Chapter 18 - Lindsey
EIGHTEEN
LINDSEY
I’m still not quite used to the security system Brooks had installed. It’s been two weeks, and I’ve set the alarm off every day except for one. Normally, I can get to the panel in time to shut it off before the screeching noise starts to blare. Not today, though.
An arm full of groceries, two hangry boys, and Holly in her carrier all make it hard to be nimble. The auto-call to the sheriff’s department has probably already gone through, so I punch in the code once my hands are free, then dial the non-emergency line to wave off the troops.
“I felt safer without the loud alarms,” Deacon says, his hands over his ears. He may be a wild boy, but he’s never been fond of loud sounds.
“I know, sweetheart. But I promise the alarm system is a good thing. I’ll get better at using it,” I say, holding up a finger as soon as the operator answers my call.
“Payne County Sheriff’s Office. How may I direct your call?”
I recognize the voice on the other line, which is a bit mortifying. It’s bad enough to set off a false alarm, but to have someone you knew during your awkward teenager years in charge of it is the cherry on top.
Jade Zildesky was the prom queen my grad year. And she was a genius. She had a full ride to Texas Tech, but like me, she left school early to raise kids. She got divorced last year, or so I heard through the very loud Sweetwater grapevine.
“Hi, umm . . . I had a false alarm. Is there a chance you can cancel the alert before a squad car shows up?”
“Lindsey Blackwood?”
Fuck. She recognizes my voice.
“Hey, Jade. Yep!” I let out a breathy chuckle as I start to pace around the kitchen table. “Can you help a girl out?”
I bite my nail while she tells me to hold on, and after nearly a minute, she pops back onto the line to let me know the alert was canceled.
“Bless you,” I say.
“No sweat! Hey, I didn’t realize you were back in town? Weren’t you living out in those fancy homes on the county island?”
I sure was. Felt kind of smug about it, too. Until I found out my ex snuck his girlfriend over when I wasn’t home.
“Yeah, Brandon is still there. I’m . . . here.”
There’s a long, quiet pause while Jade likely pieces together the clues, and eventually she says, “Got it.”
“It gets easier, just so you know,” she follows up.
I plop down in one of the kitchen chairs while I rock Holly’s carrier with my toe. She’s getting heavy in that thing. I think it’s time to move her into something bigger. It all happens so fast.
“That’s good to hear. Because it’s pretty damn hard right now,” I say through a soft laugh.
“I’m sorry,” Jade says.
I straighten my spine and shake my head.
“I mean, not because of the ex. Believe me, there was nothing hard about that.” I realize after a pregnant pause that she probably thinks I was making a dick joke, so I laugh. She joins me, then says she understands that part, too.
We make plans to get together sometime, an idea that will probably never come to fruition but feels nice to say, then I end the call and unpack the ingredients for shepherd’s pie.
Apparently, this town has been talking about my cooking skills, and Brooks has been listening.
I’m actually in the mood to make something good from scratch, and it’s been a while since I’ve pulled my grandmother’s cornbread recipe out of the tin. Of course, now I need to find the tin.
I start my search for the once the groceries are all tucked I way.
I want everything ready so I can cook later.
I’m half buried in a cabinet when I hear the front door swing open along with the three beeps from the alarm.
My heart skips, and I crack the back of my skull on the edge of the sink as I sit up.
“Ohh, that must have hurt,” Brooks says, shutting the door and punching in the code in seconds before darting into the kitchen to inspect the back of my head.
“I think I’m fine,” I say. Meanwhile, he cradles my head as if it’s a priceless Fabergé egg.
I swivel my neck to meet his eyes, and when his gaze hits mine, it’s quickly followed by his perfect smile.
“Hi.” He leans into me, but I flinch, moving back and banging my head on the cabinet’s edge.
“Ohh, you need to leave this room. He helps me to my feet.
“The boys are washing their hands. We can’t . . .” I shake my head, and he grimaces but nods.
I hate the rules, too. It would be so much easier if we could just act like a couple all the time. But there are too many things at risk, and too many people with opinions I don’t want to hear.
“Fair warning. The boys have decided they want to play tee ball in the fall. And they would like you to coach,” I say to him on my way back to the chair I pulled out from the table earlier.
I sit down and begin pulling my things together for my mediation meeting with Brandon.
We’ve completed two sessions of co-parenting class, in which I learned how challenging it’s going to be to co-parent with a narcissist. This afternoon, we hash out our differences in the parenting plan each of us submitted.
The distance Brandon and I are apart with our ideas is canyon-esque.
“Really? The boys want me to coach?” Brooks says, taking a seat across the table from me. He stacks my notebooks neatly, then hands them to me to tuck into the leather satchel I now refer to as my divorce bag.
I nod, but bite my tongue because there’s a second part to their plan that he’s going to dislike perhaps as much as I did. He tilts his head and reduces his smile to a straight line.
“They’d like Brandon to coach, too. With you. Which is—”
“Fucking awesome!” he responds.
I eye him skeptically.
“No, seriously. This is perfect. He’ll get comfortable with me out on the field, because we’re dudes, and sports is like neutral territory. And then he’ll grow comfortable with the idea of us cohabitating, and eventually, we can pretend our relationship was just a natural progression, and then—”
I hold up a hand, chuckling so hard it takes me a minute to speak.
“I’m sorry, but that was, A, a pretty misogynistic fantasy, assuming just because you both are dudes that sports will save the day.
B, Brandon has zero athletic ability. At least, not on your level.
He’ll resent you for making him look stupid.
And finally, C, there is no way he is ever going to buy the idea that we weren’t hooking up all along. ”
Brooks chews at the inside of his cheek but a slight smirk takes hold.
“Hooking up,” he says with a snort laugh.
“Gah!” I wave a hand at him before grabbing my satchel along with my phone and keys. “You’re impossible.”
His hand grazes my ass as I pass, and I swat it but giggle because dammit, I like the dangerous flirting. We’re going to get caught; I’m sure of it. But we haven’t yet. And the rush makes every stolen moment so much hotter.
The boys rush into the room a second later, diving onto the couch and pretending to slide into second base the way they saw Brooks do it a few weeks ago. They’re dying to go to another game. Maybe this weekend, if I can swing it.
“Hey, I have an idea!” Brooks raises his hands up to get the boys’ attention, then glances at me and winks on my way to the door. “How about we build a baseball diamond in the living room out of pillows?”
“Yeah!” The boys start pulling apart the couch as I leave, and it’s hard not to stay. As it is, I’m going to have to be vague about who I left them with. Kind of like Brandon was during our parenting class.
Mediation is about thirty minutes away in one of the county satellite offices.
It was the closest thing to a neutral location we could settle on, and mostly smack in the middle between both of our homes.
I pull into the parking lot next to Brandon’s Land Rover, and the sight of my six-year-old base-level minivan next to his year-old premium ride speaks volumes.
Unfortunately, I’m the only one listening and seeing.
I shrug my bag over my shoulder and beep the fob for my van as I trek across the gravel lot and into the portable building used for traffic court and divorce hearings. The next time I show up here it will be the actual end of us, and truthfully, I can’t wait.
I check in at the makeshift front desk, and the administrator makes a copy of my driver’s license before waving me to the back of the building.
I spot Brandon first through the slender window, then his lawyer comes into view, followed by the last-minute attorney I was able to cobble payment for, together with my parents’ help.
It looks as though they’re waiting on the mediator still, so I let myself in and do my best to avoid making eye contact with anyone but my lawyer.
“Thank you for coming,” I say to the man whose name I don’t quite recall. He stands and straightens his tie, then shakes my hand before pulling a chair out for me to sit down. He’s already more chivalrous than my ex. I somehow keep that thought internal, and preen a little for that.
I pull my bag to my lap and flip through the folder I tucked in there before I left, searching for the torn paper I scribbled the attorney’s name on. Jeff Peters!
I pull a notebook out next, then tuck my bag next to my chair just as the mediator enters the room.
It’s a woman, which probably shouldn’t mean anything but means a lot to me.
Brandon leaps to his feet first, reaching across the table to shake the tall blonde woman’s hand.
Brandon may be a professor, but I swear, sometimes he acts more like a salesman.
“Good to meet you,” the woman says, offering a pleasant smile. She doesn’t look overly impressed, however, and that gives me a dose of hope.
“I’m Molly Redmon.” She turns to me and I take her hand.
“Lindsey. Nice to meet you.” I clear my throat when I hear how raspy it sounds.
“You tired?” Brandon says, and I glance at him, wondering why he’s trying to come off friendly.
“I’m fine,” I say. My response is curt, I realize as we all sit, so I tack on, “Thank you for asking.”