Marissa #2
“You like pasta. Why don’t you just try a bite?
” I prod, knowing full well that he doesn’t eat anything with red sauce, and also that this strategy has never once yielded a positive outcome.
Levi shakes his head, eyes wild between his little fingers.
Then he slides down the length of his chair, disappearing under the table.
“Is he okay?” Shelby asks. Her features are laced with concern and despite the kindness behind them, it only makes me feel worse. “Can I make him something else to eat?”
“He’s fine,” Isla reassures her as she helps herself to a serving. “Levi does this sometimes when he’s upset. We let him hide until he feels better.”
“You’re a good big sister,” Jesse tells her quietly. She affords him a proud smile.
“I know. People tell me that all the time.”
My sense of guilt deepens. I love how kind Isla is to her brother; her compassion is one of her best traits.
But at the same time, she is also my child, not my co-parent.
I don’t want her to feel like she needs to bear any responsibility for taking care of her brother.
I’m the one who should be taking care of them both.
And I should have done a better job of addressing Levi’s needs, of helping him readjust to a routine after being on a trip, instead of selfishly dragging him out here.
Numbly, I scoop a helping of lasagna onto my plate. From across the table, I notice Shelby is taking several large helpings of salad.
“It’s so important to get your daily serving of vegetables,” she explains. “I’ve been doing such a bad job of eating my greens lately.”
I give her a small smile and then take a bite of pasta.
I’m not prepared for the crunch. At first, I think I’ve lost a filling—I completely forgot to visit my dentist before coming out here for the summer.
Then I bite down again and realize the crunch is coming from the pasta.
The noodles are completely undercooked, which is jarring since the sauce tastes slightly burnt.
There’s also an unfamiliar flavor in there, something sweet that doesn’t quite belong.
And the sauce is watery, wetter than lasagna—especially a crunchy one—has any business being.
I glance down at my plate and sure enough, there’s a red puddle settling around the base of the plate.
I shift my gaze to Jesse in a questioning look.
He presses his lips together and shrugs as if to say, I tried to warn you.
“Toby, this is so great,” I somehow manage. “I’m getting notes of something sweet. Which is so … unique for lasagna.”
Out of the corner of my eye, I catch Jesse pressing a fist over his lips.
“It’s good, right?” Toby says proudly. “The recipe says you can add a bit of sugar to the tomato sauce. But I thought, you know what’s better than sugar? Pumpkin spice.”
With effort, I swallow what’s in my mouth and return his smile. Hopefully it doesn’t look too much like a grimace.
“Of course. Who doesn’t love pumpkin spice in August?”
Jesse coughs to cover a laugh. He reaches for the salad and scoops a generous portion onto my plate.
“Have some salad,” he says with a conspiratorial wink.
“Marissa, you must be so excited to get back to work,” Shelby says. “I can still remember how thrilled I was to get back into the office after Charlotte was born. Not because I don’t love being a mom, but because we need something for ourselves, you know?”
God, I do know. As much as I have treasured my time with my kids, it hasn’t escaped my notice that somewhere along the way I stopped being Marissa Morgan and started being Isla and Levi’s mom.
For a while, it didn’t bother me. But at some point over the course of this summer, I started feeling like I didn’t want to come in last anymore.
I’ve gotten the itch to get back to work, to be creative again.
I thought it would all be okay. But with the literal weight of my son on my feet, I can no longer remember what I was thinking.
“Yeah,” I manage. “I’m excited.”
“When does production start?” she asks. I notice with a trace of amusement that she still hasn’t touched her lasagna.
“Probably next spring or summer,” I reply. “They’ll start casting soon, but the studio is still trying to secure a director.”
I cast a sideways glance at Isla before choosing my next words carefully.
“They have someone in mind, but I don’t want to work with him. So. We’ll see how that plays out.”
Beside me, Jesse stiffens, and I realize I haven’t had a chance to tell him about Rocky’s potential role in my next project. Maybe because I didn’t want to acknowledge the reality of it. But it seems he’s figured it out anyway.
From across the table, Shelby’s eyes go wide.
“You don’t mean…?”
I nod glumly. “Yup. Pooja wanted to avoid that issue by shopping the project to other studios, but her boss wasn’t on board.”
Shelby’s expression darkens. “That’s bullshit,” she spits out. “This is supposed to be your project, your big return. Not his. Hasn’t he upstaged you enough?”
I steal another cautious glance at Isla, but she either hasn’t picked up on who we’re talking about or is graciously pretending not to. Her attention is focused on Charlotte, who’s pretending to be a pet rabbit as she nibbles at the lettuce on her plate.
My stomach roils as Shelby’s words sink in.
I appreciate that she is outraged on my behalf, but her reaction is only casting a spotlight on my own insecurities.
When Rocky took the kids on vacation, I thought he was finally proving that he could be the co-parent he always vowed to become, that there would be room for both of us to shine.
But their unscheduled, early return suggests the opposite: that if we’re both on set, it will once again be the Rocky show, and I’ll be left playing the role of parent.
Beneath the table, Levi lets out a pitiful wail and the sound of it pushes me over the edge. Hot tears prick my eyes, and I shove my chair back abruptly. Jesse’s head snaps in my direction and I can feel his eyes burning into the side of my face, but I can’t bring myself to meet his gaze.
“Sorry, where’s the bathroom?” I ask.
Toby gestures to the small room beside the front door and I murmur a quick apology as I hurry away from the table.
Once inside, I close the door behind me and sink to the floor, leaning my back against the wall.
The tears come quickly, streaming down my face in hot rivulets, dripping gracelessly into the V-neck of my T-shirt.
They have the decency to grant me five entire minutes before there’s a knock on the door. I inhale a wavering breath, swiping my palms against my cheeks as I ready my voice into something convincingly cheery. I am, after all, still an actress.
“I’ll be right out,” I say as brightly as I can.
The door cracks open. I’m expecting to see Jesse, so I’m surprised when Shelby’s face appears inside.
“Can I come in?” she asks.
I nod and shift aside. I don’t have the energy to be self-conscious.
She steps into the bathroom, shutting the door gently behind her.
She grabs a handful of tissues from the box on top of the toilet and hands them to me, then slides down to take a seat against the opposite wall.
The bathroom isn’t huge, so our ankles are touching.
I expect to feel claustrophobic, but instead, it’s comforting.
“Toby can’t cook for shit, I know,” she says. “But I’ve never seen anyone react this badly.”
I let out a laugh-sob. “The lasagna was fine.”
Shelby shakes her head. “Oh, no. Friends do not lie to each other. And we are friends, aren’t we?”
I give her a small smile and nod. “Of course.”
“Good. Now let’s start over. The lasagna was an abomination. Toby’s nonna is rolling in her grave.”
I sniff. “Toby has many other redeeming qualities.”
“Yes, and thank god for that.”
She allows a long silence between us, one where I try to decide which thing I’m trying not to be: too open, too guarded, too apologetic, too whiny.
“I’m sorry,” I settle on, as I usually do.
“Hey,” she says, knocking her knee gently against mine. “You wanna tell me what’s going on?”
I lean my head back against the wall and stare up at the ceiling.
“I don’t think I can do this,” I admit. “Go back to work. Make this movie.”
“Why not?” she asks. Her words are light, free of judgment.
“My kids aren’t ready,” I say. “They’re so little still.
And you see how Levi is tonight. Two weeks off his routine have caught up with him and now he’s drowning.
I know how he operates. I know that he needs structure, regularity.
How can I know this and still choose to disrupt his life again by dragging him onto a movie set? ”
“So don’t drag him onto a movie set,” Shelby replies. Her words are so simple and blunt that my eyes snap in her direction.
“What?”
“If you don’t want to bring him, keep him at home with a nanny,” she says.
“If you want to bring him to set, bring the nanny and have her keep him in as much of a steady routine as possible. You have options, not to mention plenty of resources at your disposal. You can make choices that work for you. But what you are not going to do is walk away from this movie.”
“You don’t think it’s selfish?” My voice is so small that I almost don’t recognize it.
Shelby scoffs. “Why have we allowed society to convince mothers that having a career is selfish? Do you think Rocky has ever once felt selfish for being away from his kids while he works on a movie?”
I snort out a bitter laugh. No need to answer that one.
“I know you want to be a good mother,” she continues. “We all do. But you cannot pour from an empty cup. You can’t be your best mom self if you are not fulfilled as a person. You also matter, Marissa. If you want to be good to your kids, then you need to be good to yourself too.”
A fresh wave of tears springs to my eyes.
“Thank you,” I manage. “I didn’t realize how much I needed to hear that.”
I sniffle. “You must think I’m such a dramatic celebrity, crying in your bathroom.”