Page 32 of 10 Signs You Need to Grovel

When visiting art galleries, Sadie and I used to dissect art. Stare at one piece at a time, then swap interpretations, sometimes ridiculous and fantastical, other times taking the exercise more seriously, trying to understand the artist’s state of mind when creating.

At one exhibit there was a small painting of a girl petting a dog. It was sweet and serene but blurred slightly. Sadie studied the small painting and said, “I think she’s struggling financially. That she can barely afford to eat and is hungry and at her wit’s end. She’s trying to remember simpler times as a child, when life was easier.”

I stared harder at the work, attempting to absorb the artist’s intent, and said, “I think she suffered a tragedy—the loss of a parent or grandparent. I think she’s trying to keep good memories alive, but they get overshadowed by her sadness.”

I watch Max now, worried about what inspired his character’s slashed eyebrows, angry scowl, and flying escape to the sun. More evidence that Sadie’s concerns about our son are warranted.

“It’s a pretty awesome piece,” I say carefully. “I’d love to see more of your work sometime, if you’re willing to share it.”

His face brightens a fraction. “Yeah?”

“Bring it next hike. And don’t worry about guys like Carter. They talk big because they’re small. He’s probably jealous of your talent. Just wait until girls get a look at your art. You’ll be fighting them off.”

He drops his eyes and scratches his mosquito bites. I’m back to shifting on my feet, my tongue feeling swollen in my mouth, worried I’ll say the wrong thing.

I walk with him to his spot on the log next to Jasmine and Zoey. The girls both traced the red fox and drew a girl beside the fox with big hair and big eyes—for sure Camila Cabello—surrounded by trees. The drawings are flat and crude compared to Max’s masterpiece but better than I can do. Max sits near them, and I analyze his spot for clues to his emotional state. Is he drawing sad pictures because he doesn’t have a dad? Did a person he trust hurt him the way my dad hurt me? All I see is the bag of carrots and celery I made for each kid. Based on this evidence, I deduce that Max likes celery more than carrots, since those are almost gone.

Top-notch private-eye work.

Whatever fears or sadness lies behind his art, it’ll take more effort on my part than doing a visual sweep of his drawing area. Effort I want to put in, help him some way. Do something to make his life happier, because I missed ten years of doing somethings for him.

Unfortunately, we have no alone time for the rest of the hike. Olivia keeps pace with the group. We play word-association games, where Sadie names something she sees, then the next person says a word that links to the last one, no repeats allowed.

The first round goes like this:

Sadie: Butterfly.

Jasmine: Camila.

Zoey: Cabello.

Max: Superstar.

Jun: Alien.

Carter: Farts.

As usual, Olivia refuses to play. We hike and take a couple more breaks, staying on time. I also spin over ideas, ways to entertain these preteens on our next hike. Make the outing more fun for them and Max. Better activities to make up for today’s fail.

On the home stretch, I find myself watching Sadie, how easy she is with the kids, the sway of her hips. Her bright smile. She glances at me, and my face heats, because I’m already watching her. Caught in the act. I expect her to look away, but she doesn’t. Her attention lingers, and I swear her cheeks flush.

I dare you to ask if she’s single. For the first time since Lennon’s dare, hope thrums in my chest. A steady soundtrack to an imagined future with my family—Sadie, Max, and me together. There are miles to go before that could become a reality. Work on my end to connect with Max, and Sadie and I have to get to know each other again, but it feels like something’s there, a connection still between us. As long as I get the right answer to that tough question.

We’re at the parking area too soon. Carter and Jun are in one carpool together, as are Jasmine and Zoey. After they leave, another truck drives up—a dirt-covered Ford I don’t recognize from this morning’s drop-offs. A Korean man gets out, who’s as far from dirt covered as possible, exuding confidence and success, dressed sharply in dark jeans and a button-up short-sleeve shirt. He’s the kind of handsome that inspires women to use words like snack and thirsty and unf.

He scans the area. When his eyes light up, I follow his line of sight to the worst possible place: Sadie.

“Joseph, hey!” Sadie beams and waves, running over to meet him.

I quit breathing. Quit blinking. Dearly beloved, we are gathered here today to witness the death of my heart. All I can do is stare at this GQ guy, who probably earns a living as a Calvin Klein model, and fight the urge to punch a tree.

Max joins them, smiling his face off. The guys high-five like they’re best buds.

Forget tree punching. I’m a melting wax sculpture titled Demise in a Yellow Gym-Bro Shirt.

Olivia appears beside me and clucks her tongue. “If you want to compete with that, I suggest a haircut.”

Of course Olivia has the same blunt advice as Mirielle. “He’s not that good looking.”