"I'm sure she's a good nurse but..." Her eyes slide from mine and back to the counter.
"Just say it, Mom."
"She's always gotten you into trouble."
"I'm not sixteen. Do you think that I'm so susceptible to someone's influence that I would just, what? That I would run off and forget about my kids? Forget about my responsibilities? Be reasonable. Would it kill you to try to think of her as an adult?"
My mother bites her lip. "No, I suppose not," she says without much conviction. I can already tell that it will be an uphill battle to have her warm to Cassie. One more hurdle I don't want to deal with. "It's just that now, more than ever, you need to have some decorum. A widow needs to tread carefully and Cassie has never known how to do that."
I roll my eyes again and my mother shakes her head. Francine is from an old Southern family and times like these the old South most certainly comes out. I'm not even sure if she realizes how her chastising sounds barely three minutes after she tried to move Graham into my house. Fran most certainly likes to pick and choose. While her helpful meddling has ensured that both Charlie and Noah are quick with the use of "ma'am" and "sir," there are times when her interference can be much, much less beneficial. Paul was often exasperated by Fran and Steve and their well-meaning suggestions. Fortunately, he was from Virginia. Fran cut him a bit of slack because she assumed that being raised a Virginian must have given him at least a rudimentary understanding of the importance of manners.
I decide to drop the subject as my mother's frosted head dips back into the box to retrieve another mystery item. She's methodical in her organization, carefully folding the paper after she unwraps each object and placing it neatly in another already emptied box. She rinses dishes and dries them before stacking them neatly in the upper cabinets. I, on the other hand, have been going for speed and am now standing knee-deep in discarded packing peanuts, bubble wrap, and wads of paper.
"I'm going to take a break." I stretch my arms up over my head. My back and neck are going to be less than happy with me when I crawl into bed tonight. "Maybe I'll see if Dad needs a beer."
"Only one. He's technically in charge of the children."
I reach into the fridge, pull out two brown bottles, and try unsuccessfully to hide mine behind my back. My mother hands me the bottle opener from her section of the kitchen counter.
"Don't even pretend you aren't having one yourself," she chastises. "I am aware you like to drink beer with your daddy."
I shrug and slide past her, nearly running to the safety of the living room and the sound of my father still softly cursing. I settle myself on the couch and put my feet up on the coffee table. While not everyone would be so happy to be within walking distance of their parents, I know that for the boys this is the best possible place to be. I'm willing to be flexible for a while with my independence if it means we have a support system. In Virginia I had Paul's brother David, but he could never give me the kind of unwavering help that my retired parents can.
My father peeks his head from around the back of the massive TV. I can now see why he needs Graham's strong back to help him get the thing into position. There's no way he can lift it over the fireplace alone. Even the two of us together would be a disaster in the making. He grins when he sees the beer I've brought him, the bottle currently leaving a sweat ring on my old coffee table.
"Should we get a few coasters?" he asks me when he spies the telltale mark.
"What's a coaster?" I ask innocently.
"You had better not let your mother hear you talking like that." My father gives me a wink and we clink the tops of our bottles together.
"Yeah, what's a coaster?" Noah squeaks from inside a nearby box.
His brother begins to repeat the word over and over again. "Coaster, coaster, coaster, coaster. Like roller coaster? Daddy liked those," Charlie volunteers. "And those," he adds, pointing to my beer.
"Yes, he did." I think of Sunday afternoons curled up on the couch with Paul, his hands cold from the condensation of the bottle, his smile warm as he watched Noah and Charlie. This house will certainly be missing that.
My father tenses at the mention of Paul. He still hasn't figured out the best way to handle two small fatherless boys and a widow. "What about your daddy's tools? Who can help me with those?" Both boys pop their heads out of the box. They know nothing about the tools Paul kept in the garage. So much of his stuff still sits mainly untouched. The boxes labeled "Paul" will most likely stay where they land for a while.
"Do you think he had a masonry drill bit?" my father asks hopefully.
"Even if I knew what that was and even if he did, I would have no idea where in these piles of junk it might be," I confess.
"I have one at home," my father volunteers. "I can bring it with me next time I come over. I'll prop the TV up against the hearth if you think it can survive those two over there." He gestures to the two dark heads bobbing in the cardboard box. "Then, if I can get Graham over here, I can get it up on the wall. If that's okay, I mean." He avoids eye contact.
"It’s fine, Daddy. Graham can come with you. We're friends. There were never any hard feelings. It just didn't work out." I don't feel the need to tell my parents about everything with Graham, but it isn't a lie to say we're still friends. Being home will test how friendly we can actually be, of course, but there really are no issues. Not yet, at least. Hopefully we can navigate how to be around each other more frequently without too much friction, especially if my parents are going to keep inserting themselves into things.
"As long as you're comfortable with it. I don't want to give you the chance to break his heart again." He's only half joking.
"I didn't break his heart, Daddy. It was a mutual decision."
"If you say so, but you didn't waste much time getting over it. You can see how that looked to your mother and me. And Graham didn't seem too happy for it to be 'mutual'."
We've had this conversation before. Predictably, my parents always choose Graham's version of events over mine. He spent a lot of time crying on my father's shoulder, apparently. There will never be any way to convince my father that Graham Stevens was in any way in the wrong.
"Whose heart did you break, Mommy?" Charlie asks. I've forgotten about the large ears parked in the cardboard box.
"A big football player!" my father interjects. "Can you believe that?" He demonstrates the surprise he expects the boys to mirror back to him.
"Don't do that, Dad!" I scold. "I didn't break anyone's heart." I direct this final remark to Charlie and Noah who watch intently, their eyes barely blinking as they try to process the idea of their own sweet mommy breaking some imaginary football player's heart. I can almost see the image of myself standing over an enormous cartoon man in a jersey and pads complete with helmet as I squeeze the life out of his animated heart. They certainly aren't thinking of Graham, the almost uncle they watch on Monday Night Football.
"Oh, your mother broke all sorts of hearts. I used to have to beat the boys away with a stick!" My father is trying to lighten the mood here and throw them off the trail but I know I will be explaining this expression multiple times over the next few days. Charlie and Noah sink back into their fort and the whispers begin immediately.
Thanks, I mouth. My father smirks and shrugs his shoulders. Maybe moving back home wasn't such a good idea after all.
4
Zach
I'm elbow deep in receipts and bills when I hear the front door open. The sound of the bell has me looking up and readjusting the papers in front of me. I'm not expecting anyone, but it isn't unusual for a parent to stop by with a question or for one of my private clients to be in the neighborhood. But today when I look up it isn't the face of a buddy or a parent who I see walking in, it's Abbey. My ex-wife.
"Zach?"
I'm sure she can see me standing at the counter, but she always likes to make an entrance. She's dressed in what she would consider her "work clothes" although the neckline of her shirt is a little low
to be considered professional. The skirt is on the tight side and she's tottering on a pair of heels so high I'm amazed she can walk in them. I'm sure they cost more than my mortgage payment.
I haven't seen Abbey in months but she still walks in like she owns the place. Which in a way she does because thanks to our divorce she's the lucky owner of half of my pride and joy. She scans the room and I can almost see the imaginary dollar amounts stamped on the equipment as she walks toward me. She's plastered on one of her sweetest smiles, but I keep my face stony. She's not here because she wants me to smile. Abbey only comes around when she wants me to suffer.
"Abbey." I go back to my receipts. She hates it when I ignore her so I do just that. There's a vindictive part of me that can't pass up the opportunity. She's been ignoring all the business-related emails I send her, probably not even opening them, so I'm only returning the love.
Abbey leans a hip against the counter and slides off her giant sunglasses. She's close enough that I can smell the perfume she wears. It's not the kind she wore when we were together; she would never wear that "cheap shit" now. Now she'll only spritz herself with something that costs enough to impress. But at least that means when she leans in close she doesn't smell like the woman I married. Instead I get a whiff of something closer to an aging trophy wife. It suits her.
"Doing the books?" She lets her eyes slide over the information on the papers in front of me. "I guess you are still using your brain every now and then."
"I didn't spend all that time selling my soul to the gods of finance to pay someone else to balance my checkbook." I grind the words out. She's barely said anything and already I'm defensive.
"God. Always so dramatic. I'm sure it really sucked making decent money, wearing actual pants, and not getting punched in the face all day."
I look up in time to see her scowl. I almost can't stand to look at her, even now when I've had years to get myself together. She's wearing more make-up than she used to, but it's still the face of the woman I used to love. I used to kiss those lips, run my fingers over the bump on the bridge of her nose. Maybe my Abbey's still in there somewhere. Maybe if I knocked on her forehead or whispered in her ear the girl I fell in love with would come back. I would love to see that girl again instead of the person here preparing to torment me. She blinks and I come back to myself.
"What can I do for you, Abbey? I'm sure you didn't come all the way over here just to watch me pay the bills."
"Of course not." She's still looking around, her eyes settling on the kids' drawings I have posted all over the wall behind me. Her mouth curls up in disgust. "Do you hang up every pitiful drawing those kids give you?"
"Yep." I give her the one-word answer that deserves.
"And no one calls you out on your obvious issues? No one worries that you're going to snatch one of their kids so you can try your hand at being a daddy?"
And there it is. Shots fired. I take a deep breath and remind myself not to take the bait. It's taken me a long time to be able to let things like that roll off my back and Abbey knows my soft spots. She thinks nothing of taking advantage of them, putting her fingers in the tender places and digging deep. It's getting harder and harder to remember why I ever loved her in the first place.
From the beginning she knocked me on my ass. She was smart and beautiful, sure, but she was also funny. And I got it in my head that she was as crazy about me as I was about her. I was easy prey. She smiled and I followed her around like a puppy ready to pee all over the floor. She said jump and I didn't even ask how high, I just started jumping. Looking in my rearview, I can see how things started to get out of control, how the relationship was one-sided. But in real time? I didn't notice that Abbey didn't do much jumping. Eventually, she wasn't even pretending to jump.
I should've seen that coming. Even when we were dating Abbey wasn't ever really satisfied. She wanted more. And what was wrong with a little ambition? That was what I asked my parents after they met her and gave their resounding disapproval. But I pushed ahead anyway, stubborn to get my way. And I'm still paying for it.
Abbey shifts her weight and presses her other hip against the counter. For anyone else I would round up a chair, offer to move to a place where we could sit. Not for Abbey. I don't want her here any longer than necessary and I certainly don't want to make her comfortable, especially now that she's insulting me.
"You drove over here to remind me that we never got around to having any kids?" I try not to give her the satisfaction of seeing that old hurt flash across my face. I know now to count my blessings.
Abbey smiles. "No, I wouldn't come over here to endure the smell of this place just for that." She wrinkles her nose for emphasis. "I came over here to offer you a deal." For a second I'm interested. Abbey's a nightmare as a business partner and I'd love to buy her half of the business. "I'm getting rid of my car and I wanted to give you the right of first refusal."
"The BMW? You're getting rid of it?" That was not what I was hoping to hear.
"Yeah, time for an upgrade and Jonathan suggested I check with you to see if you wanted to buy it. After all, you do love that car." She stretches out his name, making sure I get to hear it for a full three seconds. I'm pretty sure Jonathan knows absolutely nothing about her coming here today and even less about this offer.
"Buy it?"
"I'd let you have it for the Blue Book value. I've taken good care of it so you'd be getting a deal."
"I already bought that car once, Abbey. And for the record, I never loved it." Inside I'm seething. She's come here to see if I want to pay her again for something I've already bought her. A car I could barely afford at the time but that she insisted on. A car I've driven less than a dozen times because five minutes after she had the keys, she left me. "Thanks, but no thanks. There's only one thing I'm interested in buying from you. You know that."
"Oh, that's not for sale. I wouldn't sell my part in this thriving local business." She puts the emphasis on thriving to make sure I'm in on the joke. "The car's available though. If money's tight we could work something out. You could pay month to month." Abbey blinks innocently. "Otherwise, I'll just trade it in. I'm looking at one of the new Range Rovers."
A Range Rover? Jesus. "Yeah, I'm not interested in making monthly payments on something I've already paid off once. If that's all you came here for then you can go ahead and leave. I'm sure you have meetings or something."
"There is a money issue, then? I told you this place would be a financial pit. You would think someone who actually worked with other people's money would be a little smarter with his own, but... Not like you could buy me out anyway." She shakes her head. Abbey hated the idea of me opening this place. Hated the kids, hated the sweat, but above all hated that it made me happy. Brawlers don't get invited to join the country club and I made myself one on purpose. And then I went behind her back to make the business happen. She would love to see me fail.
"Your checks keep coming, don't they? You sure as hell cash them." I can feel the tightness starting in my chest. Fighting with her wears me down even on the best of days. She's relentless and her animosity is as strong today as it was the day our divorce finally went through. I go back to my pile of paper. "Did you look at the stuff I sent you about the space on Woodmont?"
"Hmmm. No."
"It's a great spot for another location. Classes here are full. We could open another studio and increase all those profits you keep saying you care about."
Abbey pretends to think for a second. "No. We're not going to do that."
My jaw clenches. How in the hell is Abbey still in charge of me? "Then don't let the door hit you on your way out."
"Spoken like a true gentleman." She doesn't move toward the door, even though I'm willing her to with every ounce of energy I've got. She's not done just yet. She's given me a few months reprieve so she's probably enjoying this more than usual. Despite her screaming declarations that she couldn't wait to get away from me when we were divorcing, I'm Abbey's best
bet if she needs to make herself feel superior. Old habits die hard, I guess.
I motion toward the door with a jerk of my head. "Out you go." I'm acting tougher than I feel. Inside, my stomach's a mess, threatening to revolt any minute. The pinpricks of frustration fan out along my neck and I reach around to rub them away. It's a tell and Abbey sees it right away. A slow smile creeps across her face.
"I guess I should get going. Off to use that fancy education."
I ball my hands at my sides to keep myself from reminding her that I know just how fancy her education is. I paid for that, too. Yet another "investment in the future" that has managed to benefit only Abbey. I only grunt in reply, not trusting myself to keep things civil. She would love an outburst. That would give her something to talk about when she retells this story over drinks with her girlfriends. Just another example of why she had no choice but to get out while she could. One more excuse to justify how she did it.
When she pushes the door open again, the tinkle of the bell floods me with relief. Just a few seconds more and she'll be out of my line of vision and out of my life again, at least until her next bout of malicious feelings leaves her with no one to harass. She turns one last time as she repositions her ridiculous sunglasses. "Always good to see you, Zach." She dips her head slightly and for a spilt second I can see the old Abbey again. But it only lasts an instant and then the cold, angry woman from earlier is back in full force. "Your loss on the car."
Ain't that the truth.
I count to five slowly, making sure she's out of the parking lot before I make my way to the door and turn the bolt. I can feel the irritation rising up, turning into something harder and more dangerous. It's an old pattern that Abbey easily triggers. I abandon the receipts—there's no way I can concentrate on numbers now. I need to numb the burning behind my eyes that's threatening to turn this entire day to shit. I reach for the gloves instead and commit myself to beating the crap out of the nearest punching bag.
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