Page 72 of The Irresistible Distraction

And it’s difficult not to dwell on that, to wonder what are the permanent epigenetic changes that come with that kind of upbringing.

I don’t speak to Brody when he comes and picks up his food an hour later, after he’s clearly finished his jog and is freshly showered. He smells lovely, all soap and spicy cologne. He looks delicious. The way he glances over at me is practically indecent.

And yet it’s all I can do not to murder him in front of the entire diner.

Brody must sense that he’s crossed a line, because he’s abnormally quiet all day. I survive an entire shift without random pictures of wildlife or memes he found interesting and simply had to share. I miss it, just a little, if I’m honest. The constant little pings that remind me someone is thinking of me, potentially missing me.

But he only contacts me to say Sebastian’s been invited to Aidan’s house after school. I guess it’s progress that, for once, Brody asks for permission before barreling through with his own ideas and designs.

Despite how thrilled I am that my son has a playdate, it says something about how furious I feel that I don’t do more than give the message a thumbs-up.

That doesn’t mean my phone is silent.

Jesse is abnormally chatty, sending pictures from his breakfast with Sebastian, the two of them smiling over twinning bowls of cereal. Later, he messages that he’s gotten back safely, that he’s busy at a conference next weekend, but is planning on moving after he returns from Seattle.

Maggie, of course, texts that she is dying to talk to me, having heard five different versions of what happened from disparate sources (who, offhand, I would guess are Reuben, Walter, Brody, because I know they talk, and . . . well, the last two are anyone’s guess). But I can’t handle Maggie’s crazy right now, not when I feel borderline unhinged myself.

By lunchtime, even Vera deviates from her norm. These past few days, she’s barely mentioned her nephew, sticking mostly to sending me more pictures of her exploring parts of New England with her sons, telling me how she’s counting down the days before the European leg of her journey begins. But today, Vera texts a single line: Sounds like I’m missing all sorts of tea.

Because that, ladies and gentlemen, is the power of the Lake Arrowhead gossip mill. Even across the country and in a different time zone, someone has told Vera about Brody’s declaration at the diner this morning.

I’ve barely been home for five minutes and am still in my work clothes when Brody knocks on the door.

I open it to find him lounging on the porch frame, legs crossed, arms crossed, the picture of nonchalance.

“So I take it you’re pissed.”

“Is that a question?”

“Purely observational.”

I leave the door open as I head back into the house; the last thing I need is for anyone to witness the rest of this conversation.

“I’m not sure I’m ready to talk to you, calmly.”

“Then talk to me not calmly.”

Great. Less than a minute in, and I already want to screech at Brody like some stereotypical fishwife.

But he’s not done. As he closes the door behind him he continues, his tone somewhere between sardonic and mocking. “Isn’t that your general thesis statement? You’re not ready to make a decision about what we are, where we’re going, and you spend so much time not making a decision you just end up with the path of least resistance?”

“The least resistance? Do you really think the life of a single parent is the path of least resistance? Or have you seen, in your years of practice, that it’s more like walking through quicksand blindfolded without a single day, without a single hour of reprieve? There is no vacation, there is no stand-in, there is no running away to think about your priorities.”

Brody’s not the least bit put out by my outburst. Just as when he elicits a physical response from me, when we’re making love, he seems to delight in unlocking my more emotional side. There is a small smile, even, tugging at the corners of his mouth.

“You think this is funny?”

“I think I probably acted a little badly, but this”—he gestures to me—“this is maybe the type of anger you need to tap into, demand some of the respect you deserve, instead of letting those asshats walk all over you.”

“Those asshats are Sebastian’s grandparents. And it’s for Sebastian’s sake that I try to maintain a healthy relationship. It’s how I try to be a good role model for Sebastian.”

Brody takes a moment before answering, his smug face just a little gentler, a tiny bit more understanding than before. Still, he continues to argue the point. “Being a doormat is not healthy. Letting your in-laws trash your parents’ diner, letting Jesse waltz in whenever he wants is not setting a good example for Sebastian.”

My inhale is sharp, my arms rigid even though I keep my voice even. “You do not get to lecture me about setting a good example.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Did you notice Vera calling or texting you more often before you came up here? Did she tell you she interviewed three people from Care.com because she wasn’t sure you wouldn’t flake out and leave me and her dogs without options?”