Rob looked up. “Tacos? Again?”
Phoebe ignored this. The kitchen cupboards had just been ripped out and the stove stood alone against one bare wall. It was the only one-pan, low-mess meal she knew the kids would eat and she had the energy for.
“Can I update you on the renovation budget, please?”
“Not now,” he replied. “Wasn’t exactly a good day at work.” Phoebe glanced at her husband’s slumped posture at the table. He was surrounded by boxes of toys that were in a constant state of being repacked and moved from room to room, as they cleared spaces for the workers. Rob looked like the house: unkempt and beat down. She felt bad for him, trying to work in such conditions and being under pressure at his job. But it hadn’t exactly been a great week here at the house, either.
“We can talk after dinner,” she allowed. What was the difference?
At dinner the boys were loud and chatty, per usual, seemingly oblivious to their parents’ tension. Phoebe was at least grateful for that. She waited until they’d finished and gone back upstairs to play.
“You know, I think we may be getting over what we allotted for.”
Rob was pushing the tacos around on his plate, not really eating. As he explained over dinner, the presentation at work hadn’t gone so well, and the clients were holding out for a new approach.
“Honey?” she asked, when he didn’t reply.
Rob blinked. “What?”
“I was talking about the budget.” She regarded him softly, noting the deep recesses under his eyes.
“What about it?”
“Well, the sill work put us back, as you know. But we’d already dipped into the excess funds for the kitchen.”
Rob had set his fork down with a clatter. “Phoebe. I can’t do this right now. Is there something specific you need to tell me, or is this something you can perhaps figure out with Dave and loop me in on tomorrow? Because I have twelve hours to redo this entire pitch, and I haven’t a damn idea how to start.”
It was completely unlike him. Phoebe lost her cool all the time. But not Rob. “Forget it,” she said, standing up. “You’re right. I’ll figure it out with Dave.” She began gathering the kids’ plates.
Rob reached over and put his hand on her arm. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to snap.”
Phoebe stilled. “I know. The timing isn’t good.”
Rob ran a hand roughly through his hair. “Well, it never really is. So, what is it you need to tell me?”
Phoebe waffled. Rob deserved to know the truth. Besides, it would be worse if she told him later. Just rip off the Band-Aid, she thought.
“Dave called yesterday.” She paused. There was a loud thud overhead.
Rob didn’t seem to notice. “And?”
From upstairs there was a yelp by one of the boys. Followed by a beat of silence. Phoebe and Rob looked up at the ceiling in unison. Either the boys would return to their play, or someone would begin to howl.
“Mom-eee!” It was Jed.
Phoebe groaned. “I’ve got it,” she said, heading for the stairs.
Patrick met her at the landing with a guilty look. “What happened?” she barked. What she really wanted to do was scream. Their timing was without fail.
Jed appeared on the steps behind his brother, holding out his hand. “He twisted my fingers. They’re broke.”
Patrick scowled. “He took my truck!”
“Broke!” Jed sobbed, waving his hand in the air.
“Time-out.” Phoebe pointed Patrick to the bottom step and scooped up Jed. “They’re notbroken, baby,” she said, trying to soothe him. “Let’s get you some ice.” By that point both boys were crying.
Rob didn’t even look up when she carried blubbering Jed through the dining room and into the kitchen. He was back on his laptop, his dinner plate shoved aside like their unfinished conversation. “Have you seen my charger?” he called after her.
