Page 7 of Her Ex-Husband's Brother

That’s the part I don’t tell Priscilla.

By the timeeight o’clock comes, the shop has had two more walk-ins and one booking for next week. Mack turns on the blues and doesn’t bother trying to talk. He knows what my bad days look like by now and doesn’t push. I appreciate this about him.

I don’t think today was a bad day, technically. Not like they used to be, anyway. This is what a bad day looks like now. Everything a little slower. It’s harder to get out of bed. Everything gets done, just with a little more difficulty. Or a lot.

Either way, it’s another day marked off on a calendar.

So what if I feel the distance between right now and the weekend like a vast, unending chasm?

I drive out to the RV park in the dark, the highway south of Austin doing its usual thing, which is existing as the longest drive in the world when you’ve just had a long day and a shorter distance when you’re not paying attention. I’ve been parked here two years, ever since I moved out of the house Priscilla’s parents own.

The RV is not what I thought it would be when I agreed to this arrangement. Priscilla’s parents gave it to me—they were buying a new one, and frankly, a ten-year-old RV was small change to them if it meant finally getting me out of their daughter’s life forever.

The old me would’ve been too proud to accept it. But after Owen got here…

Well, pride just doesn’t have a place anymore when you’re a parent. So I take it, park it here, pay my minimal bills, and try to keep my shit together.

I thought living in an RV would make my life feel transient and unstable. But somewhere in the first few weeks I startedfixing it up—replaced the light fixtures, put in proper shelving, got a decent mattress—and now it mostly just feels like somewhere I live. Small, yes. But also like something no one can take away from me.

I change and grab my gear, then head to the pool.

It’s dark and cold, the RV park mostly quiet. I can hear music from somewhere further back, but the plaza is empty.

The pool lights are off since it’s January, and I don’t bother to go switch them on. I know this pool in the dark by now.

I drop my bag by the edge, pull off my shirt, and dive into the deep end.

The shock of frigid water makes my lungs clench up and my muscles seize a little before I force my sluggish limbs to start swimming.

I love it.

I know people don’t understand this. Mack thinks I’m insane for my nightly cold plunges.

But from the second the water closes over me, the noise in my head changes register. It’s a cacophony that gets distant and smaller, and for the length of a lap I’m only doing one thing, which is moving through the resistance.

I’m not thinking about the blanket fort.

I’m not thinking about Priscilla’s voice on the phone.

I’m not thinking about the butterfly tattoo or Mack’s careful management of my moods or the sketchpad in my bag.

I’m just swimming, in my routine, and for a little while, anyway, everything feels manageable.

Fourteen laps in and my skin is buzzing, hot with exertion even as the cold clenches my chest like a fist.

I haul myself out at the shallow end and notice that the hot tub cover is off, neon lights blazing from underneath the now bubbling, steaming water.

And there’s a woman there.

She’s not even in a bathing suit, just a shirt and shorts. And her face glows like a goddess from the dancing light of the hot tub as she claps and laughs with glee as she steps foot into the water.

Apart from my son’s giggle, it’s the single purest sound of delight I’ve ever heard.

She does this adorable little shimmy as she drops down into the water, her joyous laughter only cut off by her dropping all the way beneath the hot tub water.

I jerk my gaze away, realizing I’ve been staring. And freezing my balls off just standing here when I know the trick of the cold plunge swim is to keep moving at all times.

I dive back under and swim furiously.