The New Husband (ARC)

by D. J. Palmer

  “Hey there,” Nina said at the sight of Maggie, who was seated at her small desk by the windows overlooking the backyard, a schoolbook splayed open in front of her.

  “You cut your hair again,” Maggie said, after turning in her chair to greet her mother.

  “Thanks for noticing,” Nina said.

  “I liked it better before,” said Maggie.

  “Thanks for the honesty.” Nina’s tone implied thanks for nothing, but her annoyance went away when she sat on Maggie’s bed, taking in all the familiar sights and smells of youth, toys replaced with trinkets, all of it serving as reminders that this was a girl with more on her plate than most adults could handle. “So, what am I supposed to do with you?” Nina said as she shrugged her shoulders.

  “You’re the parent,” Maggie answered with a shrug of her own.

  “Oh, I forgot.” Her rebuke was gentle. “So, since I’m the parent, why don’t you tell me what you were you thinking?”

  “I was just messing around,” Maggie said, but Nina caught a look in her daughter’s eyes suggesting that there was more to the story.

  “What’s going on with you?”

  “I said it was an accident.”

  “It was an antique and also a gun. You know better.”

  “I was curious,” Maggie said. “I said I was sorry. I’ll pay him back.”

  “When? Over the next fifteen years? It’s worth thousands of dollars.”

  Maggie had no answer for that, not that Nina had expected she would.

  “You’re a smart girl, Maggie. You don’t do things like this. Did you do it intentionally? Did you do it to upset Simon?”

  There! Maggie’s nostrils flared out and she blinked rapidly, two of her easy-to-spot tells, making her non-answer all but an admission of guilt.

  “Why?” Nina said, letting her exasperation be heard. “Why are you making this so hard on us all? Do you want to see your therapist more? I don’t know what to do to help you, but you have to come to terms with the fact that Simon is a part of our lives now.”

  As Nina thought for a moment, she went to pull her hair back out of habit, forgetting all the hairspray holding it in place.

  “I can’t let this go by without doing something,” she said. “Hand it over.”

  Maggie knew what was being asked of her and tossed her phone onto the bed with attitude, where it made a small bounce and landed next to Nina.

  “Take it,” Maggie said dejectedly. “When can I have it back?”

  “How about right now.”

  Simon’s voice came from the open doorway, where he had hovered unnoticed.

  “Sorry to be eavesdropping,” he said. “But may I?” Maggie responded with another shrug of her shoulders—Do what you want, she told him silently, and so he entered her room.

  “I don’t think Maggie should be punished at all,” Simon said, taking a moment to look around and appreciate all of Maggie’s things. This was her space, and normally she would not have welcomed Simon inside.

  “People make mistakes, and nobody got hurt,” Simon continued. “She apologized and I accepted her apology. Worst case, I get a new musket; best case, I can get it repaired. I was going to drive over to Wicked Weaponry tonight—I sent their repair guru a picture of the damage, and he thinks he can fix it up and it’ll be as good as old.”

  Simon waited for a laugh that didn’t come.

  “Yeah, that wasn’t very funny,” he admitted. “But no punishment at all. That’s my plea here. It’s fun to have, but I don’t need it for the field trip. And I’ll find another way to store it. That was my bad. Maybe I’ll keep it at the gun store until I figure something out. Doesn’t matter, none of this matters. I just want things to be better for us all, and this is one way I can think of doing that. Nina?”

  Nina shifted her gaze to Maggie, who appeared placid but uncomfortable, like she was trying hard not to react to Simon’s overture in any way. She certainly appeared to be actively avoiding eye contact with him, though for a teen that was no surprise.

  “Okay,” Nina said, rising from the bed, putting herself between Maggie and Simon. “How about we shake hands and make a pledge to try and work harder to support each other.”

  “Deal,” Simon said, jumping on the offer, extending his hand fast as a whip crack. Maggie held out a few beats before extending her arm to give Simon an extremely tepid handshake. Glen would have made some remark, as he believed strongly that a firm handshake and solid eye contact were signs of maturity, but Nina had had enough for one day to try any additional corrective measures on her kid. She was tired, oh so tired, and wondering how the heck she was going to get up in the morning and do it all over again.

  You’ll do it by putting one foot in front of the other, she told herself. Millions of people do. Nina kissed the top of Maggie’s head, taking in the smell of marigold-scented shampoo, and then turned to Simon.

  “Please tell me I don’t have to make dinner,” she said.

  “You don’t have to make dinner,” he answered with a dimpled smile. “It’s grilled chicken with lemon capers and rosemary. Already cooked.”

  “Oh, thank God,” Nina breathed out.

  “How about you take off your work clothes and I’ll set the table—with Maggie’s help.”

  The look he sent Maggie made it clear she owed him and not to complain. Maggie rose reluctantly from her chair.

  “I’ll have a glass of wine waiting for you downstairs, but I’m going to let you all eat without me,” Simon said. “Want to get to the gun store before they close and see about fixing it up before the field trip. Might be able to avoid some disappointed kids.”

  Nina made a kissing sound that made Maggie sneer.

  “Thank you . . . thank you,” she said. “I’m a working woman now. I need to be pampered.”

  “You are a superstar,” Simon said, “and soon you’ll be a well-fed one. Maggie?”

  Maggie slunk out of the room with footsteps that were close to being a stomp. Nina let out a big sigh once she was gone.

  “You are a lot more understanding than I would have been. I was going to take her phone and ground her for a month.”

  “And give her more reason to hate me?” Simon said. “No, thank you. Let’s let this go and hope for smoother seas ahead. It’s all going to be fine.”

  Simon bent down and deposited a gentle kiss on Nina’s forehead.

  “Tonight,” he said, this time planting a quick kiss on her lips as he took her into his arms. Nina sank into his embrace and felt the taxing day leave her body. “You look amazing,” Simon said. “And you are amazing. I can’t tell you how lucky I am to have you in my life.”

  “Are you about to say you complete me?” Nina asked, giving him a playful pinch so he knew she was referencing that famous movie quote in a loving way. She pulled back to appraise him thoughtfully. “Thank you for being you,” she said.

  Simon kissed Nina again before leaving Maggie’s bedroom to deal with dinner prep and his broken musket. Nina showered and ate a quiet meal with Connor and Maggie, the way it had been before the short-term trio had become a quartet. There was no talk of the gun, or getting along, or any weighty subject. Conversation was limited to school and logistics, including a reminder that Maggie was scheduled to get another x-ray on her injured ankle.

  After dinner, Connor helped with the dishes, while Maggie, who had set the table, got a reprieve. Simon returned a few hours later with the good news that his musket could be repaired without the break being too noticeable, and might even be ready for Friday’s field trip.

  That was not the only thing he fixed.

  Later that evening, when the kids had gone to bed, after giving Nina a foot massage, preparing her lunch, consulting with her on day two’s outfit, and refilling her glass of wine, Simon took her in his arms and made love to her with exquisite tenderness.

  “One phone call tomorrow, that’s your limit,” Nina told him as she nestled in his arms, basking in the afterglow. “One.”r />
  “I’ll try,” Simon said. “But I love to hear your voice.”

  Chapter 23

  Ben and I, along with everyone else in the eighth grade, were in the middle of the hallway, shuffling past glass displays of student artwork, trophies, and other school paraphernalia, on our way to the school gym for an anti-bullying lecture that some expert had been hired to give.

  As we neared the gym, Laura, Justin, and a bunch of my former friends pushed past me with enough attitude to knock me over. I caught a few nasty glares as they strode on by, an extra-harsh one coming from Laura, but no words were exchanged. It’s not exactly a smart move to bully someone on a way to a lecture about bullying.

  I noticed how Ben stood a bit taller, and you’d have to know him to see that he puffed his chest out, which was really sweet. He wanted to protect me, but Laura Abel and her crew of meanies weren’t my biggest concern. No, that particular person stood guard at the entrance to the gymnasium looking all teacher-like, with his navy polo shirt tucked into his dumb khaki pants. He had that leather bag Mom bought for his birthday at his feet. So many times I thought of hiding it from him because I knew that’s where he kept his wallet and keys.

  My fellow students greeted him with pleasant smiles and warm hellos all around—“Hi, Mr. Fitch. Hey, Mr. Fitch! ’Sup, Mr. Fitch.”—and as I approached I had to think of what to say. Should I say anything at all? Should I call him Simon like I do at home? I decided it was best to try and slip past him unnoticed, using my fellow classmates as camouflage, but no such luck. Simon reached out a long arm and tapped my shoulder, a knock hello, like he thought maybe I had missed seeing him. He smiled as though nothing was wrong and said, “Good morning, Maggie.”

  I managed to grumble out a good morning in return. Ben and I found two seats together on the fifth row of the bleachers, next to Jaddy (Jackson and Addie), who were occupied not with each other, but with whatever was on their respective smartphones. In fact most kids were looking at, or sharing something, on their phones.

  “Do you think it’s funny we’re having a lecture on bullying and everyone is on the smartphone they use to bully?” Ben always made some keen observation.

  “You’re just jealous because your parents won’t let you have one,” I said, teasing because we were friends now, and friends can tease.

  “I think you just bullied me,” Ben said with a smirk.

  I said, “Guess you’d better report me,” and we both enjoyed a little laugh.

  A few minutes later, nobody was laughing, or talking, because Principal Fowler had come to the microphone and introduced the guest speaker, a guy named George something (admittedly, I wasn’t paying close attention). When you live it, and know it the way I do, deep and personal, it’s hard to get really excited about an hour-long chat on bullying. It’s like going to a lecture about what it feels like to get mauled by a bear after a bear has mauled you. It was kind of a “been there, done that” moment for me.

  Still, I joined everyone in applauding for George, who was young, maybe a few years out of college, and hip in a Diary of a Wimpy Kid kind of way, with short dark hair and thick black glasses that made him look like Ben’s cool older brother. He had on a polo shirt similar to Simon’s solid navy one, but his had alternating dark and light blue horizontal stripes. At the cuffs of his dark jeans were Converse sneakers, which is what the emos and goths in my school wore, making him even more the alternative type.

  His lecture, inspired by his personal experience as a victim of bullying, highlighted choices he made that didn’t stop the harassment, but rather helped immunize him to it, like a vaccine, so he could better cope with the meanness. His story wasn’t exactly groundbreaking—he wore glasses from a young age, some kid thought that was funny, then nobody wanted to be friends with him. The teasing escalated and everything spiraled from there, until by high school he was friendless, depressed, and contemplating suicide. Yeah, no joke.

  He gave us a bunch of statistics (these I listened to: one out of seven K–12 students are bullied; 35 percent of students had been bullied online; etc.) and throughout it all I was feeling more and more uncomfortable. I was one of those stats, and everyone in the school knew it, so it felt like I had a spotlight shining on me the entire time George was talking.

  At the end of his lecture, which included a few interactive skits about trusting your parents and teachers, George asked if anybody wanted to share a story about bullying with the assembly. He called it an empowerment moment, but nobody came forward. I wished I could have turtled inside my clothes to avoid any of the looks people sent my way, but instead, had to settle for the next best thing, which was looking at my feet.

  I waited anxiously, my stomach in knots, for this assembly to be over so we could all get on with our lives. One second of silence became two, and I was sure nobody was going to volunteer to speak. I started gathering my stuff, thinking we were at the point when George was going to call it a day, thank everyone for our time, remind us to be kind to each other, something blah-blah like that, when someone came to the microphone. It was the worst person imaginable. No, not Laura, or even Justin.

  It was Simon.

  He appeared calm and composed, like he was about to do one of his Revolutionary War performances. As he leaned down to speak into the microphone, he looked right at me.

  “I’d like to say something,” he began.

  His booming voice, much deeper than George’s, bounced off the concrete walls, which were decorated with felt banners of our division and state wins in different sports.

  “That was an incredible lecture and I found it very moving. Thank you, George.”

  There was a round of applause led by Simon, who glanced at George with a smile of appreciation, before turning his head to look at me again. I sank lower in my seat, trying to make myself disappear. I tried to guess why Simon was up there, what he might say next, and the possibilities terrified me.

  “I have been teaching for many years and I have seen how damaging bullying can be,” he continued.

  No . . . no . . . no . . . I was thinking. Please stop! Please stop right now!

  “Each year students have come to me with their hurt and their pain. I have seen firsthand the heartache that comes from bullying.”

  A murmur rose up from the bleachers, because everyone knew that “firsthand” referred to me.

  The noise didn’t die down, and next I heard a little laugh that was loud enough to get Principal Fowler to shush the offender angrily.

  “Please take to heart what George said today,” Simon continued, “because your words and actions can cause people a lot of real pain, and can lead to lots of tears and heartbreak. It makes people contemplate things much worse than dropping out of school.”

  Oh. My. God. Did he just tell everyone that I’ve been crying all the time? Did he imply to the entire class that I’m suicidal? I wanted to scream. I wanted to run. I kept my head down.

  “Your words and actions matter,” Simon went on. “Instead of ridiculing others, try being kind. Instead of excluding someone from your lunch table, invite him or her to eat with you. You can make a big difference in a person’s life, but it all starts with a simple act of kindness.”

  He didn’t have to say “Maggie Garrity,” because everyone knew I’d been booted (or self-selected out of) my usual lunch table. When I looked up, Simon’s eyes were still locked on me. And that’s when I knew—I knew for a fact this was payback for his precious musket. This was why he had winked at me. This was why he hadn’t supported punishing me when Mom wanted to take my phone. He knew we were having this lecture, and knew he’d have the chance to humiliate me in front of the entire class.

  Now everyone was looking at me. Okay, maybe that was an exaggeration, but for sure the whispered talk I heard was about me, and without a doubt the hard poke someone gave me from behind was no accident. I couldn’t take it anymore. I thought I was going to pass out if I stayed a minute longer. My watery eyes made it look like everyone was
swimming, but I was the only one drowning.

  I got up while Simon was in mid-sentence. I couldn’t hear what he was saying anymore. I couldn’t hear anything over the ocean-like roar in my head. Maneuvering as gracefully as one could in a stupid protective boot, I worked my way down rows of bleachers, not bothering with apologies to the people I pushed and shoved on my way to the gym floor. Everyone, Principal Fowler included, watched my escape.

  I didn’t ask permission to leave the assembly, I simply left, dashing through the metal exit doors as fast as my hobbled leg could carry me.

  I took refuge in the girls’ bathroom, locked inside a stall, blubbering like I was eight again. Eventually I ran out of tears, but I was still shaking. What were people saying about me? How would I face them again? Okay, don’t panic, I told myself. But I was panicking, my mind going a million miles an hour. Should I run away? Could I make it to Nebraska with what I have in my savings account? I don’t know how long I was in that stall, but it was long enough for the assembly to end. The quiet erupted into chaos as kids filled the halls and more than a few ended up in the bathroom with me.

  “OMG, did you see Maggie? Could she have gotten out of there any faster?”

  I knew the voice—Pam Epstein. Band kid. Not one of the meanies. But now even Sweet Pam was gossiping about me thanks to Simon. I checked my phone to see what kids were saying on social media.

  Sure enough, there were a few Snapchats about me, and even an Instagram post capturing my speedy departure (yes, they’d tagged me so I’d see it), but it was all pretty tame. I doubted that would last long. Kids would talk, and the story would grow from there. That’s how legends were born.

  I opened Talkie, the new social media thing. Talkie was a good place for me to go online, a safe space where I could track the happenings of celebrities and athletes who got tired of Twitter. Today I wanted to see what, if anything, was being said about me.

  When I logged in, I saw that I had a new Talkie to Me, which is what Talkie called friend requests. It came from a person named Tracy Nuts. My heart stopped. I couldn’t think straight. Everything was spinning super fast, and it felt like I was both falling and floating. I couldn’t breathe. The bathroom began to spin. I was sure I was going to get sick. My whole body started to tingle.