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Olive looks around the table, the iPad tucked under her arm. Her headphones rest around her neck. “What are you talking about?”
“Do you want to invite Max over for dinner again tonight?” I offer my arms, and Olive climbs onto my lap. My body tingles, like it wants to shed my skin.
“Can he come alone? That lady he came with was weird.”
“Why was she weird, honey?”
“She didn’t eat any croutons. Why? That’s the best part.”
“It’s a fair point,” Cam says, turning his hand over.
“Mom, can you stop hugging me so I can watch more of my iPad?”
“Sure.” I kiss her cheek, and she wipes it away. Olive climbs off my lap and goes to her corner, placing the headphones back over her ears.
Will she be mad she didn’t meet him sooner? Will she be able to forgive me, or will she think I didn’t fight hard enough for Max, that I gave up too soon?
“Was his girlfriend being weird?” Cam asks.
“Yes, a little. It was a weird situation. Is weird. Olive is a mini Max.” I cradle my phone in my hand. “I should call him.”
“What is he doing, just hanging out at the tiny house?”
I shrug. “Not sure. Noelle’s car was gone this morning. Maybe they went somewhere together.”
“Just call him. Be brave,” Annie says. Her hand rests on her pulsating bump.
“Okay. I’ll do it.” I walk away from the table and find his number in my phone. Looking back, I notice my entire family focusing back on the reports instead of watching me. When I put my phone to my ear, it rings a few times and goes to voicemail.
My heart clinches, but I shake it off. His car was still there, right? So what if he’s out and about, taking in the sights with Noelle? I have a good phone number, and he seems interested in being in Olive’s life. However, the devastation from his first desertion lingers, and I bite my lip.
I turn and hold up my phone. “Voicemail.”
“He’ll call back,” Mom says, standing up. “Let’s open.”
The rest of my family follows her into the hallway, where our respective offices are. My daughter still sits in the corner, holding the tilted iPad with both hands, unaware that I just called her father. A man she has already met.
The anxiety creeps into the pit of my stomach as I join her at the table.
Max
“Are you having a nice relaxing week? Did you call Noelle?” my mother asks me over the phone.
“She came,” I say, then pause. I brace for my mom’s reaction. “We broke up.”
My mom’s shrill “What!” fractures my eardrum. “How did this happen? What happened? I thought you were going to propose to her!”
“What made you think that?”
“Noelle was so sure. We talked about it when we got lunch a week or two ago…”
A headache manifests in the middle of my forehead. Somehow, my mother and Noelle clicked and saw each other regularly without me. I’ve had to pick them up from one too many boozy brunches they went to while my dad and I watched football.
“We’re not on the same page,” I say.
“Maxwell, you are thirty-five years old. It’s time to settle down. The community will respect you if you have a beautiful wife by your side. Why are you dragging your feet? Noelle is perfect. I’m sure you can get her back, tell her you changed your mind…”
I grumble. The “community” she’s speaking of is the La Jolla elite, full of thrice-divorced older men who chase after twenty-year-olds and women so unhappy with their marriages they complain to the dental hygienists all day.
