Chapter 12
Five hours later I have been swept back into my slightly complicated reality. It’s soccer Tuesday, and I’m barbecuing hamburgers so I can feed the kids before Pete picks them up. I shake off a daydream that Pete will show up early and take them to dinner, or even just arrive with a pizza.
Besides being out on the water, I think this Tuesday-night break is the thing that keeps me sane. Pete coaches the girls’ soccer team (Iris is quite good and plays up a year), so he can’t really back out. There are a million things I could do with this time, but I usually collapse on the couch with a bowl of popcorn and watch Netflix.
I have to see Pete one extra time this week because we are meeting with the mediator on Friday. We are supposed to bring our financial records and tax returns. Pete has made a complete list of our assets. There’s a savings account and a brokerage account with a few stocks and both of our 401(k)s. Two cars and we have some equity in the house. It’s an upside-down state of affairs. We are dividing the things that don’t matter. It’s the things that aren’t on the list that tell the story of our marriage. The travel books we bought and never used, the collection of tiny cleats that were too cute to give away. The Etsy quilt I had made out of the girls’ soccer jerseys. He was excited because he thought I made it, and I laughed, explaining how much work it was just to collect the jerseys and mail them to the Etsy woman in Oregon. He seemed disappointed that I hadn’t gone to more trouble.
We’re eating at the kitchen counter when Pete shows up. He’s in his biking shorts and matching top that smooshes his body in that way I find vaguely repulsive. He kisses the girls on their foreheads and gives Cliffy a squeeze. “I need to get changed before soccer,” he explains to them, not me. “I’ll be right back.”
And with that, he bounds up the stairs into my bedroom, presumably to undress while silently judging my unmade bed and yesterday’s unfinished crossword on the table next to it. He’ll use my toilet and come downstairs with a remark about the aromatherapy candles I’ve lined up at the foot of the bathtub.
I am defensive, and I feel my chest tightening and heat racing from my gut to my face. Take a deep breath, my mother says in my head, and I do. I place my hand on my pounding heart and am shocked by the fact that the pilot light of my anger is flickering more fiercely with him in my bedroom than it did when he left a year ago. I’ve adjusted, and I’m doing just fine on my own. He doesn’t get to know what that looks like.
He’s back downstairs in his gym shorts and Beechwood Soccer T-shirt, and he looks annoyingly less gross. “?‘Arugula,’?” he tells me. “Six across: it’s ‘arugula.’ Saw you got stuck.” He places his hands on the girls’ heads and says, “Ready to go?”
They’re still eating, so no. I’m annoyed that he’s rushing them, and, more acutely, that he’s invaded my crossword puzzle. “Yesterday sort of got away from me,” I say. “How’d you have time for a bike ride after work?”
“I took the day off. I met with a Realtor. I’ve rented a bigger place.”
I haven’t been through the numbers, but I’m pretty sure there’s no extra money. There’s no way I can stay here and he can afford a bigger place. “How’s that going to work?” I ask. I’m using my nonchalant voice so as not to alert my children to the fact that I am feeling hyper-chalant.
“We’ll rejigger some expenses,” he says without looking at me. “Come on, girls, cleats on.” And he looks over his shoulder at me with the closed-mouthed smile that I’ve seen him use with car dealers and his dad. He’s lying, and I know I need a lawyer.