Marissa
There’s a heavenly smell coming from the kitchen when I descend the staircase the next morning.
I can hardly contain my surprise when I see Rocky in the kitchen, dressed in an apron and standing over the range.
I would have been less surprised to discover an axe murderer had broken in and decided to treat us to a lovely breakfast before chopping us to pieces.
“Am I hallucinating, or did you learn how to use the stove?”
Rocky flashes a megawatt smile, showcasing his perfect dimples and equally perfect veneers.
He paid a fortune to make his teeth look as naturally stunning as they do.
I’ve always thought it was silly to cover up tiny imperfections, to change the features that made Rocky who he was.
But it was just another choice he made without consulting me.
“Are you hungry? I’m making everyone’s favorite: blueberry pancakes.” He uses the spatula in his hand to flip a pancake, then add it to the growing pile beside the stove.
“Since when do you know how to make breakfast? Or, for that matter, eat breakfast? I thought you and Rayna were all about intermittent fasting.”
Rocky’s smile fades a decimal. “I don’t always do everything Rayna says.”
My eyebrows shoot to my forehead. This is new.
Since when have he and Rayna been anything but a dynamic duo?
A two-headed pop-culture nightmare? At least, that’s how the press makes it seem.
Despite my best efforts, the public’s insatiable appetite for R&R has made it impossible to avoid the barrage of photos.
Arms wrapped around each other as they order artisanal coffee in Silver Lake.
Sharing a smooch in front of a gas station pump off the Pacific Coast Highway.
The pictures are always accompanied by captions like “Back Together and Hotter Than Ever!” or “Feeling Nostalgic? R&R’s Relationship, Then and Now.
” Based on the sheer volume of images, you’d think they were the only two people in LA.
And magically, the paparazzi always know exactly where to find them.
Though if there’s one thing I know about my ex-husband, it’s that the paparazzi never find him by accident.
Before I can question him further, there’s a thundering of footsteps on the staircase, and my pajama-clad children are stumbling into the kitchen.
“Daddy!” Isla shrieks. “I was afraid you’d already left.”
If only.
Rocky looks at me and the sentiment must be written all over my face, because he quickly says, “I figured I’d stay for breakfast. But after that, I’ll be heading back to my hotel for a little while. Maybe we all can have dinner tonight?”
Isla nods eagerly as she slides into a kitchen chair. Levi slides into the seat closest to me. He’s keeping quiet, his emotions less readable. But he’s sticking close to my side, the way he always does when he’s feeling uncertain.
Rocky brings the pancakes to the table, and I reluctantly concede that they do smell delicious.
Isla stacks a couple onto her plate, beaming as she peers around the table at each of us.
Levi’s nose wrinkles. He glances up at me, his eyes transmitting a silent plea for help.
His father doesn’t seem to remember that he only likes chocolate-chip pancakes.
I give him a wink, then head to the freezer to heat up a pack for him.
“Isn’t this so nice?” Isla says. “Being together as a family?” The words hit me like a gut punch. I know what she’s doing and it’s not like I blame her. I never thought I’d be a divorcée, raising children in a joint custody arrangement. Not after my own parents’ divorce.
As a kid, I promised myself that I wouldn’t make their mistakes, that I would do whatever it took to keep my own family together, so that my kids would never have to feel the way I did.
But as much as I dragged my feet, I don’t regret divorcing Rocky.
I just hate feeling like I am the one denying my kids a happy, cohesive family.
“It’s always great to be together,” Rocky concedes. “I’ve missed you guys over the last few weeks. How’s the summer been? How are you liking camp?”
Isla shrugs half-heartedly. “Fine, I guess. I mean, the kids are cool but it’s not exactly Cabo.”
I groan internally. I suppose this is what I get for raising kids in Los Angeles. The problem with it is, even if you don’t spoil your kids, other parents spoil theirs. LA kids grow up knowing too much about what there is to want in the world.
“About Cabo,” Rocky hedges. He lifts his eyes to me and my stomach drops. Shit. Where is this going?
“I couldn’t get the deposit back for our original vacation, but I was able to modify the itinerary to just two weeks instead of four. Rayna and I are planning to go, and I was thinking … maybe the kids would like to come with us?”
Isla drops her fork, the crash of metal echoing against her plate as she squeals.
“Oh my god, yes! Daddy, I love you so much!” She leaps from her chair, throwing her arms around his neck. My heart plummets.
“Well, hang on,” Rocky says, gently peeling her off. “We have to make sure it’s okay with your mom first.” He redirects his attention to me and raises his eyebrows, delivering a pointed look that says, If you disappoint our child, it’s all on you.
This asshole. How dare he put me in this position, ask me—no, basically tell me—in front of them, force me to once again be the bad guy, the only thing standing between my kids and a good time.
Both Rocky and Isla are staring at me expectantly, waiting for me to respond, but I’m so angry that I can’t manage a single word. Rage funnels in my chest, and I force myself to blink back the hot, angry tears that are prickling the backs of my eyes.
It’s not just that he’s forcing me into an unfair position.
It’s that he’s once again disregarding how much work I’ve put into planning (and replanning) this summer.
I’ve already paid for summer camps, scheduled therapies, organized weekend outings.
Not only does he fail to recognize everything I do for the kids, but he just comes in unannounced and torpedoes it without a second thought.
This is how it has always been between us.
He has never appreciated me or anything that I do, and it’s one of the reasons I couldn’t stay married to him.
Isla’s eyes are round with hope and something else: desperation. Anger gives way to a twinge of guilt. I’ve already disrupted her summer plans, dragged her away from her friends. Am I really going to deny her this too? Will she ever forgive me if I do?
“Two weeks?” I ask weakly. Rocky’s handsome features flood with smug relief. He’s won this round, and we both know it.
“Two weeks,” he confirms. He wets his lips and delivers the next bit in a less convincing tone.
“And you’re more than welcome to come too, if you want.”
If I want. I’d rather get dental surgery without anesthesia.
“There will be stipulations,” I say, glossing over his half-assed invitation to tag along. “We’ll need to go over Levi’s schedule, review which routines make him most comfortable.”
Rocky nods rapidly, but I can tell I’ve already lost his attention. “Yes, yes, of course. We can talk about all that later.” He turns his attention to Levi.
“Buddy, are you excited? We’re going to the beach!”
Instead of replying, Levi looks to me, uncertainty clouding his eyes.
No doubt he’s remembering last year’s trip to Laguna Beach.
I had to carry him to and from the shore because he hated the texture of the sand.
Moreover, I’ve already told him that the Cabo trip was canceled.
Hearing it’s back on the table is causing confusion, which will inevitably lead to anxiety.
It’s going to take some more preparation for sure, but I don’t see any way I can back out now.
I offer the table a weak smile. “Let’s eat breakfast. Then we can discuss the details.”
I manage to get Rocky out of the house shortly before lunch, but by the time I get the kids down that night, I’m completely depleted. He’s always had that effect on me. He’s like a proton pack in human form, busting in and sucking the spirit right out of my body.
The warmth of the day has faded by nightfall, and there’s a light breeze in the air, rustling the leaves outside my window.
The perfect conditions for a bath. I serve myself a healthy pour of red wine as I draw it, mixing my favorite melatonin bubble bath into the water.
Then I snuggle into the warmth of the bubbles, and call Pooja. She answers on the first ring.
“Good day, PA,” she says brightly. “How’s it going?”
“Not good,” I mutter, as I put the call on speaker and lay the phone on the edge of the tub. “Guess who showed up on my doorstep last night?”
“Judging by the displeasure in your voice, I’m assuming it wasn’t anyone with cake.”
“You assume correctly,” I say. “It was Rocky.”
“No! He just showed up without calling?”
“Is there any other way?” I take a long swig of wine. “Marched through the front door and announced that he wanted to take the kids out for dinner.”
She groans. “Of course he did. And then you were stuck home alone on a Friday night.”
“Well, not exactly. I ended up going out to dinner with Jesse.”
“Jesse? As in hot contractor Jesse?”
Yup. The one whose name begs to be moaned, I think to myself, remembering Pooja’s assessment. I’m starting to agree with her more and more.
“The very same.”
“No shit. How deliciously unprofessional. Did he nail you? That was a carpentry joke, in case you missed it.”
“No, he did not ‘nail’ me. We just had a casual dinner. Although it turns out that we knew each other as kids, back when I used to spend summers here. How weird is that? In any case, it doesn’t matter. I need you to stay focused on Rocky.”
“Um, okay. We will be circling back to your The Notebook origin story. But proceed for now.”
“So Rocky shows up. And he spent the night. On the couch,” I add quickly when I hear her sharp inhale. “And this morning he announced that he wants to take the kids to Cabo for two weeks. On the family vacation that I planned.”
She lets out a low whistle. “It is impressive how this man consistently manages to out-douche himself. Those tight jeans must cut off the oxygen to his brain.”
I sigh. “What am I going to do? I felt pressured to say yes in the moment, but now I need a way to get out of it. There’s no way I’m going to let him take the kids on a trip for two whole weeks.”
Saying the words out loud makes my stomach clench. I’ve never been apart from my children for that long. I hate the mere thought of it.
“Why not?” Pooja asks gently. “I’m serious. When was the last time you spent more than a weekend away from the kids? You deserve a little time to yourself. He’s their father too, you know. He can watch his own kids for once.”
Pooja has a point, and it reminds me that I said the same words last night.
One thing Rocky and I never fought about was splitting time with the kids.
I got the house and primary custody. We’ve worked around Rocky’s schedule for visitation, but they’ve never spent more than a weekend at a time with him.
There’s never been a set routine for visits, no matter how many times I told him Levi needs one.
Rocky’s always preferred to have more of a Peter Pan type of relationship with the kids.
Show up unannounced, sow chaos in the name of fun, and then disappear off into the night.
This is the first time he’s ever offered to take the kids for a long period of time.
And it’s making me suspicious. Does he have an ulterior motive?
Is this just an opportunity for him to use the kids to play happy family with Rayna?
There’s a pause on the other end of the line. “You’re worried Rocky’s going to use them as human props, huh?” As usual, Pooja is reading my mind.
“Yup,” I say, popping the last letter.
“Listen,” she says. “Divorce sucks. But the singular benefit is that occasionally, you get some time off from parenting. And as much as you rightfully hate the guy, I know you also want the kids to have a relationship with him. So, give him the opportunity. Let Rocky take the kids and experience what you’ve been doing for the past nine years.
I guarantee you it’s going to be the rude awakening he needs. ”
I blow out a sigh. “Maybe you’re right.”
“I’ll even come spend a few days with you,” she adds. “We’ll ditch our bras, eat junk food, and binge-watch reality TV. It’ll be just like old times.”
I must admit, that does sound nice. Pooja and I haven’t had much solo time together since my kids were born.
To be honest, I haven’t done much for myself at all since they were born.
I always swore I wouldn’t be one of those mothers who completely loses her identity when she has kids.
But it’s a lot easier said than done, especially when you have little people relying on you.
Sometimes literally just lying on you. Personal space is a concept they’ve yet to master.
Pooja is right—I deserve some me time.
“How soon can you get your butt out here?” I ask.