Chapter 10 Lindsey
TEN
LINDSEY
Brooks's custody petition was approved, the court handed over the unofficial copy of Holly’s birth certificate, and he hasn’t stopped staring at it.
I’d tease him, but he seems so relieved and happy, I don’t want to ruin his euphoria.
His father’s drop-by the other day really shook him.
But once the judge signed off, his world seemed to center again.
“I’m thinking of framing it,” he says, craning his neck to keep the certificate in his view as he rounds the kitchen table in search of his compression sleeves.
He left them on the back of the recliner in the living room before we left for his appointment, so I snagged them when we got home and have been holding them out for him to take for the past several minutes.
He simply hasn’t been able to pull his attention from Holly or her birth certificate long enough to notice them in my hand.
I clear my throat after he glances my way without clocking the fact I have what he’s looking for.
Finally, he pops his gaze up, and it sinks in.
He laughs out a short “thanks” before snagging the sleeves and heading right back to the table to stare at the document.
I’m not one hundred percent certain where my boys’ birth certificates, yet he’s framing his daughter’s.
“You should wait for the real thing to come in from Iowa. It will be embossed and everything.” I waggle my brows, but Brooks waves a hand my direction.
“Pssh, I don’t need the embossed one in a frame. This one is the first with my name on it. Right there. It’s special.” He drags the paper closer with the tip of his finger, then taps the line listing him as the father.
Of all the times Brooks has seemed attractive to me—which are many—he’s never seemed sexier than this moment.
The pride that stretches his grin well into his cheeks and the gleam in his eyes over something so simple sit in my heart.
Brandon likes playtime with the boys and it was always my favorite part of our marriage, watching him swing the boys around in the back yard or play wrestle with them on the living room floor covered in couch cushions.
But those scenes were rare, and they were always brief.
The last rays of sun if he got home from the college in time, or before bed on the days he stayed to work late.
Grading. Office hours. Faculty meetings and enrollment studies.
There were so many things that kept him at the office late, and now, I can’t help but assume they were all bullshit.
He didn’t come home when he could because his dick was too hungry for someone else.
He passed up tickle time and tag so he could cheat on me.
Brooks disappears up the stairs just as my phone dings with a text. My stomach fills with dread at the sound. I hate messages now because they’re almost always from Brandon. And they’re usually curt and tinged with his special brand of superiority.
I carry my phone to the kitchen chair, where my books are still piled up from my morning study session. I close my eyes and draw in a deep breath.
Please be from my sister. My mom. A coupon for my favorite online clothing app.
I pop my eyes open and see my ex’s name, and my chest tightens.
brANDON: We’re heading back. The boys had a great day. I would really like to do more things with them. We’ll talk.
My shoulders sag, and the polarization of his words mentally knocks me around.
On the surface, Brandon wanting to do more with our sons is a wonderful thing.
I should be thrilled about it. Healthy co-parenting looks like this on the surface, or so says the book I’m reading on the subject.
Yet I can’t help but feel the weight of skepticism.
His words feel like he has an ulterior motive.
Like he wants to show off how much fun he can have with them and win their favor. And all of it is against me.
I shake my head to rid myself of those sour thoughts.
I have to keep my resentment separate from his relationship with our boys.
So what if he never seemed to have time to do things with us as a family before.
He’s putting in the effort now, and isn’t that more important?
That the boys know they are equally loved despite their parents’ separation?
I type back.
ME: I’m glad. Talk to you soon.
Bile creeps up my esophagus, so I set my phone screen-down on the table and walk away for a few minutes.
I unroll the yoga mat I stole from my mom when I moved, and sit in the center, stretching my arms up and closing my eyes while I focus on my breathing.
I used to be good at this. I could do all the poses, and clear my mind at the drop of a namaste.
It’s going to take more than a few deep breaths and a good stretch to get my head right now, though.
Regardless, I give it a whirl, stretching forward until my fingertips reach the edge of the mat.
My phone vibrates on the table, though, and my eyes pop open as my jaw tightens.
“I’m heading out. But I was thinking . .
.” Brooks speeds down the stairs in his pre-game clothes.
I’ve learned all too quickly that I like the way a man looks in baseball shorts and compression pants, and shirts.
I like the way Brooks looks in these things.
And in dark blue. And with hair that’s a little too long for his hat.
I pull my legs in and hold my ankles as he passes me, then picks my phone up from the table. I’m about to protest—I don’t really want to see what else my ex has to say—when Brooks hands my device to me, and I realize the ding wasn’t from Brandon; it was from Brooks.
“I get free tickets for every game. And Louisville is a good team, so it should be a good game tonight. And if you and the boys are bored, maybe—”
I hold his expectant gaze, then look at his text, which includes a link for three tickets. My mouth ticks up on the side on reflex.
“I bet they would like that,” I say.
“Yeah?” He threads his hands together behind his neck and squints one eye at me as if he’s not sure.
“Uh, the boys think you are way cooler than I am. I know they’ll want to go.” I press the download button for the tickets and save them to my phone.
“I mean, I am pretty cool,” he teases, exaggeratingly lifting a brow as he reaches toward me to help me to my feet. His grasp feels warm, and his grip practically engulfs my hand, and when he doesn’t let go right away, even after I’m standing, my belly warms.
Shit. Not again.
I break our hold and quickly bend at my waist to snag the yoga mat I barely used.
I turn my back to Brooks to tuck the mat into the hallway closet, where I decided it shall live, and by the time I come back to him, he’s busy tucking a few energy bars into his gear bag.
I’m not sure whether he’s running away from our spontaneous electricity like I am, but he rushes out the door with a quick, “All right, see you at the game,” and suddenly, other than the five-month-old who is fast asleep in the playpen behind the sofa, I’m all alone.
That’s been the hardest part since Brandon and I split.
It’s the moments when I’m all by myself that my mind grows loud and my thoughts work against me.
I feel like a failure, not as a mom, but as a woman.
Like I chose wrong, married wrong, couldn’t keep our relationship intact, and am getting exactly what I deserve—solitude.
I know my mind is a liar, but it’s also so very noisy.
I stand in the center of this big, empty house filled with very few of my things, and unravel all the decisions that landed me here.
Am I better off? Are the boys? I know what the experts would say.
I’ve read all their books in the two months since I moved out of the house I literally built with my ex.
I get the impact of my decisions—showing my boys what a woman is worth, my independence and loyalty, and how to coexist with an ex-spouse in a healthy way.
But why do I feel as if this is all falling on my shoulders?
Why does Brandon get to keep the house that I decorated?
That I cleaned for three years, and that I rocked our boys to sleep in late at night.
I won’t walk away with nothing in the end; Brandon, for as much of a jerk as he is, has said a few times that he intends to push for an even split of our assets.
I won’t have to battle for money. But time?
That’s another story. And time with the boys, as wild as they are, is priceless.
I’m not sure how long I’ve been standing in place and staring at the empty wall by the front door to my temporary home when Deacon and Riggs barrel through and rush past me. It may have only been seconds, but I think it’s veered closer to several minutes.
“Mom, Deacon says I can’t keep the truck dad bought us here. He says it’s a toy for Dad’s house.” Riggs pulls out a chair at the kitchen table and promptly flops into it on his knees before plunking a hefty toy monster truck on the tabletop.
I shake my head and pinch the bridge of my nose, rehashing my son’s tattle in my head. I’m not quite sure who he’s telling on, his brother or Brandon.
“I’m sorry, but huh?” I pull out a second chair for Deacon, who hoists his small backpack onto the table before holding his hands out toward his brother.
Riggs proceeds to push the truck across the wood toward his brother.
I snag it midway before it scuffs the table or falls to the floor with a bang that might wake Holly.
“This is not a ramp,” I say, carrying the toy across the room to the entertainment center. I set it on one of the high shelves, much to the boys’ protests.
“Ask your question again, about the toy and Dad’s house.” I pull out my chair and collect my books into a pile before my children build things out of them.
“Riggs wasn’t supposed to bring the truck in here.
Dad specifically said to leave it in the SUV so he could take it home to be a toy for his house.
But Riggs brought it in anyway. Now Dad’s gonna take it away.
” Deacon folds his arms over his chest and pushes his lip out in an incredibly forced pout.
I’m tempted to do the same, because WTF!
I let my head fall back for a beat, laughing lightly at this incredulous situation. First, he cheats on me. Then, he thinks he can set the rules.
“Dad also said for me to give you this,” Deacon says. I right my head and anticipate whatever gift my son is pulling out of his backpack. I prepare myself for a poisonous snake. Instead, I get a booklet stamped with the Oklahoma State seal.
My brow pinches as I pull the book close enough to read the title: Helping Children Cope with Divorce.
“He said you need to read it and then the two of you need to take a class together next week. He said if you don’t, he’ll have to tell the judge.”
I’m sure Deacon isn’t getting the wording exactly right, but also, there’s some truth at the root of his message. I’m sure Brandon’s words weren’t too far off. And the fact he’s saying things about court and a judge to our boys so early makes my skin itch.
“You know what?” I begin. “No. Just . . . no.”
I glance between the two boys, then toward the truck.
I push my tongue into my cheek, ignoring the very confused stares on my twins’ faces while I calm the fire brewing in my belly.
Another soft laugh bubbles from deep in my chest, and I hear how it sounds when it hits the air—like the kind of laugh a woman who steals dalmatians for coats would make.
I will not let this divorce turn me into the bad guy.
But I won’t be a pushover either. That’s not who I am. Never has been.
“You guys want to go to a baseball game tonight?” I flash my gaze to Deacon first, and he kicks his feet under the table as he shifts his stare to his brother.
“Do we get hot dogs?” Riggs asks.
I pivot my head and meet his gaze next, my grin inching up as I nod.
“And popcorn,” I add.
“Yes!” Riggs throws his hands in the air, and Deacon sprints from his chair, rushing to his brother and wrapping his arms around him as if I just told them we’re moving to Disneyland.
“Why don’t you boys go wash up and change while I feed Holly, and make sure you grab sweatshirts. The stadium gets cool at night.” I march across the room toward the truck while my boys slip from their chairs and skip toward the stairs.
I position the truck in the middle of the floor and take a photo of it with the stairs, and the rest of the house blurred behind it.
I save the image, then place the truck next to my small purse before waking Holly for her afternoon bottle and to check her for a diaper change.
I’m eager to fire off a text, or maybe even call my ex so he’s forced to listen to my words through the speakers in his SUV.
Nice and loud. And possibly in front of his young girlfriend, whose perfume I can clearly smell on our twin boys’ clothing.
But I’ll hold it in for something better.
I’ll wait for the weekend, after we take this truck—the toy that’s supposed to stay at Brandon’s house; a perk for being with dad—and photograph the shit out of it in every fun place we go for the next several days.
Holly coos as I lift her, and I swear there’s a sisterhood smirk on her lips. It’s probably just gas. Both fitting reactions to a cheating ex who has no idea the hornet’s nest he’s kicked with this shit.