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I took a quick breath. “Okay. Next time he calls you, please tell him to call me.”
“I did. I just hadn’t gotten to that part yet.”
Right then, the sound of Quinn’s bedroom door opening came from the hallway. I sat down at the table again, swallowing and looking down at the crossword puzzle I’d been doing. Noah had enough sense to know that I didn’t want to discuss this further, not with Quinn around.
I didn’t want to discuss it further at all. If I could’ve, I wanted to rewind the morning and go so far back that Quinn’s father would know he had to call me, not to call my boyfriend, who was feeling more and more a part of my family.
What I hadn’t told Noah yet was how Quinn said that Noah felt like more of a father to her than her actual biological father. Those were big feelings for her, and I didn’t know what was going to happen long term. A part of me was thrilled for Quinn to accept him on this level, yet it felt like I was losing something with her. Between her biological father being in touch with us and Noah interwoven into our daily lives, the tight bond I’d shared with her was changing.
“Morning,” Quinn called in a sing-song voice as she entered the kitchen.
I lifted my head, replying, “Morning.” I thought my voice sounded normal.
Noah set a cup of coffee in front of me. I was grateful because a few swallows loosened the aching knot of emotion in my throat.
“Thanks for making oatmeal,” Quinn said to Noah.
That was another thing. He always made her oatmeal now. I was feeling crazy this morning because just the other morning, I’d been so grateful for everything he did. They both liked oatmeal for breakfast. Mornings were always a scramble. Noah usually got up a little earlier than me and was showering before I even rolled out of bed.
I was feeling restless in my skin. I wanted to shake off my frustration. I knew I wasn’t being logical, which only added to my annoyance. A little while later, he kissed me on the cheek and left while Quinn finished her oatmeal.
As if I was on some kind of mission to ruin my morning, a few minutes later, I stumbled into another maddening conversation with my daughter, and it was entirely my fault. “Apparently, your father called Noah.”
Quinn lifted her head as she took the last bite of her oatmeal, watching me and waiting.
“I asked Noah to make sure he called me instead of him if anything came up,” I added.
She set her spoon down. The sound of it clicking against the edge of the bowl echoed in our small kitchen. “Why?” She blinked at me behind her glasses.
“Because I’m your mother,” I finally said, struck by her question but uncertain the meaning of it was as emotionally loaded as I interpreted it.
She blinked again. “I don’t mind if he calls Noah.”
“Do you have a problem if he calls me? Last I checked, you’re not eighteen yet.”
“Geez, Mom, why are you so upset about it? Noah’s here all the time. I like him. And frankly, if my dad’s going to be a dick, it’s probably better if Noah deals with it. He’s not gonna fuck with Noah.”
“He’s not gonna fuck with me,” I countered, completely ignoring her choice of language and using it myself. Yay, welcome to the great mom show.
As if she could read my freaking mind, Quinn returned with, “Nice language, Mom. Why are you so upset?”
“I’m not upset,” I lied. “I just think it’s best if your father has a question about you that he calls me.”
Because teenagers were crazy perceptive at all the wrong times, Quinn asked, “Why are you acting like a dog pissing on a tree?”
“What?” I countered, ignoring the rising tide of defensiveness that threatened to pull me under.
“In this case, I am the tree. Or rather any decisions about my father are the tree,” she added.
“Quinn, I—” I sputtered. I managed a breath and grasped onto the thin thread of my composure. “Ugh.”
“Right.” Her eyes narrowed as she smirked. “Noah is here all the time, and I know you want me to be okay with him being a part of our family. Well, he’s involved, and I don’t mind my dad calling him.”
I kept my cool, but just barely. I didn’t really know why I was freaking out. I nodded and stood to go take a shower.
Just when I thought that shitty conversation was over, Quinn had to needle me a little bit more. I hurried through a shower and yanked on my work clothes. When I returned to the kitchen, I noticed she had left her bowl out. At that moment, she came down the hallway swinging her backpack over her shoulder. “Please clean up,” I said, my tone sharp.
Her bag fell to the floor with a loud thump in the middle of the living room. “Fine. You can’t have it both ways, you know?” she snapped as she crossed the kitchen to grab her bowl. She rinsed it in the sink and put it in the dishwasher, closing it loudly.
