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Objectively, I recognize that she’s a good-looking woman—she always was. But there’s no attraction or fondness for what I see—not even a stirring of nostalgia for the actual good moments we once shared.
What stands out most to me is the hard set of her mouth, her defensive stance, and the sharp narrowing of her eyes as I approach. Everything about her screams annoyed and bitter—and ready for a fight.
“What’s up?” I ask.
“I was at my mother’s and I asked the boys if they wanted to go to dinner and they all said no.”
“Yeah, they told me.”
Her voice is clipped and irritated. “I haven’t seen Spencer in three weeks. Brayden and Aaron in over a month. I want them to come to dinner with me and it’d be nice if you’d help me out with that. For once.”
“What do you expect me to do? Hog-tie them and toss them in your trunk? They don’t want to go. And not to be a dick, but they were set to see you Saturday and you blew them off.”
Her eyes flash. “I had to work, Connor! You of all people should understand that.”
“What happened to Sunday? Were you working then too?”
Her handbag swings as she flails her arms. “Excuse me for needing a day to myself. That’s a crime now, I guess.”
I push a hand through my hair, tugging a little.
“I’m not saying it’s a crime. But don’t give me a hard time—or the kids a hard time—if they don’t immediately rearrange their plans because you’ve suddenly decided at the last minute that you feel like taking them out. That’s bullshit.”
Her relationship with the boys has been strained for a while—especially with Aaron. And I know it’s not good, but I can’t really blame them. When Stacey has them, she does what’s convenient for her. She takes them to run errands or to the grocery store, or like a few months ago with Spencer to the nail salon and frigging Nordstrom.
“Well, I’m already here—can I come inside to see them?”
I gesture to the cars parked in front of the house.
“It’s not a good time; my family’s here. And . . . not that it’s any of your business, but I’m seeing someone. She’s here too. I don’t want to make things awkward for her.”
“Not any of my business? It’s my business if she’s around my children.”
I’m actually surprised Spencer hasn’t mentioned Violet to Stacy already. Out of the three boys—he’s the talker.
I shake my head. “Not really.”
Stacey’s dated guys, guys who have met the boys. As long as I don’t hear anything negative about them from the kids, it’s not my business.
But she still folds her arms and shakes her head, tapping her foot like a ticking time bomb ready to pop.
“I want to see my kids, Connor.”
“Well, I’m sorry—it’s not a good day.”
“I want to see my kids, Connor!” she screeches.
“Well, your kids don’t want to see you! Maybe you should ask yourself why that is!”
She flinches. Pain flashes across her face before she has the chance to recover.
And I feel like an asshole.
Because I don’t want to do this. I don’t want to fight with her. I have no desire to hurt her. There’s no satisfaction, or glee—there’s only a sick, sad sensation twisting at my insides that this is what we are to each other now.
That every time we try to talk, to have some semblance of a civil, meaningful conversation, we end up screaming at each other over old wounds and ancient wrongs.
There’s no water under the bridge . . . the bridge has been washed away.
I take a deep breath, making my voice go level.
“I shouldn’t have said it like that, but your relationship with the boys is not in a good place right now. You have to see that. There’s a therapist I know and I think—”
“I’m not going to therapy again,” she spits out like it’s absurd. “It doesn’t work—it never worked for us.”
“Not marriage therapy, Stacey, family therapy. For you and the boys.”
And we’re back to screaming.
“Jesus Christ, I said no!”
I fling my hands up. “Then I don’t know what to tell you. If you want to work on your relationship with our kids, I’ll support that. But I won’t force them to see you if they don’t want to.”
“Of course you won’t! God forbid you actually act like a parent and make them do anything.”
“That’s not true.”
“God forbid you’re not the fun-time dad—letting them do whatever the fuck they want, anytime they want.”
“That’s not true.”
She jabs her finger at my chest.
“You were never there for us!”
“I’m here now! Every day, morning, and night, I’m here! Where the fuck are you?”
Stacey’s voice drops to a lethal hiss.
“Oh, I did my time, believe me. You were just never around to notice.”
I look away from her, pressing the tip of my tongue against the sharp point of my tooth to keep from saying things I can’t take back. It’s a joke anyway—this is how it’s always going to be with her—as productive as banging my head against a wall.
