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I swallow a sigh. “Sorry,” I say. “Of course, you used to live here.”
“Anyway, it doesn’t matter,” she says, “You’re the one throwing Charlie a birthday party. You can invite whoever you like.” And with that, she’s gone.
I grab the sponge again and start wiping invisible stains with more vigor than ever. “What the hell is wrong with her?” I snap. Jack leans against the counter, arms crossed, eyes raised to the ceiling. “Seriously, she dresses Charlie up like a runner-up inLittle Miss USA Beauty Pageant. Charlie’s not like that. She’s not a doll.”
“Why do you take it so personally?”
“She knows how to push my buttons, that’s all.”
“You sure know how to get your buttons pushed, Laura.”
“That doesn’t even make sense, Jack, but whatever.” I sigh. I stop scouring, squeeze the sponge over the sink. “Are we really having a birthday party for Charlie next Saturday? Or was that just a bad dream.”
He chuckles. “Come on, it’ll be fun. I’ll help.”
“How about Her Royal Highness lends a hand too, or is that too much to ask?”
“Don’t be like that.”
“We can’t make it a big party, I just don’t have the time. Half her friends will probably have other things to do anyway.”
“Let’s do what we can, okay? Bron is here, and Charlie wants this too. She misses her so much, and Bron misses Charlie—”
I snort. It escapes out before I have time to stop myself. “Sorry,” I mumble. He holds me by the shoulders. “Laura, Bron loves Charlie. It’s awesome that she wants to spend so much time with her daughter. You should be happy for Charlie.”
“You’ve changed your tune.” I pull away and start rearranging things on the table.
“What does that mean?”
“Bronwyn doesn’t love Charlie, Jack. Apart from having the maternal instincts of a brick, Bronwyn is too self-obsessed to love anyone but herself. Everything Bronwyn does is about perception. The only purpose of these occasional visits is so that no one can accuse Bronwyn of being a bad mother. Even though she is. She’s a bad mother. She’s a shit mother.”
There’s a beat of silence. When I look up at him again, his face is pale and he’s gazing at a point over my shoulder. I turn around, my stomach lurching slowly, bringing with it a tidal wave of nausea.
“Well. Why don’t you say how you really feel?” she says, one contemptuous eyebrow raised. Everything inside me twists. “I only came down to suggest we get pizza for dinner so you wouldn’t have to cook.” She turns on her heels and goes back upstairs.
“Great job, Laura,” Jack mumbles, walking past me.
“Wait.” I reach for his arm but he flicks me off, his whole demeanor stiff with anger.
And I stand there and wonder how the hell I got to this point where both Jack and Bronwyn are angry with me, and it seems so unfair I want to cry.
ELEVEN
I do it all weekend long, the cleaning up after everybody. The cooking, too, and the shopping, and the loading up of washing machines and dishwashers and making beds (although not Bronwyn’s, thank God). It’s my penance, for beinga real bitch. That’s what Jack hissed at me when he returned from his run on Saturday.
“You can be a real bitch sometimes.”
“Sorry,” I replied. What I really wanted to say was,Sorry not sorry. I meant every word.
“You’ve got to stop reacting to everything she says, Laura. You’ve got to think of Charlie.”
I think of Charlie all the time, I wanted to say.She’s all I think about.But of course he’s right because the last thing I want is for Charlie to be upset. “I’m sorry,” I said, again. Then I said it another fifty times, and eventually I managed to coax him out of his angry shell.
“You’ll have to apologize to Bron.”
I groaned. “Seriously?”
“Yes, Laura! I don’t need this grief right now, okay?”
