems challenging and almost contentious. Like she’s saying, Take your son—and don’t you dare doubt that he’s yours.
Since we’ve already settled that issue, I only quirk an eyebrow at her before focusing on the cherubic face before me. “Hey there, buddy,” I say softly, and he flashes his tiny teeth at me and replies, “Daddy, hi.” Then he puts a sticky hand on my cheek, letting out a giggle as he leans in and touches his nose to mine for a second before resting his head on my shoulder, and I can’t help but look at Paige again.
For a while, we just stare at each other in mutual wonderment at this boy, without a doubt our sweetest and most affectionate child. We made this, I tell her with my eyes. And as hers soften and flash with emotion, it hits me that this is the moment. The one where we marvel at this miniature person we’ve created, realize that he’s real and a part of both of us, a physical manifestation of our love. With the girls, this happened right after they were born, while we were still at the hospital.
But Elliott was different. His existence was the one we put the most effort into preventing, and the aftermath of his birth was marred by Paige’s post-Caesarean morphine fog—and the fact that our marriage was slowly but surely unraveling at the seams.
With me still carrying our toddler, we catch up with Mia and Gwen in the kitchen, where the two other women start to fuss at Paige about her bruised face, asking for details on how it happened.
While Freya slides open the patio door and both girls disappear outside, Paige answers without elaborating much, clearly trying to downplay the seriousness of the injury. Plus there’s only so much she can share about the case without breaking confidentiality, of course.
“Put your sunglasses back on,” my mother-in-law says to Paige as they’re about to pass through the open door as well. “Your dad just had his annual, and his blood pressure was a little high.”
“Come on. It’s not even that bad,” Paige grumbles, but she does as her mom tells her, plucking her sunglasses up from where she’s hooked them on her neckline of her shirt, shoving them back on.
They go outside, and I step out after them with a mental eye roll, letting Elliott down as soon as he starts his impatient wiggling. It’s not like Paige can hide behind her shades the entire weekend. If I could witness her actually getting hurt without punching Caroline in the face, Frank should be able to see his daughter’s black eye without having a damned heart attack.
We find the males of the house exactly as Mia said, at the northern end of the huge backyard, working on clearing debris from an overgrown corner near the wooden fence. Cameron spots us first, and he immediately tosses aside some twigs and marches his tall, athletic self across the lawn to meet our approach. After giving Paige a big bear hug—which is how the people in this family normally welcome someone, dammit—his attention fixes on me. Palms out and shooting me a lopsided grin, he says, “Hey, man. ’Sup?”
“Nothing much,” I reply with a smile, and the perfunctory embrace with the mandatory claps on the shoulders that follow at least feel normal enough. I’ve always liked Paige’s brother. Cam was a teenager when Paige brought me to meet her family after our impromptu wedding, and I learned quickly that he’s the kind of guy who makes you feel like you’re old friends even when you’ve never met him before.
Mia’s husband, Jay, comes over to greet me with a handshake and a pat on the arm and the standard how-do-you-dos. Over by the future greenhouse site, Paige is stepping back after having hugged and kissed her dad on the cheek, and the two of them chat for a few seconds. The first time I observed the fondness and ease of Paige and Frank’s interactions, the way he looked at her with so much adoration, I was gripped with a serious and sickening apprehension that here was a guy who wouldn’t be easily convinced that I was worthy of his daughter.
Mend (Waters Book 2) Page 31