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I let it go in an attempt to be the bigger person, but it still stings when I think about it for too long.
“She wants four kids, Stone,” he says, half-slurring since apparently he’s been hitting the bottle since noon. “Four. Do you know what that’ll do to our sex life? When we first met, she said she wanted maybe one. And now she wants four. She’s already picked out their names and everything. It’s like I’m not even part of the equation—I’m just some sperm donor.”
He slams the lid of the laptop he’s been using to work remotely all week, and then he digs inside the fridge, grabbing another beer. I’m not one-hundred-percent sure, but the clothes he’s wearing today look an awful lot like the ones he was wearing yesterday.
I place my hand over the beer bottle he’s yet to open, and I gently maneuver it away from him.
“Go take a shower. Shave your face. Put on some clean clothes. And then go for a walk to clear your head,” I say. “Everything’s going to work out fine.”
“Easy for you to say.”
“By the way, I called your dad. He’s flying in first thing tomorrow.”
“Why the hell’d you do that?” Judging by the twisted expression on his face, I’d say he’s none too pleased.
“Because it’s someone else’s turn to try and talk some sense into you. I’ve been trying for five days and I’m not getting through. If anyone can, it’s him.”
Chapter Forty-One
Jovie
* * *
It’s been a few days since I’ve heard from Stone, so I shoot him a text Saturday afternoon.
ME: Hey that new indie movie came out on Prime … it’s the Bryce Dallas Howard film where she’s stuck in a dark room and she has to figure out who put her there before they’ll let her out. It looks really good and Monica won’t see anything that might remotely give her nightmares, so … you want to come watch?
STONE: When?
ME: Tonight?
STONE: Paul just flew in today. Called him in for backup with Jude.
ME: Oh, damn. Is it that bad?
STONE: Let’s just say I wasn’t expecting to have a roommate this week.
I can’t help but wonder if Jude’s wedding has been called off? But I can’t bring myself to ask. It doesn’t feel right.
ME: How long is Paul visiting?
STONE: No clue.
The weight of disappointment sinks into my bones, deflating my posture and my energy.
STONE: Maybe I can come over tomorrow afternoon? I figured I’d get Paul on the same page and then give them Sunday to themselves.
ME: That works!
The disappointment that resided in me a moment ago has now evaporated into something lighter, like a ripple of excitement in parts of me I didn’t know existed. I pull up my favorite radio station on my phone and get a bit of housework done. This energy needs to go somewhere, might as well put it to good use.
A sink of dishes and three loads of laundry later, I’ve barely put a dent in my day—or my energy levels.
But this time tomorrow, he’ll be here.
This time tomorrow can’t come soon enough.
Chapter Forty-Two
Stone
* * *
I spot Paul’s tangerine hibiscus shirt and khaki cargo shorts from a mile away outside the security terminal at the airport.
He waves when he spots us, flashing his blinding white smile which has only become more vivid with his leathery Florida tan.
“How are my boys?” he asks, giving us side hugs a moment later. “Good to see you, good to see you. You guys hungry? I’m famished. All they gave us were these little bags of pretzels. My god, you can’t even feed a mouse that kind of shit.”
I chuckle. Paul hasn’t changed at all since the last time I’ve seen him. In fact, I don’t think he’s changed at all since the day we first met.
The three of us head to Paul’s favorite seafood restaurant—some hole in the wall in south Portland that serves all-you-can-eat clam chowder and some of the best crab cakes on the coast (according to Paul).
An hour later, our bellies are swollen and Paul orders another round of drinks before sinking back in his chair, rubbing the remains of his former six-pack stomach, and saying, “All right, fellas. Lay it on me. What’s going on here?”
I zone out while Jude gets his dad up to speed. I’ve heard the story a million times this week already.
Dragging his palm along his five o’clock shadow, Paul presses his lips flat, nodding, listening, digesting.
“You messed up big time, kid,” Paul says when Jude is finished. “But the question is, do you even want to fix it? Because I get the sense you’re accepting that you messed up rather than taking responsibility for it. Big difference. If you accept something, you wash your hands of it.” He claps his hands together. “But if you take responsibility for it, you own it, you apologize, and you learn from it and you make it right. Have you tried to make it right with Stassi?”
