by Heidi Lowe
"Stop," I say, laughing. "It's just something simple. No attachments, just–"
"Sex. Yeah, I get it. You need someone to stroke the cat once in a while. Someone to sweep the carpet. Someone to declutter the attic."
I'm now laughing hysterically, tears in my eyes. "Sweep the carpet? Declutter the attic? Where did you get those from?"
"I'm just making them up as I go along," she chuckles. "You get the picture. Mama Kitchen found herself a f-u-c-k buddy."
I cringe a little. "Please don't call me that. She calls me that, and hearing it coming from you just sounds weird."
"Nicknames already? Nice," she says.
We talk briefly about Melanie and the arrangement, and I'm waiting for her to judge me, to tell me I'm doing something that's out of character. But she never does.
It's my own anxiety and inhibitions that make me question if what I'm doing is right, not hers.
"Do you think I'm crazy for doing this?" I blurt out in a moment of silence.
"No," she answers, without stopping to consider it. "We've all done it, Faye. You're not special," she says with a reassuring smile. "As long as you're both on the same page, I say go for it."
I don't know why it means so much that I get her approval, why it should even matter to me, but I instantly feel settled in my decision after hearing her give it.
"Your ex-wife is not happy, I can tell you that," she adds.
My smile and cheer vanish. We were doing so well leaving Nikki out of the conversation. Sooner or later, though, she always comes up.
"Why do you say that?" I ask, suddenly tense.
"I've had to listen to her all week bitching about the 'butch who was in her house' – her words."
Outraged, my mouth hangs open. "She said that? How dare she? This isn't her house, for starters. And who the hell does she think she is talking about Melanie to anyone?" I feel my blood boiling. What right does she have to complain?
Sandra laughs, obviously the only person able to see the funny side of this. "'I walk in and some random butch trots out of my living room, like she owns the goddamn place,'" Sandra says, doing a very good imitation of Nikki's voice, getting the pitch just right. It always goes up when she's angry. If I wasn't so angry myself I would laugh.
"I can't believe she said that to you. She's not some random butch." How disrespectful. If we're exchanging insults about each other's partners, I'd win in that battle any day. "Why does she even care?"
Sandra looks at me, her expression serious. "You know why."
I shake my head, frowning. "No, I don't."
"Sure you do," she says simply, takes a sip of her coffee, never taking her eyes off me.
"I really don't," I insist. "She wanted me to suffer and pine for her for the rest of my life, and hates that I'm moving on?"
She doesn't say anything, just finishes her drink then gets up to leave. Something has changed, but I don't know what it is.
"See you soon, Faye," she says, making her way to the door.
"Tell me," I say, following after her. She can't just leave without telling me why my ex-wife is being more of an asshole than usual. I'm sure I don't know why.
She turns back round to me, as she's on the doorstep, and says with a sad little smile, "She gets it now, Faye. It's finally hit her."
It's no use me pushing for her to elaborate, to decrypt her cryptic sentence. There's no need. I know what she's implying.
When I close the door behind her and wander back into the kitchen, thoughts that should be inhabited by the memory of my sordid afternoon are regrettably occupied by thoughts of Nikki.
I know Sandra is mistaken and is seeing what she wants to see. She wants to believe her friend is redeemable, isn't completely mad. But I know better. I have to believe that she's wrong about this. Because if she isn't... No, I won't entertain the idea.
Nikki gave up everything we built together for this new life. She'd better make damn sure she makes it work!
SIXTEEN
A friend with benefits is like the gift that keeps on giving. Melanie plays her part exceptionally.
It's a Saturday in the late morning and I've received my first naughty text of the day. I didn't think she would remember to send it, but she hasn't forgotten once in the six weeks that we've been seeing each other.
About to have breakfast of fresh fruit with the team. But I know what I would rather eat for breakfast...
I've read the message several times and blushed on each occasion. I should be used to it by now, seeing as she sends them several times a week. More now that she's out of the country with her swim team, taking part in some athletics tournament. I don't recall which one it is – they're all the same to me.
I sit on the edge of my bed and tap out a reply, delete it, then type something else. I've been thinking of something witty to respond with, but I'm just not that funny.
I finally settle on: And I wish I were there with you doing the breaststroke... You know how much I like that.
Just typing it seems naughty. I quickly hide the phone under my pillow when Emily comes skipping into my room, as though she could read the message and condemn me for it.
"Mommy, when does Mama get here?" she asks.
"Soon, sweetie. Five minutes, maybe."
"How many seconds is that?" she questions. She's at that age where she's trying to make sense of the world by applying everything she learns at daycare to her everyday life. It's pretty adorable.
I do a quick mental calculation. "Three-hundred."
She does one of her over-dramatic shrieks, eyes huge and wide. "That's a lot. That's forever."
"It's not. She'll be here soon. Why don't you draw her a picture while you wait, huh?"
She sighs, pushes out her lips in a pout. "Okay," she says and slinks back to her room.
I go downstairs, taking my phone with me in anticipation of Melanie's reply, which is bound to be dirtier than the first. As I'm passing the front door, I hear Nikki's voice outside. I go to open the door, but stop. She's on the phone, and from her tone, it's clear she's in the middle of an argument.
My body does battle with itself: One part wants to leave, while the other wants to stay and eavesdrop. It's the latter part that wins out, and I stand closer to the wooden door, my ear almost pressed to it.
"I told you to stop calling me. You know where I went, you know what I'm doing! Enough, Angel."
Hearing the name, my ears prick up. A domestic spat, and from what I've heard from Emily and Sandra, a regular occurrence. I can hardly contain my smile. Karma, Nikki, is a bitch. Just like the woman you married.
"I'll be home when I'm home, all right? But you need to stop calling me. It's pissing me off."
There's a beat, then she says, with a derisive laugh, "Why the hell would I invite you? You don't like children. You've made that pretty clear... Well she doesn't like you. And who can blame her? You're miserable and whiny around her... Okay, I'm hanging up now. I don't have to listen to this. Don't call back."
The bell sounds moments later. I don't answer immediately, because that would look too suspicious.
"Hi," she says, agitation still shrouding her tone. When she steps inside, her phone starts ringing. A quick glance at the screen makes her growl, then she switches it off. I don't see the screen, but I know it's Angel.
"Everything all right?" I say, with a casual air.
I'm expecting her to lie, to wear a mask, but instead she lets out a long sigh. "No. But that's life."
There are bags under her eyes, something that I keep noticing these days. Her skin has also broken out a little on her forehead. She probably hasn't been eating well. Stress, too. Her skin's really sensitive to greasy food and sugar. She used to break out all the time when she pulled all-nighters at the office, subsisting on takeout and snacks. But this isn't job-related stress. Sandra hasn't mentioned anything about any new, problem accounts, and she always looks a million dollars when I see her. This is an Angel problem: Marriage troubles.
/> "You don't look too good," I say.
"I haven't been sleeping well," she confesses.
"Or eating well, by the looks of it." She's lost weight, too. And not in a good way.
She offers me a sad smile, regards me with eyes that are missing much of the joy they used to possess. I try to think back to the last time I saw that in them, but can't.
"You always did know when I'd been pigging out on junk food."
"That stuff will kill you," I say absently, turning away from her. I can only look at her for a short time before the memory of every cruel act she's committed against me this past year comes rushing back. I can stomach her for only so long. It's gotten better, considering I couldn't bear to be within one hundred feet of her a few months ago.
"That's what happens when I don't have five-star cuisines for dinner every night."
I despise her for saying it, and so casually. At first. But then I realize, as I peer at her and see her shoulders slumped and the miserable look on her face, that she didn't say it for my benefit, but for hers. As though she's reprimanding herself.
Emily comes charging down the stairs then, thankfully, putting an end to the awkwardness.
"Don't run down the stairs, honey," Nikki and I say in unison.
Nikki takes her into her arms. It's so weird how much has changed in our lives, yet Emily is no less enamored with her mama. To her, Nikki is still her mother, and she loves her as much as she loves me. At one point, I would have done anything to change that. I can admit that now. In the early stages of the break up, I wished Emily hated her as much as I did. I was in a bad place. Now, I would never want to break the bond they share.
"Where are we going?" she asks, twisting her fingers through Nikki's hair. She's grown it out. I can't decide whether it's purposeful or simply that she can't be bothered to cut it.
"Well, first we're going to pick up Mya from Aunty Sandra's, then we're going to the indoor playground with the ball pit. And then for pizza. How does that sound?"
"Good."
"Maybe Mommy wants to join us?" Nikki says, and when I gawk at her she's smiling innocently. "If she doesn't have anything else to do."
"Uh, I..." What? I don't know what to say. I had planned to do a bit of window shopping, continue sexting my new lover, and just generally relax for my few hours of freedom. Why would she even make a suggestion like this? Okay, so things are less contentious between us – meaning I can look at her without wanting to wrap my hands around her neck and choke the life out of her. But an outing? Are we really ready for that?
"That's not a good idea," I say stiffly. No, we're not ready. And we probably never will be. There's no reason for us to spend time together ever again. Doesn't she understand that?
Nikki whispers something to Emily, who smiles and says, "Mommy, please come with us. Pretty please."
"That's not fair," I say, shooting a murderous look Nikki's way. She's using our daughter to get to me.
"Come on, you don't have to stay all day, you can leave if we bore you. It'll be fun. Like the old days, when we did things as a family."
"We're not a family!" My glare burns into her.
Her smile fades when she sees that she's annoyed me. I've brought her fantasy to a screeching halt. It's as if she's forgotten that we haven't been a family in months.
"Okay. Sorry I asked," she mumbles. Then she turns to Emily. "Should we go?"
Emily nods. I kiss her goodbye on the forehead, and stand at the door watching them load into the car. I'm still at the door as Nikki fixes Emily into her car seat.
A flash of a memory, a good one. A younger Emily, a happy family, two parents who can't get enough of each other. A kiss between them just for the sake of it, just because. Not a car commercial or a scene from a love story, but a genuine memory. That was once my reality, every day.
My heart aches as I watch them get ready to leave. We can't ever be like that again, but that doesn't mean I can't pretend for a day. I can shop alone any time. A couple of hours with them won't hurt.
"Wait!" I shout, waving a hand to get Nikki's attention just as she's about to reverse out of the driveway.
She rolls down her window and sticks her head out. "Did I forget something?"
"No. I've changed my mind. I'm coming with you. Give me five minutes."
She smiles, nods, and switches off the engine.
I don't know what I'm doing, but something just seems...right about it.
It's surreal being back in this car with her and Emily, formerly the Cox-Everetts – now just a broken unit that once was. Funny, anyone who sees us now and doesn't know we're divorced will think we're still happily married. That is, until they observe us for more than thirty seconds. After that point, it would become apparent that we've become strangers.
I don't ask her permission to switch on the radio, and she doesn't stop me. I click to Emily's favorite station – one geared towards kids, that plays clean pop music and jazzy, remixed nursery rhymes. A song she likes comes on and she squeals with delight, before singing along, getting the words completely wrong.
I chuckle quietly to myself before joining in. We stop at the traffic lights, and through the corner of my eye I see Nikki smiling as she watches me sing. The light changes again just as I turn to look at her, but she quickly averts her gaze back to the road and resumes driving.
I stop singing, look out the window instead, silently scolding myself for getting too comfortable. There's a wave of sadness that envelops me. Being in this car with them, doing the things we used to do, I have to remind myself that this image is false; this isn't my life.
Maybe I shouldn't have come.
Almost as soon as we pull up to the curb of Sandra's house, she and her niece step outside. Mya runs to the car, beaming from ear to ear. In the rear-view mirror, I see that Emily is wearing a similar smile, though hers has yet to lose as many milk teeth.
Nikki rolls down her window as Sandra approaches.
"Ten thirty you said," she says, glancing at an imaginary watch on her wrist. "She's been driving me crazy..." Her voice trails off when she sees me in the front passenger's seat, and I give her a little wave. She does a double take, visibly dumbfounded. "Am I seeing things? Faye, what are you doing here?"
I don't know myself, I muse. "I have a couple of hours spare."
This answer doesn't seem to satisfy her in the slightest, because she just looks between me and Nikki, stunned, eyebrows furrowed.
You're going to make a big deal out of it, aren't you? I think, dreading whatever comes out of her mouth next. She's going to make things even more awkward than they already are.
"Wow, you two in the same car..." She grins, and that grin is infinitely worse than anything she could ever say. There's...hope in it!
I groan loud enough that she can hear. So that everyone will know this bothers me. I'm about ready to storm out of the car in a fit of rage and catch the bus home. It infuriates me that she would still be hopeful, thinking that this outing is anything more than us trying to co-parent amicably for the sake of our daughter.
My bad mood lingers when we reach the indoor playground. The children waste no time kicking their shoes off and ditching us to get lost among the labyrinthine structure of climbing frames, super slides, and ball pits.
The place is teeming with children big and small. The din of childish screams of joy mixed with loud pop music makes it hard to have a conversation, or think. Nikki and I find a spot in the parents' lounge, from where we can grab something to eat while keeping an eye on Emily and Mya.
Nikki disappears to the food counter, and returns to our booth minutes later with two coffees and a couple of salmon and cream cheese bagels.
"I would have bought my own," I say, taking her offerings reluctantly, but thanking her anyway.
We drink and eat in silence for a couple of minutes, though I feel her eyes on me every now and then. I know it's only a matter of time before she starts making smalltalk.
"You look like y
ou don't want to be here," she says finally, aiming for casual, but the underlying frustration in her tone rings out.
"If I didn't want to be here I wouldn't have come," is my tart response.
"Is it really this hard for you to be around me?"
I sigh and roll my eyes. "I'm not doing this with you. Not here, and not now."
"What? It's just a question."
Instead of arguing with her, explaining that, no, it isn't just a question, I keep my mouth shut, and only open it to drink my coffee or eat my bland bagel.
After a moment, when she realizes I won't bite, she switches the subject.
"You always said you couldn't wait until Emily got old enough for us to take her here," she says, a smile in her voice. "Remember when we used to drive past it coming back from the farmer's market? Incidentally, I saw the old man we used to get our eggs from. I think he has Alzheimer's. He had no idea who I was."
"That's awful. I wondered what happened to him after he retired. The eggs from the man who bought his farm just don't taste the same."
She laughs. "I thought they were fine. But then again I'm not blessed with your superior culinary taste buds." She points at my bagel, which I've only managed to take a couple of small bites out of. "That bagel, for example, I think it's fine, but experience tells me you think it's bland."
Despite all my efforts to suppress it, a smile bursts forth. It's only a small one, though big enough for Nikki to see.
"She smiles!" she says, grinning, clearly pleased with herself.
"It doesn't take my 'superior culinary tastes' to know that something needs more salt. Honestly, I don't know how people eat this stuff."
I never used to complain about eating out, or about a lot of things, for that matter. I used to simply accept them as they were, and seek the positive in everything. It wasn't particularly difficult to do, either. But for months now, this fastidious, hard-to-please side of me has come out, and things that didn't use to bother me now do. I wonder if Nikki notices this transformation. I wonder if she knows she's the cause of it.