Chapter Thirty
Atlas
Dinner was actually good.
The boys and I ordered from Antonia's, not really wanting to repeat this morning's cooking disaster on my part, something we laughed about while the boys ate their pizza and I ate my cheesesteak.
Liam talked about his science project—he and Will need to build a small electric motor. When he told me, I just grinned and said he happened to have an expert for a father. He became really excited about that and we spent the rest of the night mapping out the schematics.
Now, I'm sitting in the living room, mindlessly watching this basketball game and trying to figure out how to repair my marriage further.
I've already started laying the foundation with the boys, and I'll continue building on it during the weekends I'm granted visitation.
Fuck. Visitation. Separation. Custody. Divorce.
I hate all of those words. I hate even more that I'm the cause of them. That she had to file for separation just to wake me up. That I pushed it that far.
We have a mediation next month with our lawyers to discuss how I'm doing and whether we need to make any changes to custody or spousal support.
I already told them to give Wendy whatever she wants. She could drain my bank account at this point, and I wouldn't care. None of it means anything without her.
I know from our brief talks that she's really enjoying working at Mabel's, and I'm so proud of her for that, for doing something that makes her happy.
I just hate that she feels that she needs to work when she's always enjoyed being home with our kids.
Right?
No matter if we were divorced, she's still my Wendy, the mother to my children, my wife, even if it's only in my heart, I would take care of her forever.
But, maybe that's the point. Maybe she doesn't want me to take care of her, because I've become wholly unreliable besides making sure there's money in the bank account.
If my illness progressed to the point where I wasn't able to work, what would Wendy have done?
Or, looking at it from her viewpoint, I seemed checked out of the marriage, so if I ended up leaving her—again, over my dead body—Wendy was operating on the knowledge that I could upend her life and leave her with nothing.
Fuck. I would never, she should know that... but... I also thought I would never neglect my wife and children.
Mental illness is a vicious kind of beast.
It's not something you can fix easily, like stitching up a wound and putting a bandage on it.
It's not logical, which is why none of my thoughts really made sense—thinking I could manifest my wife's death.
It's not something you can negotiate with.
The only way to fix it is to confront it head-on and to talk about it. The SSRI I'm taking has toned down the noise like Dr. Mason and Dr. Newman have told me, but the only time I really feel better is when I'm talking about it, even when my body rebels doing so.
Standing up from the couch, I walk through the house, keeping my steps light so I don’t wake up anyone. It's almost ten, and I don't hear any movement.
Cracking open the door to Noah’s room, I see him knocked out cold, his nightlight shining a kaleidoscope of colors on the ceiling for him.
"Goodnight, buddy," I whisper, before gently closing the door.
Across the hall, I crack open Liam's door and peek in, smiling when I see Liam sprawled across the bed as normal, out like a light.
Carefully, I grab his blanket and lay it over him.
"Goodnight, son," I whisper, before closing the door and heading back downstairs. My phone's vibrating on the coffee table, and I freeze in the doorway of the living room.
My body tenses.
It's the police...
It's Taylor...
They're calling you to tell you that Wendy is dead... or dying... or sick... or—
Inhale. Hold. Exhale.
Check the phone, Atlas.
When I turn it over, I see that it's Trace calling me. Trace wouldn't call me if Wendy was in trouble, Taylor would, or the police would. They would come to the house. They would tell me first.
Wendy is okay. She's at home. She's safe.
My fingers still shake as I press the answer button.
"Hello?"
"What's up, Mr. Mom?"
Trace chuckles, his voice light and easy, and it helps ease the pressure on my chest. "What's up, man?"
"Watching the game. Checking in on you. First weekend with the rugrats by yourself. You tap out and call Wendy yet?"
I snort, even though he's not completely off base.
Thoughts of last night and this morning make me wince, but the hug I got from Noah when I put him to bed, and the fist bump that Liam offered me before he went into his room, made me feel ten feet tall.
"First of all—fuck you. I can handle my kids."
"Mhm..." Trace hums skeptically.
I can hear the hum of a bar in the background. Probably Woody's knowing Trace. It's a bar and grille that Wendy and I used to go for date nights. God, I miss those nights. "Seriously, man, how are you doing?"
I sigh. "Talk me off the ledge because I feel like the worst goddamn father and husband on earth."
"That's a pretty broad statement..."
"I talked to the boys."
"Yeah?" He asks, his voice light. "How'd that go?"
"It was good. I think..."
"So... why are you the worst husband and father?"
"Because this has also made me realize I haven't been pulling my weight like I should have," I admit, my voice dropping. "Even before... this."
Trace doesn't know everything, but he does know I had some kind of mental break and needed to go away to fix it.
My best friend is the type of person who won't pry into details; he'll wait for you to come to him. That's probably why I felt comfortable enough to work those jobs on the weekend with him.
He's a contractor by trade, having inherited his business from his late father. Ever since Liam was younger, I worked with him on the weekends every once in a while to make some extra money.
Then after the incident with Silas and my mental health eroded, it was just the perfect excuse to not be around my house on the weekends.
That caused me to shirk all of my parental responsibility onto my wife while I drowned in my own thoughts.
What a mess I've made.
"Yeah, I—oh, shit..."
My heart jumps. "What?"
"Huh..." he says, "Your wife is here."
"What?"
"Yeah, Wendy just walked in the door with Taylor and some blonde—damn, she's hot as fuck," Trace says, his voice a little hazy.
His words make my entire body tense, my heart slamming in my chest. I have never been pissed off at Trace; he's too fucking even-tempered to even get annoyed at, but I feel it spiking inside of me.
"Trace, if you're checking out my wife, so help me—I will rip your fucking head off—"
Trace cuts in quickly, "No, not your wife—I mean, yes Wendy looks... really fucking good right now—"
"Trace..." My growl stops his words dead, and he laughs.
"Relax, man, I'm talking about this blonde with Wendy... goddamn, she's got the nicest ass I've ever seen."
I sigh in relief that I don't have to murder my best friend for checking out my wife.
Then I huff a laugh because it really is just confirmation that I can't comprehend someone not checking out my Wendy.
But other men might...
"Are you at Woody's?"
Trace scoffs, "Where else would I be?"
I'm already moving before my brain catches up with me, "I'm on my way."