I lean back against my car, listening as Fiona tells us about her latest fight with her husband.
“Over socks! I mean, can you even believe that shit? All I did was ask him to pick the filthy things up off the floor and put them in the hamper instead of in front of the damn thing.”
“Ugh, Trey did the same thing, so I thought, you know what? Fuck him. And started leaving them there, unwashed. He’s a quick learner, thankfully.” Lola smirks, and we laugh.
“Thank God my cleaner does our laundry because there’s no way in hell I’m touching them. Just seeing them lying around is bad enough.” Fiona’s eyes flick to me. “How’s Leo? Has he been driving you mad? God, it feels like forever since we all hung out together as a group.”
It has; the last time was at her and Dylan’s anniversary party. Our husbands, even with their differing career choices, all get along really well, which is great when we all want a night out. I lift my shoulders in a shrug, deciding to dodge the question as best as I can. “I’m just so used to him now that I guess nothing fazes me.” The lie slips past my lips so easily that Lola’s eyes narrow on me.
But I don’t want Fiona to know all about our dirty laundry, excuse the pun. It’s not that I don’t trust her, but the more people who know, the more chance of others finding out about our sham of a marriage. And if he refuses to divorce me, then I’m not about to make waves when I’ll still be here to endure the fallout.
“Anyway, what’s up with those new school hats they’re trying to bring in? What the hell was wrong with the old ones?” I change the subject.
Fiona groans. “Right? Have you seen them? They’ll all look like mini tennis players. Ridiculous.”
Lola laughs. “I think they’re kind of cute, but I definitely prefer the other ones. I swear, they’re just bored and looking for ways to make us spend more money.”
“You’re not wrong there.” Fiona sighs then her eyes zero in on my neck, and she steps forward, slapping my arm. “Oh, you little tramp, you still let Leo give you hickeys?”
Fuck. I quickly try to hide it with my hair. I almost forgot about it, and that makes me panic because if I haven’t been careful, then maybe Leo’s seen it, too.
“Uhhh,” I stutter as Lola’s eyes widen so much that I think she’s about to fall backward. “Yeah, sometimes,” I force out with a nervous giggle.
Fiona just grins, nudging me with her elbow. “You lucky thing. I can’t remember the last time Dylan gave me a hickey, the bastard.”
That has me frowning. I knew those two liked to fight more than what is considered normal, but she seems a little more upset with him than usual.
To deflect and because I’m curious, I ask, “Everything okay? With Dylan?”
Her eyes flit away for a brief second—so quick, I almost miss it.
“Yes, fine. He’s just been in a mood thanks to his latest client at work. I can’t wait till it’s all finalized,” she says before turning to look across the parking lot as the bell rings and kids start to pour out of the giant, old wooden doors.
Her husband works in marketing if I remember correctly. God, I’ve been trapped underneath my own problems for so long that I’m afraid I’ll forget someone’s birthday. I make a quick note of the date as the kids run up to us. Lola pinches my arm when Fiona turns toward her boys.
“Ouch. What was that for?” I rub my arm.
“You’ve got some explaining to do.” She glares.
Damn it, I know. And there’s no way she’s going to believe what I want her to, that Jared didn’t give me the stupid hickey.
“Okay.” I sigh. “Tomorrow, though? I’ve got orders to send out on my way home.” It’s true. But I also want some time to wrap my head around what to tell her and prepare myself for the inevitable lecture that’s coming my way.
Fiona turns and waves goodbye, heading over to her car.
“Right after school drop-off. My place,” Lola says before opening the door for Sophie to climb into their car.
Sucking in a deep breath, I kiss both kids on the head, grab their bags, and help them into the car before making my way to the post office.
“Rupert said a naughty word today at recess, Mommy,” Greta says solemnly after we’re back in the car. My phone chirps with a text in my purse as I finally pull out of the parking lot and follow the long line of cars down the road. I ignore it; I’ll check it when I get home.
“Shut it. It’s none of your business, Greta,” Charlie hisses.
“Is too!”
“Is not,” he growls.
“Is too, is too,” she sings.
“Okay! Enough.” I flick my turn signal on before turning down our street. “What happened?”
“I can’t repeat it,” Greta gasps. “Then I’ll get in trouble.”
I see Charlie rolling his eyes in the rearview mirror. “He said his dad called his mom a slut. There. That’s it. I said it,” he huffs.
Oh, my God. I don’t know whether to tug my mom cap down extra tight and give him a stern talking-to for repeating it or let out the shocked laughter that’s begging to be set free.
I settle on a fucked-up combo of both.
“Charlie,” I croak. “Thank you for … for …” For what? Repeating something he shouldn’t have? But how else would he tell me? “Yeah, just don’t say that word. It’s pretty horrible, ‘kay?” I pull into the driveway, waiting for the garage door to go up when he mutters, “Whatever. I wasn’t going to, but you wanted to know.”
“Thanks, smarty pants.” I drive in and turn the ignition off.
“Is Rupert okay?” I turn around and ask.
He shrugs, taking his seat belt off. “I guess, he was just telling everyone about the fight his parents had last night. I think he thought it was funny.” He climbs down and shuts the door.
“Hey! You forgot your bag,” I grumble as he walks inside the house.
“He didn’t seem sad,” Greta says when I help her out. “Rupert just likes to tell stories. Henry, though, he looked a little annoyed.” She gets her bag and runs inside.
Not my business, not my business, I repeat to myself as I grab my purse and Charlie’s bag then head inside. Because yeah, I don’t really want Fiona’s boys describing their parents’ arguments in detail, but I know if I say something, I’ll either offend Fiona or embarrass her. Fine lines, I tell you. I unpack the kid’s lunch boxes and bags before remembering I need to check my phone.
I almost drop it when I unlock the screen and see who the text is from.
Jared: Blondie, are you okay?
Jared: Don’t freak out. I called myself from your phone while you were in the bathroom.
It’s hard to believe it’s only been two days since I ran out of the hotel like my ass was on fire. I don’t know if it’s a good idea for him to have my number, but I can’t bring myself to tell him to delete it either. It’s official—I’m a mess.
I tap out a response …
Me: I’m okay. Thanks for checking in.
I lock my phone, hoping that was sufficient enough to curb any more questions. It chirps again, and I bite my lip. Okay, apparently not.
Jared: You have amazing tits ;)
I burst out laughing in the middle of my kitchen.
“What’s so funny, Mommy?” Greta comes running in, opening the fridge to grab a yogurt. I tuck my phone away in my purse, watching her peel the lid off and attempt to throw it in the trash can by the end of the counter. The yogurt underneath it makes it stick to the top of the trash can, though.
“Nothing. One of my friends just sent me a funny message.” I kind of lie and grab a wipe to peel the yogurt lid from the trash can and wipe up the smear.
“I can’t wait till I have a cell phone. I’m gonna send you funny messages all the time,” she declares as she grabs a spoon and digs straight into the small tub. A bit dribbles over her lip as she says, “You have a nice laugh, Mommy.”
She says it as if she’s aware I rarely laugh—real laughter—anymore.
My brows lower as she walks out of the kitchen. I don’t want my children to look back and remember me as some seriously sad woman who merely went through life, doing what she had to do each day.
My heart clenches painfully. That reminds me of my own mother.
I help the kids with their homework then clean up the living room and move a load of laundry from the washer to the dryer before we sit down and have dinner. Again, no sign of Leo.
I’m cleaning up after dinner, the kids already in bed, when I finally hear his car parking in the garage. I can’t help but notice how long it takes him to get out of it and come inside. That stings—like he has to muster up the courage to come inside and see his own family. The people who love him.
I wipe my hands on a dish towel and pretend to browse the contents of the fridge when he walks into the kitchen. He doesn’t even kiss me on the head, one of the only ways he’ll touch me anymore. Anger starts to drown out that ever-growing pool of hurt in my stomach.
“How was your day?” I ask bluntly, closing the fridge door and startling when I see him leaning against the kitchen counter, watching me—actually looking at me.
He shrugs. “Can’t complain. Have you bought a dress yet?”
My brows furrow. “What for?”
He scratches at the stubble on his jaw, and I want so desperately to run my own nails down it. To touch him anywhere, everywhere.
“The charity gala is coming up next weekend.”
Shit. “Oh,” I reply dumbly. “Sure, I’ll grab one next week.”
“The kids in bed?” he asks, straightening his six-foot-two frame from the counter.
I nod. “Yeah, just before you pulled in.”
“I have some calls to make, so tell them I’ll be up in a minute,” he says before leaving the room and turning for what I’m guessing is his office.
Ugh, I hate going to events in the best of times. Having to make small talk with pompous assholes and two-faced women is not my idea of fun. But it’s even worse now. Now that I know my husband probably isn’t going to help make it any more bearable for me.
Blowing out a breath, I head upstairs and tuck Greta in, letting her know that Daddy will be up soon. I then go into Charlie’s room to do the same.
When he doesn’t respond, I take a seat on the bed next to him.
“Did you hear me?” I ask.
He nods, staring up at the ceiling. “You and Daddy don’t ever fight anymore.”
My eyes widen, but what did I think would happen? That the kids wouldn’t pick up on the tension and silence that now fills their once happy home?
“Um, well …” I try to think of what to say.
“Henry and Rupert’s parents fight all the time lately, but you guys don’t fight at all. You don’t …” He stops and swallows. “You’re just … different.”
Tears gather in my eyes as I look down at my confused little boy.
“I know, buddy.” It’s all I can say. I can’t lie to him—he knows better—and I have no explanations for him, not when I have none myself. I lie down next to him when he turns on his side, wrapping my arm around him and stroking his hair as he drifts off to sleep. Leo comes in a short while later but sees that he’s asleep and leaves the room.
I kiss Charlie’s head and leave to take a shower. Feeling emotionally drained and so damn over it all, I decide to grab my book and head to bed early. I run downstairs to grab my phone off the counter before turning off all the lights Leo won’t be using.
Just when I’m about to go back upstairs, he calls my name from his office, which sits opposite the stairs.
“Yes?” I ask, pausing on the stairs and setting the alarm on my phone for the next morning.
His voice sends ice skating through my veins when he says, “Make sure you get rid of that shit on your neck before next weekend.”