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“You’re no different than Mom. Neither one of you gives a shit about us. You only care about yourselves.”
If you have kids, at some point in their lives you’re going to want to look them in the face and tell them to go screw themselves.
They don’t mention that in What to Expect When You’re Expecting.
But I grind my teeth and clench my jaw.
“You’re grounded. Two weeks—no going out, no car—give me your keys.”
“Two weeks?! But it’s the summer!”
“You want three? ’Cause I’ll make it three, Aaron.”
And now I sound like the asshole vice principal from The Breakfast Club. Perfect. Every dad’s dream.
Aaron’s furious gaze burns into me for a few seconds. Then he smacks his keys on the table.
“This is bullshit!”
And he stomps his way up to his room—slamming his door so hard the walls rattle.
And I stand in the kitchen and . . . deflate.
My shoulders cave in and my head throbs and my eyes ache.
Because Spencer is right—Aaron sucks.
And I suck. Everything sucks.
Such a goddamn mess.
Then I feel a hand on my arm—delicate but strong. Violet’s palm slides up to my shoulder, massaging the knotted tendons, her caress so warm and soft and needed I want her to touch me forever.
“Bet you’re glad you decided to help me out and stay over now.”
My words drip with sarcasm.
But Violet’s response isn’t sarcastic. It’s honest and bare and rock-solid supportive.
“Yes, I am.”
I let myself fall into her gentle brown eyes. Take comfort in her warmth and understanding. I absorb her tenderness like a succubus—letting it soothe my sore soul—greedily taking all she so readily gives.
And everything seems to suck just a little bit less.
Because she’s here . . . because she’s her.
“I’m glad too,” Spencer says. He takes a doughnut off the counter and gazes at it like he’s just fallen in love for the very first time. “I’m never eating Dunkin’ Donuts again.”
The smile tugs at my lips and a chuckle rolls up my throat.
“Hey Spence—hook me up with one of those.”
My son hands me a gooey, warm doughnut dripping with glaze. I sink my teeth in and moan, because—holy shit—it doesn’t taste quite as good as one of Violet’s blow jobs feel . . . but it’s really close.
“Oh my God,” I manage to mumble around another bite.
The three of them laugh at me—mocking my ecstasy.
And I almost forgot what this is like. The sweetness of sharing these moments—good or bad—with someone who’s a partner, a lover, a friend.
But I remember now.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Violet
As summer shifts into August, Connor and I slip further into each other’s lives. Smoothly. Effortlessly.
We uncover even more about each other. For instance, I learn that Connor has watched every episode of The Office—three times—but it still makes him laugh. On one Saturday afternoon when I’m driving us to the farmers market because his truck is getting new tires, Connor discovers my occasional tendency to road rage.
Beep beep.
When a middle-aged woman in a shiny new Lexus commits the unforgiveable sin of doing 40 mph in the left lane of the frigging Garden State Parkway.
Beeeeeeeeeeeeeeeep.
“Move over! Get into the right lane!”
She eventually moves over. But as I’m passing her on the left, she gives me the finger.
And my head practically explodes.
“Fuck me? No—fuck you! Learn how to drive!”
Connor just stares at me from the passenger seat. In shock. Bewilderment, perhaps.
“What?” I ask. “I would never talk that way if the boys were in the car.”
“No, it’s not that, it’s just . . . are you sure you weren’t born in Jersey? ’Cause it really sounds like you were.”
I learn new things about the boys too—sometimes in not so great ways.
Like the night I pick up takeout for all of us from a Mexican place that’s one of Connor’s favorites. I get to his house while he’s still hung up at his parents’ place with his brothers, installing a new television in the living room. An hour after I get there, he comes through the door.
“Hey,” I greet him. “Aaron’s still at football practice, Brayden rode his bike to his friend’s house when I got here, and Spencer’s up in his room. Your food’s over there—Spencer and I already ate—he was starving.”
He brings his Styrofoam container to the table and I sit down next to him.
“What’d you two end up getting?” he asks.
“I got shrimp empanadas and Spencer got chicken empanadas. I accidentally put my plate in front of him at first.”
Connor stops mid chew. “He didn’t eat any, did he?”
“Only one bite. He realized it and—”
Connor bolts for the stairs, taking them two at a time.
I run up behind him and when he opens Spencer’s bedroom door and stops short, I bump into his back.
“Hey Dathd.”
It’s sounds like Spencer . . . but something’s wrong with his voice.
Very, very wrong.
“Oh, man,” Connor groans.
Then he drops to his knees in front of his son, giving me an unobstructed view of Spencer’s face.
