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He looks lovely in the moonlight, his chiseled jaw just begs to be kissed. I’m not sure how I’ve kept his interest for over a year now.
He’s so kind and so out of my league. Sculpted muscles that I’ve had my hands all over since we started hooking up. I love his salt and pepper hair that makes him look distinguished and older than his not quite forty years. The laugh lines around his eyes that mark his good nature faded in sleep, but still visible.
I like that he smiles so much. It gives me hope that I can smile that much too. For the handful of hours I steal with him each week, I get to.
“Owen puked,” Trevor says.
I don’t flinch at the disgust in his voice. The lack of empathy is nothing new. He’s not calling because he’s concerned that our son is sick; he’s calling because he doesn’t want to deal with the inconvenience. This won’t be a quick call I can handle and slip back into bed with my sometimes lover.
“Did you get him cleaned up?” I ask.
I give Saint one last wistful glance. Then I slip back into last night’s clothes to leave as Trevor unloads at me, calling me every name in the book for even asking. He complains about how gross puke is and how it’s somehow my fault Owen is sick. At least if he’s complaining to me, he isn’t directing his ire at Owen. So much for having one night to myself.
“What do you want me to do about it?” I finally break into Trevor’s tirade to ask.
I already know. It’s only going to give him more ammunition to throw at me when I show up in last night’s clothing fresh from the floor to pick up the kids.
“Fuck, he’s puking again! Come get the brats. It’s only a matter of time before Meg starts up too, with Owen this sick. You’re draining me dry with child support as it is. I can’t afford to miss work if they infect me. Besides, there’s no point having them here if they’re just going to be puking.”
I pinch the bridge of my nose to hold back the retort that the point is for him to step up and be a fucking parent to his kids. That wouldn’t be productive. The burning ember of resentment in the center of my chest cools to weary resignation. Trevor has no desire to change. Hence the divorce. I just wish he could step up for the kids, even though he couldn’t be a decent partner for me.
“Sure. I’m on my way.”
It’s too much to ask that he have them ready when I get there. At least I only have to deal with him for his custody weekends twice a month. And half the time he doesn’t even show up for those.
I’m probably an asshole for being glad of that when it makes Owen sad and Meg bitter, but better an absent dad than one who blames them for getting sick. Fuck. I wish…well, a lot of things. Mostly, I wish I was already holding my sick kiddo, cozy at home.
When I show up, Trevor answers the door in his boxers.
“Your mom’s here.” He curls his lip in a sneer at the skimpy black dress I’m wearing.
I didn’t bother with the torn nylons, so my hairy legs are on full display. He doesn’t have to say a word for me to know all the things he’d say if Meg, our fourteen-year-old, wasn’t standing there with her and Owen’s overnight bags.
“Hey, Meg.” I wave to my kid, ignoring the misgendering. I’m used to that level of petty from my ex, so I keep my mouth shut rather than stoking the flames. Away from him, it’s easier to embrace the side of me that is becoming secure enough in my masculinity to still enjoy dressing in pretty things like the comfy dress I wore to work last night.
“Hey, Pop,” Meg says, her own small defiance to the way Trevor treats me.
Her eyes light up when she sees me and I wish I could just hug her, but she jumps up and whirls to head down the hall. I hate that she ends up in the middle of our shit like this.
“I’ll go get Owen,” Meg calls over her shoulder.
“How is he?” I ask, standing on the porch since Trevor hasn’t made any move to let me in.
Trevor rolls his eyes. “He puked twice more since I called. I’m going to be up all night doing laundry.”
“Does he have a fever?”
“How should I know?”
Right. I’ll have to check when we get home. I bite my tongue. Nothing good will come of pushing for details. “Want them to call you to set up a raincheck?”
“No. And I’ll be out of town for my next visit, so I’ll take them again for the October long weekend. Mom is planning to drive down from Hamilton to stay in town with us.”
“Sure.” I grit my teeth at his cavalier treatment of our custody arrangement. “I’ll text you to confirm.”
It will be good for the kids to see their grandma, even if it’s not supposed to be his weekend. I don’t have a problem with Trevor’s mom. Sure, we had our rocky times, but I know she adores Meg and Owen and dotes on them.
My ex-mother-in-law took me in when I was eighteen and pregnant with her granddaughter after my folks kicked me out because they didn’t approve of my relationship with Trevor. Ironic that their cutting me off is the main reason I ended up married to the asshole.
