5. Five
Five
It took all of ten seconds of me googling how to get a divorce to have my dreams shattered: The state of North Carolina requires a year of separation before filing. At the computer, I swore under my breath and flipped the screen the middle finger as I printed the forms. While it isn’t ideal, sometime after being yelled at by a preschool teacher and driven to the brink of my sanity at the library, I convince myself this time would be a good thing. I haven’t had a job outside of the house since before Lyra was born, so I’d have to get a job and somewhere to live. Ledger is a small town; I could do this. A year is the perfect amount of time for me to come up with a plan. Find a career. A place to live. I never understood why Camp had insisted on buying his parents’ old house anyway. He just did it one day—announced it, like he’d done something so noble.
“ It’s more than it’s worth, Camp . . . why would we do this?” I asked, stunned as he handed me the keys.
His smile faltered, but just for a split second. “I had a good life here, J . . . I wanted to surprise you. My old room could be Lyra’s.” He beamed, thick drawl stretching out his words, proud smile forcing my doubts into a box and slamming the lid closed. I never imagined us living in Ledger, much less living in his parents’ old house in Ledger, but after all he had lost, I couldn’t fight him on this. Everything changed when I got pregnant. When his shoulder shredded and he was cut from the team. His dreams changed, so mine would too.
I looked around the house again—small and dated with wallpaper, shag carpet, and wood paneling—and fought like hell to keep the tears I wanted to cry from falling. Camp had made nearly a million dollars in his few short years playing baseball, and this is where it got us. Overpaying—significantly—for a house that needed a gut job.
“You’re not happy,” he said, shoulders slumping, eyes worried.
I forced a smile, bouncing Lyra in my arms. “I’m so happy,” I lied. “I’m just wondering what we’re going to do about this carpeting.”
Then he laughed, relieved, and hugged me so tightly it was like his life depended on it.
I had thought it would be a starter house, but we’re still here.
Now is my chance to find something I want.
Step out of the shadow of Camp Cannon and be fully June. Independent woman, thriving career of something, good mom, and living in a house I pick out.
Now, staring at the faces of three kids over plates of tacos to the tune of the dog’s claws tapping against the floor as he circles the table like a hungry shark, I don’t know about this. Kids, your dad and I are separating. It’s only seven words, but each one feels bigger than the last. Like they aren’t in my lexicon.
And, of course, even though Camp told me he would be here, he’s nowhere to be found.
Ty bites a chip, sending cheese onto the table and floor and the dog wastes no time licking up the scraps. All I can think: Camp gets that damn dog in the divorce.
“Today’s Best, Mama?” Hank asks between bites of his taco that’s dripping ground beef and cheese out of one end while he bites the other.
“Today’s Best . . .” I tap my chin.
“I’ll go first!” Ty interrupts. “How loud Ms. Mitchell screamed when I showed everyone how I could use a lighter.” He smiles, proud, and I shoot him a glare that he doesn’t seem to notice. Like he wasn’t just as scared shitless as I was sitting in those too-small chairs just hours ago.
I press my lips in a tight line while Hank laughs, and Lyra rolls her eyes and scoops sour cream onto her tortilla. “Grow up, Ty. You’re so weird.”
“Well, Ty, I think that will be your last time making Ms. Mitchell scream like that, correct?” I raise my eyebrows, and he shrinks in his seat. “Hank, your turn. Today’s Best, kiddo.”
Hank sits thoughtfully. “Well . . .”
And there, in the pensive silence of Hank and the loud crunching of teeth and tacos around the table, the door swings open, and in walks Camp.
“Hey—sorry I’m late,” he says, almost breathless as he drops his bag at the front door and pets the dog on the head. His eyes meet mine before dropping them to Thor. “Hey, Dogg-o!” he says in a high-pitched voice, instantly shredding my nerves.
I focus on making a taco, like it’s the most interesting food I’ll ever create. “What are you doing here?” I ask.
“Eatin’,” he says, dropping into a seat.
“Eating?” I ask, pinching my eyebrows.
He looks at the table, sweeps his hand through the air at the food. “Eatin’.”
I pause, knowing I should stop, but something in me pushes out, “You’re late.”
Lyra laughs. “Dad has better things to do than be on time for dinner, right, Dad?” I flick my eyes to her, and dammit, she means it. “He had a big meeting with the architects for the new complex.”
Internally, I roll my eyes so hard they nearly detach from whatever tendons hold them in place. Externally, I smile. “Good for him.”
Camp grabs a taco shell and stares at me so long it’s as if he’s trying to send a telepathic message I’m not interested in receiving, then starts to fix his plate.
Hank shares his Today’s Best: He made something out of clay in art.
“Lyra, what’s yours?” Camp asks before biting into his taco.
“Umm . . .” She wipes her mouth with a napkin, sudden splash of pink covering her cheeks. “I dunno. Nick and I hung out after school today . . .” She clears her throat. “That was fun, I guess.”
“Nick?” I ask, perking up at the mention of a boy’s name. “Are you two a thing?”
She scoffs. “A thing?”
I shrug. “You know, dating? Why does nobody ever date anymore?”
“You’re so old, Mom,” she says with a slight groan, rolling her eyes. Camp chuckles, looking at me like, duh. “People don’t date, they hang out. It’s casual.”
Casual.
“I like Nick,” Camp chimes in between bites. “He’s a helluva center fielder too.”
They break off into conversation about baseball, Lyra more enthralled in the sport than I’ve ever seen, meaning she like likes Nick and hanging out possibly means making out. Or more. Which means I need to talk to her about that. Does she need to be on birth control?
And a new truth crystalizes as I watch her and her dad talk: She’s not talking to me about it. I flip through the encyclopedia of reasons in my mind. I know it’s not because I’m not around . . . because I’m always around. She doesn’t trust me? She’s not comfortable with me?
Panic sets in. I’m failing again. The daughter I’ve spent seventeen years trying to do right by is shutting me out.
This will change. When she sees me—working or independent or something. Shit. Something.
Spiraling in my thoughts, desperation tightening the skin around my bones, I clear my throat. “I’ll go next,” I say, nobody listening. Anxiety gripping my chest, everyone continues to talk around me. Oblivious to my voice. “Y’all, listen . . .”
Nothing.
Chatter.
Laughing.
The dog barks.
I poke my arm to make sure I actually exist.
Finally, I shout: “I said I’ll go next!”
The table falls silent this time, all eyes instantly on me, curious shades of green and brown—even Thor’s black—staring. I clear my throat, lower my voice. “Right.” I hesitate, but only long enough to catch the subtle shake of Camp’s head which propels me forward. “So your dad and I have decided that—”
“ Ohmygod !” Lyra quasi-shouts, smacking her hand on the table, stealing my spotlight. “I forgot to tell you about Kimber!” Her brown eyes go wide at the mention of her best friend.
“Kimber? Is she okay?”
“Mom, no . Her parents are getting a divorce!”
Maybe it’s the word—divorce—hearing it come out of my daughter’s mouth. Maybe it’s the fact it’s Lynn and Dean, people we know and see. Hell, I was just with Lynn last week at the prom committee meeting and she never said a word. Actually, what she said was: “We should go with the theme Kickin’ It Old School . The gym is done after this year and, gosh, June, won’t it remind you of our prom? I can’t imagine Dean and I ever young enough!” Then she laughed.
More than all that, it’s the tone Lyra has, which is half disbelief, half disgust. Whatever it is, knowing that I was about to use the same word to her sinks my guts.
“Really?” Camp asks, shifting in his seat, light brown eyes cutting from her to me. Nervous energy whipping off him like tentacles of a jellyfish.
“Right?” Lyra continues, tucking her pink hair behind her ears. “Like, she had no idea this was even going to happen. Like, totally blindsided.” She scoops salsa onto a chip and takes a loud bite, talking around crunches. “Like, so blindsided, she thinks she’s going to be a lesbian now.”
I choke on my water.
“What’s a lesbian?” Hank asked.
Camp chokes on his water.
“A girl that dates another girl,” Lyra explains, matter-of-fact.
“I don’t think that’s how it works, Ly,” I say when I don’t die from shock.
Her eyes narrow, biting another chip. “You don’t think that’s what a lesbian is?”
“I don’t think that’s how you become a lesbian.”
She laughs. “No offense, Mom, but what do you know about sexuality?”
My jaw drops, Camp chokes again, and Ty asks, “What’s sexuality?”
“It’s wha—”
“Not important!” I shout, cutting Lyra off. “It doesn’t matter what anything is or isn’t or who marries who. Or whom. However you say it.” I take a breath. Trying to regain control of the situation. “I’m sorry Kimber’s parents are divorcing. Lynn and Dean always seemed so happy, but I guess you never know when things aren’t working. That’s hard, but you know, marriage is hard, and people change and, you know, sometimes things don’t work out because one person might feel like they can’t be who they want to be or something. But, yeah, I guess that would be complicated for a kid to understand.”
My gaze hooks to Camp’s; he wipes his mouth with a napkin.
Lyra shrugs. “A promise is a promise, right? I mean you can’t just break it. What’s the point of taking a vow if you aren’t really someone that believes in, you know, a vow?” Another chip.
Crunch.
Crunch.
Crunch.
Hank throws an entire taco on the floor, and I don’t bat an eye as Thor inhales it.
Another truth bomb in the never-ending bombardment of them today: I’m screwed. I can’t win. The game is rigged and it’s not in my favor.
My marriage isn’t working, but if I leave, I’m a quitter. If I stay, I’m a dud.
This time, it’s Camp that speaks. “Lyra, your mom and I decided—”
“No!” I shout—again—this time with palms slamming onto the table, causing yet another stunned silence to fall. Thor cocks his head to one side.
If my daughter is becoming a lesbian, it’s going to be on her own accord, dammit.
“Sorry. I just really wanted to be the one to tell her, honey.” Camp’s eyes narrow, gaze dropping to the fingers I’ve wrapped around his forearm. “Your dad is going to go with you on your field trip in a couple weeks. The one about career exploration.” Lyra’s nose scrunches and confusion fills her face. “I went to the last one and he wants to be more involved. So I told him, ‘You know . . . honey . . . that’s a good idea.’ ” I clear my throat. “So, yeah, that was my Today’s Best. Dad on a field trip that doesn’t involve baseball, can you imagine?” I laugh robotically. “But, you know, father-daughter bonding and all . . .”
“Okay,” she drawls out, somewhat skeptical, before she takes another bite of taco.
The dog’s tail thumps relentlessly against the floor.
Thump.
Thump.
Thump.
After eons, Camp says, “That’s my Today’s Best too. Can’t wait, Ly.”
“Ty took a lighter to school today and got in trouble, Daddy,” Hank says, snickering.
“I hope you brought marshmallows to roast too,” Camp teases. “Ms. Mitchell is probably so grumpy because she doesn’t have snacks.”
The boys laugh. Everyone laughs.
Everyone but me.
I stand up from the table, walk to the fridge, and take a slug of rosé straight from the bottle.
“Are we done gettin’ a divorce?” Camp asks, pulling the blankets back from his side of the bed.
I glare at him from where I’m sitting, pausing mid-rub of lotion on my legs. “No, Camp, we aren’t done getting a divorce. We have to wait. Were you not listening to Lyra?” I demand. “Divorce is basically an atomic bomb on the teenage psyche. Of all the mistakes I’ve made, I can’t do that.”
He stills, holding a pillow.
“So, I was thinking, we’ll just fake it. We’ll put on a show of a happy marriage—she graduates in three months—actually, I counted, it’s seventy-five days—and then it will be summer, where she’ll be distracted and getting ready for college. She’ll be looking forward to living on her own. Our marital status won’t matter that much, not really. And the boys will be fine. They’re young enough. And, you know, Ty is trying to burn the school down, so he has bigger fish to fry.” I’m not sure if I’m trying to be funny, but neither of us laugh. “I’ve been acting happy for years anyway, this won’t be that much different.”
Camp drops the pillow he’s holding on the floor and rubs a finger down his nose. “So let me get this straight.” He squeezes his eyes shut before opening them again with a long exhale. “You don’t want to be married to me—because you believe you’ve sacrificed your life for me and I’ve done nothin’ in return”—I open my mouth to interrupt, but he holds up a palm to silence me—“and because you’re worried Lyra won’t recover from this fact, we’re going to fake a happy marriage—”
“For seventy-five days,” I amend.
He blows out a frustrated breath, gritting his teeth. “Fine—for seventy-five days—until she graduates, when we will drop the bombshell on her that it’s all been a lie and we’re gettin’ a divorce?”
I huff out a breath. “Don’t say it like I’m ridiculous, Camp. You know just as well as I do this marriage isn’t working. We aren’t happy. And, since you were shockingly sitting at the same table I was at dinner tonight, you heard Lyra as well as I did. I won’t destroy her months before she leaves. I refuse.”
He scoffs but says nothing as he goes to the closet and pulls out several extra blankets and drops them on the floor next to the bed.
“What are you doing?” I demand.
“I’m not sleepin’ in a bed with a woman that doesn’t want me.”
I consider his words, watching him make a floor bed.
“We need rules. Guidelines or something.”
He shakes his head with an incredulous laugh when he drops to the floor. “What the hell kind of rules could this require?”
“Shhh!” I hiss. “They could be right outside the door. Listening! ” I pause to regroup, now sitting cross-legged on the bed. “Okay, okay. Let me think.” I chew my thumbnail, wracking my brain for how this can work. “Okay, nothing crazy. Just-just-just, we need to be genuine. Nice. No fights in front of them or arguing. North Carolina requires a year of separation; I have a paper—it’s already filled out in the drawer of your nightstand. All you have to do is sign.” His head jerks around, and he stares at the small table like it’s just arrived from space. “Anyway, what about sex?”
“Sex?”
“Don’t repeat me, Camp. I said sex. I don’t think we should have sex with other people.”
His eyes get somehow wider than before. “The hell? Is that what this is about? Is there someone else?”
My spine straightens in offense. “I won’t even dignify that with an answer. I’m just saying in case someone else comes up, we live in way too small of a town to date other people without the kids finding out . . .”
He pummels a fist into a pillow before dropping his head into it, fingers running down the crooked line of his nose. “Fine.”
“Fine,” I echo.
A loud silence presses on my eardrums.
“And no kissing.” His head shoots up and he gapes at me from where he sits on the floor, starting to argue when I talk over him. “I mean me, not other people. But probably not other people.” He starts to argue again; I keep talking. “Oh, don’t act like that’s such a big deal, Camp. We barely touch anyway. Hell, you barely batted an eye last night when I told you I wanted a divorce.” He starts arguing; I ignore him. “But it will confuse things. Complicate them. Just-just-just—we can be affectionate without being intimate. To keep things simple.”
He sighs, heavy, and drags a hand down his face. “Do I get a say in any of this?”
I almost laugh. How many times have I ever had a say? Camp just thinks of things and does them, telling me after—or never thinking to tell me at all. I’ve spent our entire marriage in his wake, every movement dependent on what he’d already decided to do.
“You’ve had a say in everything else.”
We stare at each other until my eyes start to burn, but I refuse to look away. Finally, he does. When he turns off the lamp, for the first time in years, my husband and I sleep in two separate beds.