Chapter 21 Natalie #3
I’m torn, as I walk inside, because I really do like Cillian. When he kisses me, a tiny thrill runs up my spine. My hands itch to touch his face, his chest, every part of him, really. The chemistry’s there, and he’s a supportive, kind boyfriend.
Even so, I was a little surprised when he called me his girlfriend. We’ve been dating for a while, but I didn’t realize he wasn’t dating or interested in anyone else. It’s felt. . .casual between us.
Or maybe I’m the one who thinks of it that way, because I don’t want to be hurt again if he’s more like Mason than I hope.
For a split second, when that woman hugged him, a relatively attractive woman close to our age, I did wonder.
But that’s my past baggage throwing up red flags where they don’t exist. I can’t put that on him when he’s done nothing to deserve it.
Her response made it clear that she had no designs on Cillian, no matter how hot he may be.
I’m walking through my reasons why the word girlfriend surprised me when I unlock my own front door, and I can’t really figure out why.
We’ve gone on a date or two each week for more than a month.
We talk every single day on the phone, and text most days on and off all day.
He came to Thanksgiving, and he helped me with Halloween.
He’s been supportive in every way, even if he’s busy right now.
I’m still ruminating when I realize how dark everything is. Vanessa and Trish must’ve gone home. I walk through the kitchen silently, and I head for the family room. The blinking golden lights of the tree always calm me down quite a bit, especially when I’m worried about something or fretting.
Only, not tonight.
Because tonight, Trace is kissing Clara under them.
The word I say isn’t a nice word. It’s not a word I’m proud of, but I do say it rather loudly, and the two of them spring apart.
“Mom.” Clara glares, and then she darts for her room, like a mouse fleeing the kitchen lights switching on.
“Uh, sorry.” Trace looks down at his feet, then his head snaps back up, his eyes meeting mine. He’s smiling when he shrugs, and then he shoots out, even faster than Clara did.
So much for the holiday lights helping me think. I stumble into the kitchen and collapse on a chair. I should call my boyfriend. Maybe Cillian will give me some perspective, but instead, I find myself calling Mason.
“Hello?”
“Hey, I know you’re in—where are you again?”
“Spain,” he says. “There’s a conference on—”
“I don’t actually care,” I say. “I just wanted to make sure I wasn’t waking you up in the middle of the night.” I freeze. What if he’s not alone. “Or, you know. . .interrupting something.”
“You aren’t,” he says. “I was putting together a proposal on my computer, but that can wait. What’s wrong?”
All of a sudden, I remember the hundreds of times he’s been there when things have gone wrong.
When Amelia needed stitches after flipping over in a hammock.
After the fundraiser I planned for the elementary school fell apart.
He was my rock when I got the flu the night before a big social media campaign.
He was slow with household tasks, and he didn’t pay enough attention to understand a lot of things the kids needed, but he held down the fort when my grandmother died, and I was a wreck for several weeks.
Mason may have completely wrecked our life together, but he’s still Mason.
“I caught Clara kissing Trace Littleton.”
He swears loudly—the exact same word I said.
“You get it, at least.” I groan. “What am I supposed to do?”
“I’m ordering an industrial strength chastity belt, and I’ll pay for overnight delivery.”
I laugh. “Stop.”
“I mean it. It’s got a bio key, so she won’t be able to get that baby off without your thumb print or mine.”
Now I’m really laughing. “Mason, be serious. What can we do? Anything I say, to Clara or to Vanessa, is sure to hurt feelings. It’s complicated, and he’s not an awful kid.”
“Agree to disagree. He’s a pothead, for heaven’s sake, who’s barely getting Cs. They celebrated when he got one B. I heard Vanessa say that, like it was worthy of an award.”
“Every kid is different,” I say. “But he’s not who I’d pick for Clara.”
“The smartest kid in the entire town.” Mason huffs. “Me either.”
“Okay, but we need some kind of plan,” I say.
“He’s really good-looking, and thanks to hurling, he’s popular at school, too.
If we forbid this, it’s going to get bad.
What do we do? Do we ignore it? Confront them?
Talk to Vanessa?” I hear that I’m becoming hysterical, but I’m not sure how to stop.
“What am I supposed to do here? You have to tell me.”
“You buy a nightstand, and it comes with a manual,” he says. “You’d think someone would have a manual for this kind of thing, right?”
“Mason, I don’t have time to buy and read another book on positive parenting right now. It’s too late for that, clearly. Clara ran to her room after I swore at them.”
“Right, yeah. I’d have done that too. So, huh.”
“You said the exact same word.”
“Yeah, that’s not really great as a first step, I guess. Not that I’m criticizing you.” He snorts. “At least they were both clothed, right?”
I shriek. “Oh my word, stop. Yes, I caught them in the family room, standing, fully clothed, in front of the Christmas tree.”
“By the Christmas tree. That would be cute, if it wasn’t my kid.”
“Mason, be serious.”
“I am, I mean, look, she’s not pregnant.”
“Yet.”
“And as far as we know, he’s been a pretty good kid now that he got his Irish reset, so maybe it’s not that bad. For now, don’t talk to anyone. Keep a close eye, and let things run their course. Hopefully it’ll fizzle out.”
“You think if I say anything, it’ll—”
“It will one hundred percent add fuel to the flame, yeah, especially with a personality like Clara’s. She’s always been a little too rage-against-the-machine. So maybe we don’t give her a machine to rage against.”
“So I shouldn’t go to her room and confront her. I should let her stew.”
He laughs. “Knowing you? She’ll be terrified all night, and you did nothing to punish her at all. It’s perfect.”
Is it? Or is it just the path of least resistance? “Isn’t that kind of non-parenting?”
He sighs. “Maybe. I know that’s always been my path. Do nothing and hope it works out. It usually does work out, but not because of me. Because of you.”
It’s nice he sees that, at least.
“I think I need to talk to her,” I say. “I’ve never wanted to punish the kids.”
“I know,” he says. “Alright, well, just go easy on her. I do think with her, if you push, it’ll get worse.”
“She’ll like him more, yeah.” I sigh. “Thanks for talking me off the edge.”
“Thanks for always doing the hard things with the kids. I’m sorry I leave all of that to you. I know it’s really not very fair of me. You were just always so much better at it than me.”
“That’s the same lame excuse you gave for the laundry.”
“You are better,” he says. “Remember the time I dried your expensive Pottery Barn blanket and the faux fur fibers melted?”
I sigh.
“Or when I dried that sweater and it shrank?”
“I’m thinking you could have saved us a lot of misery by building a clothesline and never drying anything.”
He laughs. “Natalie, I am sorry for all the misery I caused. I do mean that.”
I suddenly feel a little guilty for calling him and not Cillian. I know Cillian has very little to share in the way of advice on kids and parenting, but this conversation is getting weird. “I know.”
“I understand why you don’t want to give me another chance, and I know you’re dating that guy.”
“Cillian,” I say. “My boyfriend has a name.”
“I won’t push you again, but I want you to know that I’m here in Ireland for you. I didn’t move here for the kids, though I love them a lot. I moved to Ireland, because if you are ever ready to give me another chance, I want it.”
Oh, boy. “Well, I better go talk to Clara.” I hang up, but not because I’m angry.
Because I’m scared.
He’s being the Mason I used to love, and he’s still crappy in some ways.
He didn’t stay here for the kids? Our kids?
Really? But he’s also saying the things my heart longs to hear.
That I wasn’t a complete moron. That he really did love me, in spite of the way he behaved.
That I’m not a complete loser who was duped and mistreated our entire marriage.
That he regrets what he did.
That leaving me, that losing me, was the great mistake of his life.
I don’t want to take him back, but it does heal my heart a little bit to know that he wishes he’d been better. Done better. I stand a little straighter when I march my way back to Clara’s shared room and tap. “Clara, can you come out?”
“No,” she whispers. “I might wake Amelia.”
“Get out here now,” I say. “Or I’ll wake her for you.”
She creeps out, her eyes darting back and forth. “Mom, I don’t want to talk about it.”
“Which is exactly why we need to.” I fold my arms, and I point down the hall at the family room and the sparkling tree.
“The scene of the crime?” Her eyebrows rise. “Really?”
I laugh. “Not a crime,” I say. “The start of something, I assume. Or have you been doing that for a while?” I carefully close the door.
“Mom.” She blushes bright red. “Yes, it was the start, geez.”
I’m smiling as we walk back into the family room, dark but for the twinkling lights of our Christmas tree. “Alright, then tell me what’s going on.”
She sits on the edge of the couch, so I take the chair. She’s staring at her hands. “I mean, I like him. I’ve liked him since we got here, I guess.”
I knew that much. “And?”
Her head snaps up. “He likes me, too.” A tiny, almost secret smile brightens her face. “And tonight, he told me that. So I kissed him.”
She kissed him. We’re in for it, now. “And you’re happy about it.”
She nods. “Please don’t yell and ruin it.”
“I’m not going to yell,” I say. “But I will just say, it’s high school. Emotions and hormones are high, and—”
She groans. “Hormones, Mom? Really?”
I chuckle. “Fine. I won’t blame your hormones.” Even though everyone but her can see that Trace’s main draw is his appearance. “I’ll just say this.” I run a finger down the side of her face. “You’re beautiful and bright and perfect, and you’re very, very young. Please be smart and careful, too.”
“I’m not going to sleep with him, Mom, geez.”
I laugh. “I didn’t mean that, though that’s good to hear. I meant, be careful with your heart. It’s fragile, and it’s perfect. Boys are all a bit of a gamble, but especially this boy.”
“Because he used to smoke pot?” She arches one eyebrow.
“Because he’s so beautiful,” I say. “And he knows it.”
She laughs, and then she hugs me. “I love you, Mom.”
When I go to bed that night, I can’t decide whether an ‘I love you,’ in this circumstance means that I said the right things, or that I didn’t go hard enough.
I wish kids did come with a manual, because I have no idea whether this extra pile of screws I have leftover means I’m doing things all wrong or the factory just sent too many.
I’m just left to guess, but the stakes feel a lot higher than with a nightstand from Ikea.