12. Twelve
Twelve
Camp starts coming home, and it turns me into the very worst version of myself.
A month ago, this would have been cause for celebration and a ticker-tape parade, but now, just over a week since I told him I’m done, his presence tap dances across my last fucking nerve.
At first, it’s subtle.
On Monday, he comes home as I’m serving dinner—toeing his cleats off at the door—and though I don’t expect to see him, everything is normal. We sit around the table, talking about our day as the boys cause their usual crime scene with the food, and Lyra spills the high school tea. We do Today’s Best. It’s fine, friendly, and absolutely not out of the ordinary other than him being there.
I sleep in the bed; he sleeps on the floor.
Tuesday, his softball game night, he misses dinner, but instead of going out for his usual drinks after, he comes straight home.
“What are you doing here?” I demand, stunned as I wash the dishes, Lyra and Nick sitting at the table doing homework—where I can watch them—looking up at our exchange, confusion chasing across their faces at my tone.
“I live here,” he drawls, toeing his cleats off at the door, smile on his face. “Hey, Nick. Ly.”
“You live here?” I demand, cutting off their responded heys.
He sweeps his arm through the air. “Yes, honey, I live here.”
I don’t growl at him though this wild animal that’s been unleashed inside of me desperately wants to.
Instead: “Right.”
Lyra eyes me, gives Nick a look, and shrugs before going back to whatever math problem is on the page.
When he’s next to me at the sink, my glare goes unnoticed.
Instead, he rolls up his sleeves, gently bumps me out of the way with his hip, and says, “I’ll do these. You relax.”
It’s so infuriating—him and his athletic wear and crooked nose and sparkly brown eyes being in my space and helping—that instead of relaxing, I stomp to the bedroom and slam the door.
I sleep in the bed; he sleeps on the floor.
Wednesday, he has an away game. I revel in the time away from him, knowing his absence proves every point I’ve been trying to make.
When he comes home, it’s late. I sleep in the bed; he sleeps on the floor.
So goes our week.
During the day, I sneak away to take photos as often as I can, but when the clock strikes four o’clock every afternoon, I can’t pull my eyes away from the door. Wondering what’s going to happen. If he’s going to come home. If he’s going to rub Thor’s head with an annoying “Hey, Dogg-o!” and forget to take his cleats off. If he’s going to be eating dinner.
The weekend comes, we watch his game Saturday morning, and he plans another stupid picnic for the afternoon.
He does a better job packing and it irks me. We’re at a park with ducks we can feed, and it’s fun and I hate it.
Sunday, I go take photos all day; he spends the day with the kids at his parents’ house.
The whole time I’m shooting—at a state park over two hours away—I can’t shake the annoyance that sticks to me like flypaper. Because—the nerve of this guy. Years of him being away, and now he just shows up so he can pretend to be something he isn’t.
All day, I grunt and groan at nobody and smash the buttons on my camera too hard.
The next week comes, and it’s with an insane weather front pushing through that’s bringing record rain. As I stand folding laundry in the living room, rain pelting the roof so hard I wonder if it will cave in, Camp texts me: hey honey buns games and practice cancelled all week looks like well have so much time together Ill get stuff for dinner if you dont have plans
I don’t respond. Instead, I throw the phone as hard as I can at the couch, groan so loudly Thor barks, then retrieve said phone and turn on a podcast.
THE PERFECT MOM PODCAST WITH ABBIGAIL BUCHANAN
EPISODE 261: The Importance of Follow-Through with family psychologist Dr. Jill Winthrow
Abbigail: Alright, perfect mamas, if you’ve ever been in a situation where you’ve made a threat and then haven’t been able to follow through, today’s show is for you. We have family psychologist, Dr. Winthrow today, and she has so many good pieces of advice on helping those of us that need a little motivation to stick to our guns, so to speak.
When they both chuckle and Dr. Winthrow introduces herself, it’s hard for me to listen. Every drop of rain that spits against the window is the reminder I don’t need that in mere hours, Camp will be here. Because he lives here.
I gag and turn up the podcast to drown my thoughts.
Abbigail: Okay, so a lot of this makes sense, but what about those moments where we tell our kids or our spouses our hard line, and then they make changes? Like we tell our teenagers, you know, because of your attitude you don’t get to go to your friend’s house on Friday, and then all of a sudden, the attitude drops and improves. Or we tell our spouses, I don’t know, we’re making some big change because we don’t feel appreciated, and then they start appreciating. Short question long, [they both chuckle] if we say we are going to do something for some reason—some need we have that isn’t being fulfilled—and they change that dynamic, is it still necessary to follow through?
I pause, holding the towel I’m folding in the air, and listen like my life depends on it.
Jill: I absolutely see what you are saying, and I know this answer isn’t going to be the most well-received, but, even if there’s improvement, you have to stand your ground, or you are opening yourself up for constant manipulation. “Oh, Mom doesn’t like this attitude, but I know if I change it for three days all is forgiven.” Or, “My wife wants me to do more around the house, but if I wait until she’s making threats and up my game for a week, we’re all good.” See what I mean? We aren’t making lasting changes if we cave the moment the skies start to clear. By caving, you are saying a little bit today is better than a lot forever. It’s big picture vs. little details in these situations.
Abbigail: And you’re team big picture?
Jill: [Chuckles.] I am team big picture. Little details are important, those day-to-day things definitely matter, don’t get me wrong, but when we lay down the law, we want big-picture changes. We are in this for the long game. Is a few good minutes today worth a lifetime of suffering?
Ha! I knew it!
Camp can come home, pretend to be here, but this is about big-picture changes. My eye is on the prize. The long game.
That’s what I tell myself all day. All afternoon. As the rain falls in buckets, it becomes my mantra.
All the way until Camp walks through the door with groceries in hand and a smile on his rain-soaked face.
“Hey, J.” He sets the bags on the counter, soaked from the rain, and shakes his head like a wet dog. “I got stuff to make pizzas.”
I blink.
He pulls cheese, sauce, and toppings out of the bag. “You didn’t respond earlier to my text, so I got stuff anyway. Thought it would be fun.”
I blink again; he stills. “Or . . . not?”
I look from the ingredients to the too-eager look on his face, and dammit—it’s not big picture, but the fact he planned a meal and bought the groceries to cook is too luxurious not to take advantage of.
“Fine,” I finally say. “The kids will love it.”
He smiles, relieved, and puts a hand on my back as he reaches around me with the other to pull wineglasses out of the cabinet.
“I bought a red, you want a glass?”
I nod, not liking how the moment makes me feel. Not liking him taking up so much space in the kitchen he’s usually absent from.
“Boys! Ly!” he shouts, working the cork out of the bottle. “I got stuff for pizzas, but you freeloaders are doing the work!”
He pours the wine, hands me a glass, and grins.
The kids appear in the kitchen, and Camp puts them to work. Ingredients lined up, they assemble the pizzas.
More than once, I laugh.
More than once, Camp catches me looking at him a second longer than I should be.
More than once, I have to remind myself that this is about the long game—the big picture—and finding what makes me happy.
Every thought I have dances with its opposite.
It’s real but it’s fake.
It’s fun but it’s awful.
I want this forever, but I can’t wait for it to end.
Then I remember: It’s only been a couple weeks. The damage from the last few years can’t be fixed with a couple picnics and wine.
At the same time, I know I made the same deal as him. So, while this won’t last, I’ll pretend that this is who we are. A happy couple that makes pizza in bare feet on rainy nights for fifty-four more days. I know it’s not real, but the kids don’t have to.
“More wine.” I raise my glass to Camp, who obliges, leaning next to me at the counter as the kids sprawl across the living room floor and search for a movie.
He studies me, sets his wine down, and slips his fingers under the hem at the neck of my sweater. With a gentle motion, he glides his index and middle finger along the fabric. “I like this. It new?”
I clear my throat, the wine loosening me up enough I don’t pull away from his touch.
“It is.”
I look down, as if I need a reminder of what I’m wearing. It’s a navy blue sweater, a little slouchy but cozy, with a deeper-than-usual neckline.
His fingers move like a slow zipper from my collarbone down toward the bottom of the V then back up—twice.
And it’s just the effect of the wine, but I notice. My whole body does, turning into one of those electric balls at museums that makes hair stand on end.
“Hmm,” he says under his breath, eyes climbing from my sweater to my face. “Looks good on you, J.”
As far as compliments go, it’s not special. Lame even. But when his gaze meets mine, heat crawls up my neck, and I drink the entire glass of wine I’m holding.
The jackass smirks. He sees his effect.
“You’re an ass,” I say, grabbing the bottle of wine and jerking the cork out with a loud pop . “Stop trying to get me drunk and take advantage of me.”
He chuckles, tone playful. “Me? Nah . . . But I still know what makes you tick, J. And you do look damn good.”
I stare at him; he does the same.
The timer on the oven goes off, making me jump and Camp call, “Pizza’s ready!”
We eat, we laugh, we tuck the kids in. It’s the same as always with one simple change: we.
Back in the kitchen, when the last dish is clean, I look at him as I dry the pan. “You don’t have to do all this, you know.”
His head tilts, eyebrows raised. “All this?”
“Be here. Buy groceries. Make pizza. I know the weather cancelled things, but I know you also have a lot going on . . .”
He turns the sink off and faces me, drying his hands with a towel. “I do have a lot goin’ on, and it’ll get busier—the comin’ months until the complex is done and baseball season is over will get wild. But, just because I’m gone, J, doesn’t mean I don’t wish I wasn’t. I’ve missed this. I like this.”
His blond hair hangs across his forehead, and I have to grip the counter to physically keep myself from touching it. From feathering my fingers through it and letting myself trace the familiar lines of his jaw.
“Either way,” I finally say, clearing my throat. “We agreed to being friendly in front of the kids, don’t feel like you have to put on some big show like this every night.”
He looks at me, warmth in his eyes going glacially cold.
“Good to know,” he says, sharp edge to his voice as he tosses the dish towel on the counter. “Won’t make that mistake again.”
This time, he’s the one that leaves me in the kitchen, slamming our bedroom door closed behind him.
When I work up the nerve to follow, he’s already on the floor. For the first time in weeks, the bed I sleep in feels too big.