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In the chair beside me, Violet shakes her head gently.
“If you saw some of the gnarly trampoline injuries that come into the hospital, you wouldn’t want one either, Spencer.”
I’m not sure if she says it purposely, but few things will distract a ten-year-old faster than the detailed description of horrific injuries.
“Really? How gnarly?”
“Well, there was that time a guy came in with hyperextended knees in both legs—he needed surgery.”
I nod. “That was a memorable one.”
“What’s hyperextended mean?” Spencer asks.
Violet demonstrates with her hands. “It means the knee bends backward.”
He reaches down for his own knees. “Knees do that?”
“They’re not supposed to.”
“What else?”
As Violet recounts the tale of the mom and the multiple skull fractures, Brayden calls to me from the lounge chair by the pool.
“Hey, Dad!”
“What’s up?” I call back.
“Mom texted me. She’s going to Joyce’s and wants to know if we want to go to dinner with her after.”
Stacey was supposed to see the boys this past Saturday but she canceled the day before because she said she got called into work. It used to piss me off when she canceled on them—mostly because it bothered them. But it doesn’t bother them anymore . . . and I can’t figure out if that’s good or bad.
“Tell her I’m a no,” Aaron says from the diving board. “I’m gonna hang here a little longer and then a bunch of us are going to Smitty’s house for an end of the summer party.”
On the days she doesn’t cancel, I leave it up to the boys if they want to go with her or not. At their age, I think it’s important to give them that sense of control over their own time.
“It’s your call, Bray,” I tell him. “If you want to go to dinner with your mom, it’s fine with me.”
He scans the backyard, filled with his uncles and aunts, cousins and grandparents.
Then he shrugs. “I’d rather just stay here. If I go, I have to get changed.”
Changing clothes is apparently a real burden for teenagers. Right up there with making sure the fitted sheet is actually on the mattress and not amassing a collection of empty water bottles under their beds.
“Mom texted me too, Dad,” Spencer says. “I’m gonna tell her I want to stay here tonight. But I’ll go with her this weekend.”
I give him a smile. “Sounds good, Spence.”
* * *
A few hours later I’m at the grill, cooking up another round of burgers and hot dogs for the crew. Through the hazy, fragrant smoke, my eyes find Violet across the yard—standing next to Callie and my mother, her hair in a long dark braid down her back, her face tilted up to the sun, laughing at something one of them said.
And for the thousandth time, I’m slammed right in the chest. Not just by how pretty she is but . . . by how fucking sublime it feels to have her here. The way she blends so beautifully into my life—with the people I love the most.
My parents are already enamored with her. It’s there in the warm, affectionate tone of their voices and the gratitude in their eyes when they talk to her.
And I really get that.
Because I’m a father. And if one day one of my kids goes through a brutal end to a relationship, I’ll worry about him. I’ll worry that he’s lonely or hurting or unhappy. And someone like Violet is exactly whom I’d wish for him to find.
A woman who’s loving and genuine—a woman who’ll bring joy back into his life. Back into his heart.
I turn my gaze back to the grill, flipping the burgers and grinning like a goddamn idiot. Because today has been a great day. A perfect day.
Until it’s not.
My phone pings on the counter next to me with an incoming text.
From Stacey.
I’m out front. I want to talk to you.
Awesome. The message every man wants to get from his ex-wife.
“Hey, Garrett.” I jerk my head for him to come over. “Watch the grill. Stacey’s out front, I have to go talk to her.”
My family doesn’t hate my ex-wife—that’s not the kind of people they are—and she’ll always be the mother of my kids. But it’s safe to say she’s not their favorite person on the planet either.
Garrett takes the spatula from my hand and lifts his beer at me.
“Enjoy. I’m sure that’ll be all kinds of fun.”
I slip my T-shirt over my head and walk through the house and out the front door.
Stacey’s silver BMW is parked at the curb. She’s standing next to the passenger-side door, her black shoulder-length hair styled in loose waves, wearing black shorts, sandals, and a sleeveless white blouse. Her manicured toenails and fingernails are painted the same deep red as her lips and the small designer bag that hangs from her wrist.
