“You don’t have to get so?—”
“You want to know how I am?” I interrupted and dropped down a step to glare at him face-to-face. “If I’m happy or some bullshit like that? Which is it? You hope I’m doing fine without you, or so broken I can hardly function? You want to hear that I can’t use fabric softener anymore because I remember how it smelled on your skin? Or how I found one of your shirts misplaced with my things and slept in it for a week? Or how I’m living out of the guest room now because I can’t bring myself to sleep in our bed? Is that what you want to hear?”
His mouth opened and closed, suddenly unsure in the face of such brutal, devastating honesty.
I’d never spoken to him this way. Our fights had always been mild, passive-aggressive spats that cleared themselves up after a few hours or days of silent treatment. Even when Danny had confessed his infidelity, we hadn’t had a knockdown, drag-out fight. I’d mostly been too sad.
But that wasn’t to say we didn’t know how to hurt one another. You couldn’t spend so much of your life with someone without knowing the sensitive spots, the places that bruise the easiest. After some conversations with my therapist, I could see now that Danny had withheld affection—something that had always been important to me.
In the months we’d been apart, I’d foolishly hoped for a moment like this. One where he cared enough to ask after me, to maybe miss me a little. But now that it was here, I saw it for what it was—manipulation. And for the first time since we’d separated, I didn’t think I wanted my husband back.
Maybe I wasn’t happy ... yet. But I hadn’t been happy before either. My fingertips had forgotten the feel of his skin long before he’d put his on someone else.
Plus, I’d been lonely and depressed. Too focused on keeping the peace when I should have been demanding more for myself. More love, more time, more attention. And a husband who was faithful.
The realization knocked the wind out of my sails. My shoulders curved inward as grief struck me anew.
Finally, I said, “Leave me alone, Danny. I came with you tonight because your mother is one of the best people I’ve ever known. Not because I want to be friends with you and hang out in the driveway and chat. You wanted this. Now let me move on.”
Danny swallowed hard and held his hands up in surrender. Hands that would always be a little grease-stained from his work. Hands that had held me and loved me. And then lost me, too.
My ex-husband retreated. After a few steps backward, he cast one last pained look in my direction and then climbed into his car and left.
I stumbled into the house as tears forced themselves down my cheeks. Collapsing on my bed, I grieved the unfairness of life, the family I’d lost. And then I mourned the end of my marriage, the way I should have months ago.
nine
JACK
“Okay, girls,” Brady said to the intent little faces staring back at him. “Just play your game. Keep your shape out there and remember to make smart passes. Use the whole field and give each other room to move. I know it’s tempting to race down every ball, but trust your teammates. They’ll have your back.”
The girls nodded.
It was a bright Saturday morning, the last weekend in September, and the Brookline U9 girls’ team was up against the Vultures from Lake Archer. Jamie and Gia had already been complaining about their opponents, saying they cheated and liked to play rough, always swooping in and scoring in the final few minutes, so there wouldn’t be a chance for a comeback.
Brady had been good at changing the direction of the conversation, painting a positive spin on teamwork, and settling the girls before their first game.
“Hands in,” I said.
Nine little hands stacked on top of mine, and I resisted the urge to smile at their determined expressions combined withglittery hairspray and French braids. Jamie had been right. The Magnolia Bar logo made for a nice jersey. The kids looked ready to go.
After our cheer, I consulted my clipboard and the starting lineup Brady and I had worked on. Gia lingered in front of me, the pale blue bow on the back of her head taking up a lot of real estate.
“I just want to say,” she informed me, “that the man-bun was clearly the right call.”
“Yes!” came a chorus of tiny squeals.
“It looks great, Coach Jack.” Jamie gave me a thumbs-up.
I fidgeted, pushing my glasses up my nose, uncomfortable with the attention.
Brady’s eyes scanned my hair and the strands that had been gathered into a short bun just above my nape. “Man, I’m jealous. My hair grows out all flat. I could never pull that off.”
I rolled my eyes and focused on calling out the lineup. When the seven starters had taken the field, I glanced over to the sideline where the parents and spectators were gathered.
My little practice crashers, Jacob and Charlie, were sitting beneath one of the trees lining the sidewalk. They seemed to be watching covertly, and I wondered at that.
Then, my eyes caught on Bonnie. She was dragging a cooler behind her and following her sister, who had two camp chairs slung over her shoulder.
