July 1, Wednesday
"JULY," Isaid, clicking a dry-erase marker like a starting gun. "Let's get organized."
My two teenagers were eating breakfast at the bar. Sixteen-year-old Lily didn't look up from her phone. "Mom, can you make my eggs less wet next time?"
"They're not wet, they're soft-scrambled. It's a technique."
"It's gross." She pushed away her plate. "And no more toast—you know carbs bloat me."
Fourteen-year-old Josh said nothing. He doesn't speak voluntarily before eight a.m. unless someone questions his Rocket League rank.
Tucker trotted through with his leash in his mouth and dropped it at my feet.
"Soon, buddy," I told him. "Lily, cheerleading day camp starts next week."
"Duh, Mom."
I started filling in the days. "Do you need rides every day or is Coach Brandi still doing the carpool?"
"Carpool, of course."
"Great. Josh, soccer—"
"Practice Tuesdays, games Thursdays and Saturdays," he mumbled.
"You're sure?"
He shrugged. "Coach put it in the group chat."
"You're in a group chat?"
Another shrug, which apparently was its own complete sentence.
I filled in the dates. "Can your dad take you to Saturday games?"
He frowned. "How should I know?"
I closed my eyes and counted to five. He was right—when Warren and I signed our divorce papers eleven weeks ago, I promised myself I wouldn't put the kids in the middle of the logistics of making our new family dynamic work.
Across the room, the local morning anchor's voice cut through the cacophonous sound of Josh refilling his enormous bowl with more cereal. "—and jury selection for the Blackthorne Syndicate trial is set to begin next week at the Fulton County courthouse, in one of the biggest organized crime cases the country has seen in years—"
I bit down on my lip. My jury summons was sitting on the counter, buried under a stack of mail I'd been ignoring. Next week was my week to report.
For a ridiculous half-second, I wondered what it would be like to get picked on a jury of such notoriety. Then I gave myself a mental pinch—there were dozens of trials going on at any given time in Atlanta… the chances of me being selected foranyjury were slim. They'd take one look at me and say, "Nah."
I turned back to the calendar, returning to Mom Mode. "Don't forget we have family therapy with Dr. Anders tonight. Six o'clock."
The kitchen went quiet. I braced myself for excuses.
"So, I'll be at the skate park," Josh said finally, to his cereal bowl. "And then on to Dad's."
"Your dad's supposed to be on the call, too."
"Not gonna happen," Josh said. "The World Cup knockout game will be on and he's got the eighty-inch screen now."
Of course he did. Everything about Warren's mid-life crisis was supersized.
I turned to Lily, who at least had the decency to wince.
