Whit #2
I place the hanger back on the rack, pushing it out of my mind and telling myself that I can’t possibly try to carry anything else if I’m going to shop the rest of the house.
Sorry, raccoon cowboy, but my coveted Dutch oven is more important.
For another ten minutes, I wander the halls, catching the envious eye of more than one person who wishes they’d been lucky enough to score my shopping find.
My fingers ache in their locked position around the cookware, and I start walking toward the man collecting money at a small desk near the front door.
“Can I sneak by ya?” I quietly ask a stout elderly lady in the middle of a tight archway, mouthing a thank you when she lets me pass.
Waiting in line to pay, I study my fellow shoppers. This isn’t the hootin’ and hollerin’ type of crowd. If I don’t buy that shirt, it’ll end up at the dump or local thrift store, unless Colt happens to be out shopping with his mom today, too.
I’ll hang on to it until Christmas or his birthday.
“Besides,” I say to myself while walking down the empty hallway, “a goofy graphic tee screams ‘Welcome to the friend zone.’ ”
A giddy, bubbly feeling fizzes in my stomach when I spot the light gray shirtsleeve poking out from the full rack. I pull it aside for one final inspection. It really is the perfect thing for Colt.
If only I had Jonas here. I could manipulate the situation to make Jonas think it’s his idea to buy the shirt, and Colt would be none the wiser.
Before I can overthink it any longer, I awkwardly slip the shirt from the hanger with one hand. Then pay the man by the front door and scurry out to a shady spot below a towering oak tree to wait for my mom and sister.
Sitting on the cool ground, bare shoulders scrubbing the bark, I shuffle to make sure nobody can see up my dress. Dutch oven next to me, T-shirt neatly placed on top, I grab my phone to kill time on social media.
Alex: I have tomorrow off work. I’ll pick Jonas up at nine.
I huff. “Not even a fucking apology for yesterday.”
Whit: He has plans tomorrow.
Alex: I thought he wanted to hang out with me.
Whit: Yesterday. He wanted to spend time with you YESTERDAY.
Whit: He’s at the ranch with Colt tomorrow.
“Three, two, one…”
Buzz. Buzz. Buzz.
My phone vibrates in my hand with an incoming call from Alex. Knew that was coming the moment I mentioned another man’s name.
“Who’s Colt?” he asks while I’m still trying to force a greeting to leave my lips.
“One of the ranch hands at Wells Ranch. Blair’s boyfriend set Jonas up with some work there for the summer. Colt’s sort of his supervisor.”
“He’s ten, Whit.” At least he remembers his kid’s age. “He’s too young to spend his summer working.”
“I couldn’t have him doing nothing but playing video games all the time. Anyway, he’s really enjoying it.”
“Are you dating this guy? Because I think we should have a discussion before you bring random guys around Jonas.”
Is he serious right now? I pull my phone away from my face to glare at it. The fucking gall to question my parenting when he couldn’t be bothered to show up for Jonas yesterday. My jaw clenches so hard there’s a sharp twinge of pain.
“I’m not,” I grit out. And so what if I was? “But it’s actually not your place to tell me who I can or can’t have in my life.”
He scoffs.
“It’s been good for Jonas to be at the ranch. Plus, Colt’s a nice guy, and Jonas loves him.” Admittedly, I throw in that last bit hoping to strike a nerve.
“Jonas isn’t old enough to know what’s good for him, and clearly you’re looking for any way to get him out of the house.”
“What the fuck?”
“Am I wrong, Whit?” The smirk rings clear as a bell through the phone.
Mindful of the people meandering around the front lawn, ears likely perked after my last remark, I lower my voice and pull out my HR-approved voice. “Are you implying that you, of all people, know what’s best for Jonas?”
“I’m his father.”
“Whoa, pump the brakes. The involvement of your sperm doesn’t actually mean fuck all when it comes to making decisions about his well-being. Not when this isn’t the first time you’ve feigned interest.”
“That’s going to change.”
I snort. “Okay.”
He raises his voice again. “Did I, or did I not, start this conversation off by saying I’d take him tomorrow?”
“I’m not going to ask him to cancel his plans in the hopes that you don’t bail on him again.
” Colt’s shirt is clenched so tight in my fist my knuckles have lost all color.
I didn’t realize I’d grabbed it, but I can’t bring myself to let go—I’ll iron the wrinkles out before I give it to him.
Right now it’s a decent channel for my rage, allowing me to keep a fake smile and pleasant-sounding voice in front of so many strangers.
“Where is this suddenly coming from?” I ask.
Deep down, there’s always been some hope that Alex would call me out of the blue like this, demanding he be involved in Jonas’s life.
He’d finally wake up and realize how much he’s missing out on by not knowing the most incredible kid I’ve ever met.
I have no delusions of grandeur—we’ll never be a perfect family with a white picket fence, two-point-five kids, and a golden retriever.
Despite the way I cave whenever Alex wants to crawl into my bed, I don’t fantasize about us being together again. That all went out the window ages ago.
I just want Jonas to have another person in his corner, loving him unconditionally.
He deserves a dad, so time and time again I fight the urge to block Alex’s number and remove him from our lives completely.
Arguably, I let him get away with too much.
Never setting boundaries or sticking up for myself—hell, the only reason I’m feeling emboldened enough to scoff at his comments today is because I’m on top of the goddamn world with this perfect Le Creuset.
“Well, Fern and I were thinking…”
He continues talking, I think, but my brain’s entirely fixated on Fern. Has he gone off the deep end and started talking to a plant?
I interrupt. “Sorry, what is a Fern?”
“My girlfriend.”
“You have a girlfriend…named Fern?”
Please. I have a migraine named Snake Plant now.
“She suggested I reach out to you about spending more time with Jonas.”
I half-laugh.
Oh, Fern. Sweet summer child.
Of course she suggested Alex reach out, because I’m sure he told her I’m the monstrous baby mama keeping his precious son from him.
Bet he changed his lock screen image to a photo of Jonas stolen from my social media.
And she’ll be the doting girlfriend for a few months until she realizes everything he’s told her is a lie.
After a decade of this, I know every crest, valley, and loop in our roller-coaster relationship. I’ve played every imaginary role—from evil ex to best pal—in Alex’s book of lies he uses to convince women he’s not a deadbeat.
“Well, look. Jonas isn’t going to the ranch on Thursday because he has therapy. I’m not going to tell him anything, but if you decide to pick him up after his session, I won’t stop you.”
“Fern and I will be there.”
“Don’t you think it’s awfully hypocritical to give me shit about Colt, even though I have zero interest in dating him, and then introduce your brand-new Fern to Jonas?”
“We’ve been dating for three months, actually.”
I do the fastest mental math of my life. Bile rises in my throat, and I swallow hard. I really don’t want to use my new cast-iron love of my life as a vomit receptacle.
“Three months?” I croak before my voice drops to a whispering hiss. “We’ve been together within the last three months, and you didn’t say a fucking word about having a girlfriend.”
“It was pretty casual in the beginning with Fern. Didn’t know if it would really go anywhere.”
“Are you fucking kidding? Do not bring your Fern on Thursday. There’s no way I can look her in the eye knowing I was your fucking mistress.”
“That’s a bit dramatic, Whit.”
Thank God, Blair and Mom are walking toward me. I quickly wipe the tears rimming my waterline. “I have to go.”
Click.
The foul taste lingers in my mouth long after I brush the grass from my dress and climb into Blair’s car.
If it were only my sister in the car with me, I’d vent about Alex and his bullshit for the entire drive home.
But Mom’s busy showing off a ceramic wind-up ballerina she purchased, repeating the same story four times over, and my need to word-vomit about everything has mostly worn off by the time we’re pulling into the driveway.
Pulling Blair aside to let Mom get ahead of us on the short path to the front door, I whisper, “Do you have plans tonight?”
“Nope. Why?”
“Alex is dating a Fern, making me an unintentional mistress. And this Fern wants him to spend more time with Jonas, which apparently means more to Alex than—oh, you know—Jonas wanting to spend more time with his dad.”
To be fair, the need to word-vomit was only mostly gone.
“I’ll bring the wine.”
“Two bottles should do the trick.”