Chapter 14 Lindsey
FOURTEEN
LINDSEY
It’s so much easier to be bold in the dark of night, under the auspices of a starry night and a few sips of wine.
It’s been three nights since the one Brooks and I spent together, and between his schedule and my record-setting stress, bedtime has been early and done alone.
I’m sure he thinks I’m giving him the cold shoulder.
Maybe I am. I don’t mean to, but I’m freaked out.
Not only because the boys basically caught us red-handed and will one day unravel our ridiculous cover story, but also, my parents clearly know something is going on.
I had to explain showing up at their house in an old cocktail dress at eight in the morning, and despite my best attempts at telling them it’s a long, crazy story, their quizzical expressions definitely verged on the judgmental side.
My mom did say I was allowed, then pointed at Brooks. She didn’t specify exactly what I was allowed to do.
Brooks and I haven’t talked about what happened, or how it changes things. Rather, how it can’t change things. We still need to have that conversation, but for now, I’d rather live off the leftover high from our amazing night, than run whenever I see him.
Totally practical to pull off for a year.
Not that I don’t want more. Because I do.
And not just the intimacy, but more . . .
period. Sex has a way of tricking the brain into believing anything is possible, and in the moment—or rather, moments—with Brooks, I did.
I convinced myself we could live a double life.
Have our own secret world at night, after the kids went to bed, then go back to business as usual during the day.
Eventually, when my divorce is final and custody settled, Brooks and I could go public.
Then I spent a full day with my thoughts.
Now, I realize I am anxious for him to come. I want to see him. To be with him. All of us together. A family. And I don’t want to wait. I want it now. And now is the only time I’m certain that can’t happen.
So, I’ve been running. When he enters the kitchen, I leave. When he’s in the room with me and the boys, my headphones are on and my books are open. And well before it’s time for bed, I disappear.
It’s exhausting, and depressing.
I’m in the clear for the weekend, at least. The Mavericks are on the road, and Brooks left early this morning.
He was moody, too, which made it easy to play moody right back.
I should probably have asked him what was going on, but I was so relieved that he didn’t want to hash out our situation, I let him stew around the kitchen after giving Holly a morning bottle without a single questioning eyebrow.
He didn’t even say goodbye when he left.
He just kissed his daughter’s forehead and walked out the door, never glancing my way.
It’s probably his way of dealing with the tension I’ve created between us.
The guy has had a lot of shit happen in his life, and he has every right to be gun-shy about letting people in.
That makes me feel even worse about how I’ve behaved.
If I were an adult, I’d suck it up and have the hard talk about my reality.
I’m not truly divorced. My ex is using anything he can to make me look like the bad guy so he can keep the boys in Oklahoma City. And Brooks makes a pretty damning checkmate.
Not that Brandon doesn’t have plenty of skeletons of his own.
Hell, he has the boys today, and I’m sure he’s having his girl-toy Caitlyn watch them while he meets me for our first co-parenting class.
I dropped Holly off with my parents so I could get here early, and so far, I’m the only co-parent in the classroom without her other half.
Typical.
Brandon was even late to our wedding because he booked an early tee time with his college buddies. He’s not even good at golf.
I keep checking my phone for updates from him, but he’s stopped putting messages to me in writing.
His texting consists of time stamps for when he’ll arrive for pick-up and drop-off dates, and that’s about it.
I think he’s paranoid that I’ll screenshot his words and use them against him in court, so instead, he no longer types any.
He’s probably right. I would. I have. Mostly the ones from the past, before we separated, when he promised to be home by morning only to turn around and message Caitlyn the room number for the hotel room he’s waiting in.
He didn’t realize I could see those because he doesn’t understand how cloud IDs work.
I definitely crossed an ethical line by logging in as him, but I had to know if my suspicions were justified.
Seeing the text messages led to spending five hundred bucks on a private investigator, which led to the photos that showed me exactly who she was.
It was my choice to leave. I knew I needed my family’s support.
At first, Brandon played the part of the repentant husband who made a grave mistake.
He actually begged me to stay, and I almost gave in.
But when I asked him to call her and end it right then, he flinched.
He wouldn’t take the phone. And I felt like the biggest fool in the world.
My mom and dad paid for my legal counsel so I could file a response to his divorce petition, challenging the custody portion.
I don’t have the funds to fight him on my own, and they don’t have the funds to pour the same amount into it I’m sure he will.
His parents have money to burn. And his mom never liked me.
I could tell. I’m sure she has a notebook somewhere of every parenting misstep she thinks I ever made.
I have a note for her—don’t raise a man who cheats on his wife.
I’m going to need to bluff my way through most of this.
And if that means flashing a few texts in front of him so he knows what cards I have, then that’s what I’m going to do.
We’ll both know I can’t use those in court.
But he’ll know I could send them to the folks in charge of who gets tenure at the university. And that sounds like something I’d do.
“Okay, let’s get started,” the instructor says, flipping up the doorstop on the community center door with her foot. It’s nearly closed when Brandon slides his hand in and makes it inside.
“You must be Mr. Berchaund?” the instructor says as he weaves through the rows of seats until he finds the one next to me.
“Yes, sorry. I’m leading a summer session for PhD candidates at the university, and I had students with questions after class. I won’t be late again.” He’s trying to impress the instructor, and probably the rest of the class. Nobody responds, not even a nod. My smile veers into smug territory.
“Here’s your workbook,” I say, sliding over the extra I picked up for him. I had a feeling he’d be late.
“Parking was a bitch, huh?” He chuckles, but I merely meet his eyes for a moment and blink.
“Come on. We’re supposed to be showing how we can work together. At least melt the ice a little,” he whispers.
My brow draws in, and I continue to stare at him while he flips through the pages of the workbook, reading ahead while the instructor illuminates the first slide of what I dread will be a very long presentation.
I think I hate him.
I shake my head as that thought floats through my mind. There was a time when I thought I loved this man, when I willingly gave up my career to support his. I’m so glad to have my boys, but how in the world did I ever have sex with their dad?
“Lindsey? Did you have an example?”
I snap my focus forward and instantly bead-up with flop sweats. My gaze darts to the screen at the front of the room, and I manically read through the question being posed.
Would I make this same parenting decision if we were still married, or am I allowing my anger, pain, or resentment to affect my judgment?
“This has come up for us,” Brandon says, answering for me.
My brow dents and my head swivels until he’s all I see.
“Explain.” The instructor leans her weight on the back of an empty chair as she narrows her attention on my ex.
“Well, my wife—I mean ex-wife,” he begins. The instructor holds up a palm, stopping him.
“She has a name. Use her name.” My lips draw into a faint, smug grin that I try to keep to myself. I’m sure it’s obvious to Brandon, though.
“Okay, you’re right. Lindsey was looking for a job, and she decided to take on nannying. Only, she chose to live on premises.”
I roll my eyes at his choice of words. Also, I’m not sure how the fuck any of this applies to her question for us.
He just wants to put the fact I moved in with another man out there for public consumption, to make me look bad.
And, well, I didn’t exactly notify him first, which I now know was a mistake as far as custody sharing is concerned.
“Okay, and you’re saying that if you were still married, would she have made the decision to work as a live-in nanny?
I’m not sure I’m following.” Our instructor squints as she stares at Brandon, and he scratches at the back of his neck under her scrutiny.
It’s one of his tells. He does it to buy himself an extra second or two to think, plus it makes him seem affable.
I’m not sure why, but it has always worked.
With me. With his parents, and mine. It’s his superpower.
One doesn’t win college debate tournaments and not know a thing or two about swaying opinions.
“What I mean is, would she make a decision about something on the level of where our children sleep without consulting me if we were still married? I’m not sure she would have.”
I catch a few people in the classroom nodding in agreement with him, and I audibly huff out a single laugh. I can’t believe any of this.
“Lindsey? What do you think?” The instructor shifts her body so she’s solely focused on me.
“I’m sorry, but I’m not even sure I understand this question. Would I have taken a job to support myself and the boys if Brandon hadn’t slept with one of his PhD students? I mean . . . probably not.”
The gasps that fill the room are accompanied by a few snickers, which does feel good. Any classmates he thinks he won over with that little performance of his have likely abandoned him.
“Lindsey, that’s not productive,” the instructor says, admonishing me.
I laugh again, a little louder this time. But I quickly snap my mouth shut when I realize I’m the only one amused by this. I scan the room for anyone else to commiserate with, but by now, I’ve made this space so goddamn uncomfortable, everyone is looking down at their books and pretending to read.
“Sorry,” I croak, twisting my lips, then flipping through my book simply to have something else to look at.
“It’s not the best example, but let’s explore this more,” the instructor says. She leaves her seat and returns to the front of the room. Meanwhile, I boil where I’m at, and don’t retain a single word for the rest of the class.
I can tell that Brandon wants to talk to me when the session ends, probably about spending more time with our boys—or his ultimate goal, having them live with him closer to the city.
And if I had actually learned anything about good co-parenting in this class, I’d probably stick around and hear him out.
But I’m hurt, and rather angry. So I tuck my workbook into my tote bag the minute our instructor tells us what to read for next week’s class, then make a beeline out the door, straight to my van.
I’m out of the lot first, and in my driveway in less than fifteen minutes.
I should head to my parents’ house to pick up Holly, but I’m too worked up.
I don’t want to drive angry when I have kids in the van.
I just need a few minutes to sit by myself.
I used to believe in the power of meditation.
It got me through honors classes in high school. Maybe I need to revisit that practice.
I consider pulling out my yoga mat as soon as I get inside, and I’m nearly to the front door when I realize something is off. The door is actually open. Not fully, but a crack. The door jamb is bent too, near the lock, as if someone pried it back with a crowbar. My heart races.
“Hello?” I say, my voice loud enough to carry into the foyer without me stepping foot inside. I hold my breath and listen for clues, praying whoever did this is not still inside. I pull my phone out and dial nine-one-one, then press my phone to my ear while I take one more step toward the house.
“Nine-one-one, what is your emergency?”
“I think there’s been a break-in at my house. I’m going to get back in my van and leave, but can someone check it out to make sure whoever did this is gone?”
“Yes, ma’am. I want you to get in your car right now, but stay on the line with me. Can you put the phone on speaker when you’re in your car?”
“Yes,” I say, backing up rapidly. I run once I’m in front of the garage, and practically toss my purse, phone, and self into the driver’s side seat of my van.
I crank the engine and back out of the driveway while giving the operator the address.
I head straight to my parents’ house, rushing inside while I’m still on the phone.
I hold on through it all, the operator alerting me when the officers arrive, and when they give the all-clear.
They snap a few photos and send them to me, and I nearly fall over taking in the view of papers thrown all over the house, books torn in pieces, glass shards on the kitchen floor, and holes punched in several of the walls.
“I can’t stay there tonight,” I say, both to the operator and to my parents.
“Mom’s making a bed up,” my dad says, his stutter from his stroke nearly gone thanks to months of vocal therapy.
I end the call with the operator and mentally prepare myself for a visit from the detective within the hour. Holly is fast asleep, something I wish I was. The only thing left to do is to call Brooks. And he’s on a field somewhere in the Ozarks, probably in the third or fourth inning of a game.
I dial him anyhow, and when I get his voicemail, I try to keep my voice from quavering.
“Hey. It’s uh . . . it’s me. I don’t want you to worry, but there was a break-in at the house. I’m fine. Holly is fi—”
“This voicemail is now full.” A beep sounds in my ear, followed by dead silence. I dial Brooks again, and the call simply goes nowhere once the rings give out.
“Shit,” I mutter, my mom the only one close enough to hear me. I flit my gaze to her, and we give each other a shared look that basically says the same thing I uttered. Shit.
That message cut off at the worst possible time. At some point tonight, Brooks is going to freak the fuck out. And he’s going to be in Lake of the Ozarks when he does.