Chapter 20 #3
“Well, I don’t think we’re going to do any holidays there,” I tell him slowly, trying to navigate my way through this conversation in an age-appropriate manner.
“I know you heard me talking to my lawyer on the phone, and I’m sorry about that.
Fighting in court isn’t what you’re picturing. It’ll be fine.”
“Do you promise?” he asks, jumping on the assurance immediately. “You promise I won’t have to leave?”
“No, Parks, I can’t promise. But the lawyer thinks everything will work out, and he’s the one who knows what he’s talking about.” I jostle his knee. “I’m just a hockey coach, remember?”
“Fake job,” he jokes, a ghost of a smile on his face as he quotes my mum. I smile back, even though the expression feels unnatural right now. Feels like a lie.
“I wish your mum and dad would come back, too,” I finish softly, and he immediately looks back down at his lap, trying to hide his face. “And you can talk to me any time you miss them, because I do too. Maybe it wouldn’t be so bad if we could miss them together.”
He nods, rubbing a fist over his puffy eyes. I want to hug him again. Cradle him to my chest the way I did when he was small; convince him everything will work out and have him believe me.
“Des?”
“Yeah?”
“Do you think Jack is mad at me?” he asks tentatively, voice small and exhausted.
I shake my head. I’m pretty sure mad is a factory setting Jack doesn’t possess.
I have a feeling Jack is nervously planted right where we left him, uncomfortable and tense and likely wishing he’d passed on this particular invitation to come over.
“No,” I answer honestly. Parker grimaces, cheeks colored with humiliation. I feel for him, worried he’s embarrassed himself in front of someone he looks up to.
“Are you mad at me?”
“No,” I repeat, a touch more firmly.
I know we’re going to have to talk about him snooping through my stuff, but it feels so insignificant right now, and the pair of us are too emotionally drained to make the effort.
I’m less worried about him seeing my fumbling attempts at creating a budget, and more concerned about the fact that he’s obviously stressed about the custody battle; the fact that he’s scared he’ll be taken away.
My own fear sits heavy inside me, pushing at the careful boundaries I erected to keep it contained; to keep myself sane.
I thought I’d been doing a good job keeping the worst away from Parker.
“Can I stay in here for a little bit?” he asks, picking at the wadded-up ball of tissue in his fist. I hold a hand out for it, trying not to make a face when he places the wet, snotty pile in my palm.
“Sure. Come out when you’re ready.” I stand up and go to dispose of the tissue in his bathroom, washing my hands. It’s pretty clear he’s asking for privacy, and probably also wants to hide from Jack. Pushing his desk chair back to its place, I touch the top of Parker’s head. He glances up at me.
“Are you…you’re not worried about me and Jack, are you? Me spending more time with him than you? Are you wishing it could just be you and me again?”
“No.”
“Are you sure, Parks?” I press. “Because you come before Jack, or anyone else. We’re in this together, so I need you to tell me if anything bothers you.”
He scrunches up his face, wiping the back of his hand under his nose. “What are you talking about? I already told you I like Jack.”
“I know, but…actually, never mind.” I give the crown of his head another rub and a little shake, which makes him smile. It drops almost immediately.
“Jack’s going to think I’m a baby,” he says, glancing up at me, face scrunched and a great deal less puffy than it was five minutes ago.
“No, he won’t. It’s okay to have emotions, and it’s okay to cry.
” Still touching his hair—curls damp from the shower, and so like mine—I brush my hand through a couple times.
It’s a testament to everything that’s happened tonight that he isn’t slapping my hand away.
“Come out when you’re ready, all right?”
He nods and I head for the door, peeking back at him as I close it softly behind me.
It takes all the strength in my body not to slump against the hallway wall, and slide to the floor.
This, right here, is why being an adult is a fucking scam.
Thirty years old, and all I want right now is someone to take care of me; to give me the kind of hug I gave Parker, and tell me everything will be fine.
Instead of closing myself in my room and engaging in a little crying of my own, I turn toward the living room.
I feel a little bad for Jack—invited over for an evening of emotional turmoil instead of relaxation.
I’m also a little worried, because previous experience has shown that Jack doesn’t react well to stressful situations.
He’s probably feeling awful, which makes me feel pretty awful in return.
The main light is off in the kitchen, and the living room is dimly lit by the single lamp on the end table.
Jack, seated on the floor with his back to the couch, doesn’t hear my soft-footed approach.
I stand at the mouth of the hallway, watching.
He’s bent over the washing basket I’d pushed to the side to deal with later, carefully folding the clean clothes and putting them in piles on the coffee table.
He’s got an orderly row of shirts, boxers, and a pile of socks that he’s paired and rolled together.
For some reason, watching the careful way he folds a pair of underwear makes me want to cry.
Pushing up off the wall where I’d leaned, I step into the room and draw his eyes. His hands, clasped around one of Parker’s shirts, fall to his lap as he gazes up at me. I walk over and take a seat next to him, crossing my legs and slumping back against the couch.
“Sorry, Jack.” I can’t even find the energy for the nickname, the emotional fatigue so potent my entire body feels sluggish. It’s not even eight o’clock, and I’m pretty sure I could go to bed right now; sleep all the way through until morning.
“Is he okay?” he asks. I turn my head to look at him, the room dark but still bright enough for me to see the color of his hair, and a hint of freckles where the light touches his skin.
“Yeah. Now he’s feeling a little embarrassed that you saw him cry.” I rub a finger into my eye, jaw cracking as I yawn. “It’s tough being ten.”
“It is,” Jack agrees, both of us speaking softly, only a foot of distance between our faces. “You okay?”
“It’s also a little tough being thirty,” I reply, trying to make it sound like a joke and not a plea for help.
He doesn’t laugh, but gently folds the shirt he’s holding before adding it to what is evidently the Parker pile.
Cheeks red, he scoots close enough to me that our legs press together, and slowly puts an arm over my shoulders.
When I lean into it, he sighs in relief and tightens his hold.
It’s endearing how shy and tentative he is, even about contact as gentle as this.
The truth is, all I’ve ever wanted or needed from a partner is a tender, quiet sort of love.
Love that looks like this—helping with chores that aren’t his to do, and touching meant to soothe, nothing more.
“You didn’t have to fold this,” I tell him, staring at the neat piles of clean clothes on the coffee table.
His thumb circles gently on my arm, hesitant enough that I can barely feel it.
I put my own hand on his leg, just to rest it there, and wait to see if his sharp intake of breath means he’d like me not to.
Instead, he adjusts himself so he can pull me in closer, the hand on my arm slipping below the sleeve to find skin.
I’m not sure where this surge of bravery has come from, but I’m appreciative of being the beneficiary.
Anything to keep the pad of his thumb drawing a figure-eight on my bicep .
“I like folding laundry. It’s soothing.”
“I call that basket the pit of despair,” I admit, making him chuckle. “Did Parker stress you out a bit?”
“A bit,” he agrees. “But, like, dogs barking stresses me out, so that’s not saying much. Mostly I just felt bad for him, and you.”
“Poor kid had that brewing for a while, I think. You know, sometimes I feel confident in how things are going with him, and then others…fuck, I don’t know. I don’t want to do anything wrong.”
Jack breathes in and out a few times, but keeps his silence. There’s nothing for him to say, anyway. We both know I’m going to mess up—all parents do.
“Maybe the most important thing is to love him,” Jack whispers after the silence stretches to minutes.
“I…I didn’t have a lot of food as a kid, or, like, a nice place to live.
But the worst part was knowing that my parents didn’t even want or like me.
If anyone had asked me to choose between a sandwich or a hug from my mom, I would have picked the hug every time. ”
I close my eyes, shutting off one sense to focus on the others.
To focus on the way my butt is going numb and how my hip is digging into the couch in a slightly uncomfortable way; the big warm body next to mine, and the smell of dryer sheets.
Jack has the slow, even breathing of an athlete, soothing without even meaning to be.
I wish, suddenly, that we were at the point where inviting him to stay the night wouldn’t be strange.
I’d like to fall asleep listening to that breathing.
“You’re right,” I tell him, opening my eyes and smiling when the first thing I see is the pile of socks.
“And that’s pretty much been my approach to parenting so far.
Victoria—my sister—grew up angry and mean; I grew up dreaming of running away, and I don’t want Parker to ever feel like those are his only options. ”