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Blinking rapidly, I attempt a smile for the love of my life. “Your dad wants to take us out tonight.”
August frowns as he roots around in the upper cabinet for a bowl and the box of Cookie Crisp. “But I’m staying at Isaac’s.”
Sorry, buddy. You can’t see your friend tonight because your shithead dad blackmailed us into dinner.“Maybe you can do it next weekend instead.”
Cereal and cardboard hit the counter with matching thuds. “That’s not fair!”
It’s not my fault, I want to whine but parenthood is accepting blame for absolutely everything, and as much as I’d like to shuck it all onto John, that’s not my style. “We can reschedule.”
August’s huff tells me exactly what he thinks about that. “You can’t just change things without asking me.”
Fuck me, talk about a projection. “I’m not changing anything. This was your dad’s idea.”
“You said I never have to see him if I don’t want to.”
“It’s one meal, babe. Please. I’m too tired to fight today.”
“That’s not my fault.”
“Auggie—”
“Shut up. I don’t wanna talk to you anymore.”
“August.” I gape at the boy who left his voice-raising era firmly in the‘I can count my age on one hand’years. “You do not talk to me like that.”
“Whatever.”
What the fuck? Who is this child, and what has it done with mine, and how can I make it stop making me use the stern, ‘no arguments’ voice I hate using because it reminds me of my mother? “We’re going out with your dad.”
“Whatever.”
Last week, I made the executive decision not to punish him for the fight. I figured no baseball was punishment enough, and he was in such a foul mood after it happened, I didn’t wanna make it worse, not when he’s been making such positive progress lately. But shit, maybe I should’ve. Maybe I’m too lenient and it’s giving him a complex. I gotta draw a line somewhere, right? “And then you’re grounded for a week.”
Outrage flashes across his flushed face. “So I don’t get to go to your stupid baby shower?Oh no.”
The metaphorical arrow he aims at my heart hits true, and fuck.Ow. I physically flinch. My eyes water but I blink them clear, trying to remain stern as I say, “Go to your room, please.”
August complies with stomping and grunting and a door slam that makes me fear his rapidly approaching teenage years. I’m just thinking all he needs is some obnoxiously loud music to really perfect the bratty tween act when Nirvana blares to life.
“Well.” Clutching my shoulder, Willow eyes me nervously. “At least he has taste.”
Yeah. My kid suddenly hates me but thank God he’s got a decent Spotify playlist.
“Sunday…”
“Don’t.” I hold up a shaky hand. “Please. I don’t wanna cry and if we talk about it I’m gonna cry.”
Willow tugs until I sag against her. “He’s a Lane, Sunny. A certain amount of drama is implied. He didn’t mean it.”
That’s the thing. I’m pretty positive he did.
* * *
John is waiting for us when we arrive.
From across the street, we watch him through the diner window. At a distance, he seems so unthreatening. He looks like a normal man reading a normal magazine while he patiently waits for his normal family to enjoy a normal meal.
It’s when we brave the crosswalk and enter the diner that the real picture becomes clear. I can see who’s gracing the front cover of his reading material, the way the pages crumple beneath his tight grip, the ugly twist of his expression as he reads all about a baseball legend and his newest legacy. The food he ordered; eggs I can’t smell without wanting to vomit, an array of breakfast meats August hasn’t eaten since he went to a farm on a school trip five years ago and came home thoroughly traumatized, black coffee I can’t drink because acid reflux is kicking my ass and August can’t drink because he’s, you know,eleven.
