Chapter 13
CHAPTER 13
S HANNON
I yawn as I wait at the traffic light, eager to get home. I’m grateful Troy was able to get the kids situated after school today since my end of the day meeting went long. These first two weeks at the new job have wiped me out with the disruption brought upon our daily routines. We’ll all adjust, but we’re not quite there yet.
The light changes and I accelerate the car more aggressively than I intend when a twinge of queasiness strikes me at the same time. Whether it’s from being hungry, or a side effect of the new medication I’m on, I’m not sure. Regardless, the nausea is much improved from even a couple of days ago.
Only a few days after the intervention she and my mom staged almost two weeks ago, Shyley was able to get me an appointment to see her college roommate, who is a nurse practitioner. I’ve officially been diagnosed with depression. While I was initially hesitant to take medications, after an explanation from the nurse practitioner, it made sense how they might help, and I agreed to give them a try. The queasiness was the worst for several days. Fortunately, I expected it because the nurse practitioner warned me that I might feel lousier—emotionally and physically— for the first week. Plus, it will take a few weeks to start working and even longer to take full effect. I’m looking forward to when I’ll notice some improvement.
As soon as I step into the house, the delicious smell of garlic and herbs fills my nose. I toss up a prayer of thanks to the co-parenting gods that Troy is such a good cook. It’s a skill he’s honed after years in the fire department since the crew take turns cooking. He doesn’t make a wide variety of dishes, but those he does are excellent, like his baked ziti. It’s always a win with the family and I never have to coerce the kids into eating their dinner when Troy makes it.
I’m desperate to get out of these heels, convinced I don’t have it in me even to wear them long enough to take them off in my room. Not a minute longer. I place a palm against the wall for support and bend down to remove my right shoe. When I go to remove the other, my eye catches on the tiles—the stupid tiles with the gap in the grout that somehow always manages to catch the narrow heel of my shoes and nearly kill me. The tiles with the wide grout lines I insisted I wanted because I saw them in a magazine and thought they looked nice.
Just this morning, I almost fell because of them and was convinced that if I died young, it would be from the lethal combination of thin heels and gaps in this damn floor. It’s the perfect storm, and I’ve already twisted an ankle and fallen on my ass twice because of it. Only now, I’m looking, and the gap is gone, fresh grout where there had been none.
I glance around the rest of the foyer floor and notice someone fixed all the rough and worn spots of the tile. A wave of weepiness washes over me when I realize my dad probably came and filled in the gaps while I was at work today. When we were at our Sunday family dinner this week, my parents saw the ugly bruise on my arm from the latest incident with the floor, and Dad mentioned he’d get over to fix it.
I manage to hold back tears at him taking care of me, which is a small miracle because the antidepressant also makes me cry at the drop of a hat. That’s one side effect, I won’t miss when it’s gone.
With my shoes now in my hands, I climb the stairs to my bedroom to change before I greet the kids and Troy. As I think about how the people who love me have stepped up to help without even mentioning it, I’m filled with gratitude.
After I’ve changed my clothes, I head down the stairs, andas I approach the kitchen, animated conversation and intermittent giggling, mixed in with Troy’s deep laughter, fills my ears. As I get closer to the kitchen and then am in the doorway, my mouth practically waters at how good it smells.
Olivia sees me first. “Hi, Mom. You ready for some baked ziti? It was my pick tonight.”
The rest of the family, sitting at the kitchen table, turns and looks at me. Chase struggles to get down from his booster seat, flailing his upper body and trying to loosen the safety strap. With a grin, Troy helps him unbuckle it, picks him up, then places him on his feet.Chase runs to me on his chunky toddler legs and raises his arms, a clear request to pick him up. He’s covered in spaghetti sauce, but it’s okay. He’s adorable, and I’ll take these hugs from my baby any day. He plants a wet, slobbery kiss on my cheek, and I’m sure I look a hot mess already, but this is the best I’ve felt all day.
“Mama, you want some sketti?” Anything pasta-related, Chase calls sketti. Not spaghetti, not rigatoni, not ziti... sketti.
“Daddy made sketti? You know Mama loves sketti.” It’s then I catch a whiff of his breath.“Whoa! You’ve got some strong garlic breath, little boy.”My tone is teasing and light, and I kiss him on his sauce-stained forehead.
“Yeah, I made some roasted garlic for you, and you know I have a hard time keeping him away from it. He snuck two pieces,” Troy says. “Sorry about that.”
Chelsea chimes in nonchalantly, “It’ll keep the vampires away.”
“Vampires? Where are you learning about vampires?” I know we haven’t let her watch anything about vampires.
“In my books.” Chelsea continues picking at her ziti as if nothing is amiss.
I give Troy a look across the room, and we speak through our eyes. I’m pretty sure he’s also wondering how the heck our six-year-old kid slipped a vampire book past us. We’ll have to look into that one.
Troy stands, and as he does, I notice that he doesn’t have any food.
“You want me to make you a plate before I go?” he asks.
“Aren’t you gonna eat?” He shakes his head.
“Nah. I wanted to get the kids fed, and I figured I’d make enough so you could eat when you got home. I’m gonna head out. I can eat at my place.”
I notice from a glance at the table that Oliver is very quiet, watching the conversation, while the other kids are unaware of any tension.
“Troy, you cooked dinner for the family. Please eat with us. Right kids?”
Shouts of “Yeah, Daddy” and “Stay” fill the air. Troy agrees, though the way he twists his mouth and looks at the floor makes him seem reluctant.
Later, we’re all sitting at the table eating our dinner, and it takes everything in me not to moan at how delicious this food is. I’m an okay cook, but I can’t make anything that tastes this good. On the other hand, Troy’s specialties include the baked ziti, beef stroganoff, tuna casserole, and seasoned tilapia. His fish-based meals are the only time I can get my kids to eat fish.
When everyone is finished and satisfied, Olivia and Oliver go to their rooms to do their homework, and Chelsea goes to hers to read. She was super excited she didn’t have homework tonight because it meant she could spend a little bit more time with her books. I’ve never seen a six-year-old who loves to read as much as this kid.
“How about I take Chase upstairs and get him a bath while you clean the kitchen—or vice versa—then I’ll head out, so you guys have your evening?” Troy asks.
God, that would be amazing. But I feel guilty because he’s done so much already. “I can’t ask you to do that. I can do them both.”
“Nah, I don’t mind. It’ll be fun getting this little garlic monster cleaned up.” Chase starts cheering at the prospect of getting a bath with his dad supervising. I don’t know what it is, but that kid fights me about getting a bath almost every night. If anybody else puts him in the tub, he has a grand old time in there.
I put a half pot of coffee on since I sometimes enjoy an evening cup, and today is one of those days. As I clean up the kitchen, it registers that even though the initial side effects of the antidepressants are unpleasant, there’s something else happening. In the background of my emotions, there’s a pinch of what might be happiness. It’s hard to say because I haven’t felt it in a long time, but I think it’s trying to break through.
I finish wiping the counter when Troy walks into the kitchen. I glance up at him and can’t help but notice my physical attraction to him is still there.
Troy has never appreciated how good-looking he is. He’s well over six feet tall with plenty of lean muscle, gorgeous green eyes, and a jawline that no movie star can compete with. He’s a beautiful specimen of a man. It’s always amused me he doesn’t seem aware of it. He honestly doesn’t worry about how he looks as long as he is strong enough to care for his family and the people entrusted to him when working at the fire department.
He clears his throat, and I become aware I spaced out, staring at him.
“So, Chase is all washed up and ready for bed. I put him on the couch and let him have a little bit of screen time watching that show with the raccoon that lives in the house and has the skunk neighbor.”
I chuckle. “Yes, he loves that one, but I hate it at this point. There are days I think if I have to see another animated forest animal, I’ll lose my mind.”
Before Troy can respond, we’re interrupted by several dings alerting me to text messages. I don’t want to be that person who’s constantly looking at her phone, especially in the middle of a conversation, so I ignore it. Before I know what I’m doing, I look back at Troy, and a thought pops into my head, rapidly making its way to my lips.
Maybe it’s the aroma of the freshly brewed coffee I made, but tonight is nice, and I’m not quite ready for it to end. It’s normal, and I like that. Plus, I want Troy and I to have a good relationship so we can continue to co-parent well. I’ve spent the last eighteen years with this man. Just because we won’t be married anymore doesn’t mean I don’t care about him or that we can’t be cordial.
“Do you want to have a cup of coffee before you go?”
Troy glances around the room as if I might be talking to someone else and then rubs a hand over his mouth. He sticks both hands in the pockets of his jeans. I know this is one of his tells when he’s nervous or stressed. He watches me quietly, and I don’t like that he had to think about it. I assumed he’d be all about spending time together.
“Sure, if you don’t mind.”
I pour the cups, and Troy gets out the creamer. He reaches above the stove to the little shelf I had hung there years ago and grabs me one packet of the sweetener I use.
When we first sit at the table, we sip our coffee in silence. After a few moments, Troy glances up at me.
“How’s the new job going?”
I shrug. “It’s going okay. Everybody’s nice. I love my schedule, so I can still get the kids... I’m learning some things.”
It’s clear Troy hears the hesitation in my voice, and he watches me patiently.
“But...” he says.
I bite at my lower lip, feeling like I should be elated about the job I had wanted so badly. “Well, so far, it seems we have mostly big-name clients from the city. There aren’t any small local businesses represented. It makes me wonder who’s helping them. Do we accept them if they come to us or turn them away because they’re not big enough? That kind of thing.”
“Have you asked?”
“No, I’m too new there. I have to prove myself first.” I look down at my coffee cup and run my finger along the smooth ceramic rim. I think about how much I hated the staff meeting where everyone reviewed their client list and the status of the accounts. It was all significantly larger companies than anything we have here in Elladine.
“I’m studying for my test.” I’m eager to change the subject.
“That’s great, Shannon. I have no doubt you’ll pass that test with flying colors.”
He’s so sure of me. When did that happen?
“It’s really hard, Troy. Lots of people fail.” I glance at him and am surprised to discover I’m nervous, and I’m looking to him for reassurance.
“I know, I’ve read up on it. But you won’t fail.” His certainty comforts me. Wait? What? He’s read up on it. When? Why?
“I wish I had your confidence.”
I’m uncomfortable talking about me, so I change the subject, and Troy knows why. Nevertheless, he lets me, and we spend time talking about the kids and catching up on how they’re doing.
Before I know it, the coffee cups are empty, and disappointment settles over me. This is the most connection Troy and I have had since I asked for a divorce. Honestly, it’s the most connection we’ve had since well before that.
Troy wraps both hands around his cup—he always has to have something to still his hands when he’s uncomfortable—and looks down into the empty abyss of the ceramic. I don’t like that he’s doing it right now. That this is making him uncomfortable. I guess the reprieve from the way things have become is over.
“I guess I should get going. Thanks for letting me stay for dinner and coffee. I appreciated the extra time with the kids. And it was nice catching up.”
“Geez, you don’t have to thank me. I want you to be with the kids as much as you want.”A hint of something—pain, or anger, maybe—flashes in his eyes, but it’s gone as fast as it came on. “I can’t tell you how much I appreciate that you got the kids last minute like that. I don’t plan on making that a habit, and I’ll make that clear if it continues to be something they push. My altered schedule is something they agreed on when I took the job, so...”
“It’s never a worry, Shannon. They’re my kids. I love them. I’ll always take any time I can get with them.”
My phone dings again, and I realize I never looked at the first few texts that came across earlier.
“You should check that. That’s a couple of times now,” Troy says.
He stands and grabs both of our cups, and my eyes follow him as he walks over to the dishwasher. I glance down at my phone.
The first text thread is the one between me and my dad.
Me: Did you come and fix my grout today?
Dad: Nope, it wasn’t me. Maybe one of your brothers?
I had sent the same message to the group text with my siblings. I open that chat.
Me: Okay, which one of you protective big brothers fixed my grout? Oh, and who has been taking my trash to the curb most weeks? My vote is Jack (no offense, Ben).
I haven’t thought to ask about the trash until now, and I’m a bit embarrassed by that. Self-centered much?
Almost every week, I get up extra early on garbage day because I know I have to get the rubbish out at the end of the driveway. Believe me, four kids can make a load of trash, so it can be a few trips. But almost every week, the trash is already moved from the side of the garage to the pick-up spot.
I’ve tried watching to catch which one of my brothers or my dad is doing it, but I haven’t caught any of them.
When I read the text chain, I see several responses from my brothers and sisters. I’m confused. They’re all denying having anything to do with it.
I bite my lower lip. Then, when comprehension washes over me, I look up from my phone and find Troy in the doorway of the kitchen, clearly preparing to head out. His brow furrows.
“Everything okay?”
I stare at him. Would he do this?
“Did you fix my grout?” I blurt out. It almost sounds accusatory, and I feel bad since that’s not my intent.
Troy’s eyes widen as he rubs the knuckles of his hands back and forth against each other. He doesn’t answer immediately.
“Um. Yeah, I hope that’s okay. I didn’t want you to get hurt. After that near fall you had your first day...Plus, I realized it was something I meant to do for a while. I just hadn’t gotten to it. I had the time today, so I grabbed the stuff out of the basement and fixed it. I didn’t mean to cross a line. I hope you’re not mad.” He’s nervous and rambling.
I shake my head repeatedly. “No, I’m not mad. It’s...um, thank you, but you don’t have to do that.”
He nods his head once and puts his hands in his pockets again. His gaze fixes on the floor.
“Can I ask you something else, and have you answer me honestly?” He lifts his eyes to meet mine.
“Sure.” The hesitancy in his voice is amusing, like he doesn’t know what’s coming next and worries it might be ominous.
“Have you been taking out my garbage?”
Troy’s cheeks redden. Something I rarely see happen after eighteen years together.
“If I have been, is that a problem?”
“It’s not a problem, but it’s not something you have to do, Troy.”
“It’s my responsibility.” His words are firm now, his eyes piercing mine. I take a few slow breaths before I’m ready to answer.
“I can’t always rely on you to do things like that. Plus, you don’t live”—I close my eyes and count to three, then open them and look at him again—"You’re not staying here. It’s not your responsibility now.”
“I want to take care of things. You’re my family.” His voice is rough and low.
“The kids are your family. I’m n-not anymore. You don’t have to… you can’t try to take care of me.”I hate how the words feel coming out of my mouth. Troy’s face tightens for a split second, then he neutralizes it, and his expression flattens. He pulls his hands from his pockets and takes a step toward me. He stops himself and spreads one of his large palms over each side of the doorway as if he needs it to hold him in place. His body leans slightly forward, almost like it’s reaching for me. His eyes pierce me with their intensity.
“Shannon, it doesn’t matter what any piece of paper says or how much time passes after all this is done. Yes, the kids are absolutely my family, but you’re also my family. Whether we’re married or not married, you’re my family. You don’t have to feel the same, but you’ll always be that to me.” His voice is rough but firm.
My mouth opens, but I can’t formulate a response.
Troy turns and leaves without another word. About a minute later, I hear the familiar click of the front door as it closes, and I know he’s gone.
He’s gone. Tightness grips my chest, and my breathing picks up. Gone. Not only tonight but from now on. Gone.