51. THE ECLAIRS ARE REALLY GOOD HERE
THE ECLAIRS ARE REALLY GOOD HERE
Mark
Here’s something nobody ever tells you about childrearing—kids turn into psychos in December. There should be a whole parenting book just about surviving a month of sugar cookies, Santa cravings, and Christmas break.
There could be an entire chapter just for advice on how to get the song “Jingle Bells” out of a guy’s head.
My kitchen is trashed. Bits of cookie dough are everywhere. But at least the last cookies are out of the oven, so I can leave Rosie and Alba at the kitchen table with their sticky tubes of icing and their sprinkles.
“No sprinkles on the floor, girls,” I beg.
“Sorry, Daddy,” Rosie says. “The cast makes me clumsy.”
“Does it hurt?” I ask for the millionth time this week.
“Nope,” she says. “But Blackbeard just stepped on my pinky toe.”
“Ah.” My tone is dry. “Another trip to the ER then?”
“No, Daddy. His feet are soft.”
Alba giggles.
“Good to know. I’ll be in the living room if anybody needs me.” But I sure hope they don’t. It’s been a rough week. Bridget hasn’t said she blames me for Rosie’s broken arm.
But I know she totally blames me. Heck, I blame myself.
I head into the living room, where Valencia has just poured us each a glass of red wine. Zoe dashed out to pick up sushi for dinner from the Japanese restaurant around the corner. “Better your kitchen than mine,” Valencia says.
“Gee, thanks.” I take the wine and we both line up our feet on my coffee table.
“Your tree looks great, though. At least you have that.”
“It’s nice, right?” I gaze at the colored lights and wish that Asher were here to see it in person.
It’s almost eight o’clock, and he’s probably asleep already.
An hour ago, I had to tell him that I was elbows deep in cookie dough and unable to sneak away for our usual phone call.
And I feel terrible about it too. His birthday is tomorrow.
I was supposed to be on a plane tonight.
“Stay with us, Mark,” Valencia says softly. “Don’t go towards the light.”
I turn back to her quickly. “Sorry.”
“I bet I can guess who you’re thinking about right now.”
“Doesn’t make you a genius.”
She laughs and touches her wine glass to mine. “Does he still feel guilty about Rosie?”
“Yup. Even though I told him it was actually your fault for taking the girls to see Cirque du Soleil.”
“That was a year ago!” she says, scandalized.
“No kidding, but he doesn’t know that.”
“Aw, Mark.” She clutches her chest. “You’re such a softy.”
“Never call a man a softy. That’s mean.”
She chokes on her sip of wine and then howls with laughter.
My phone buzzes with a text in my pocket. I ignore it. Asher is asleep, and there’s nobody else I want to hear from right now. Bridget actually decided to capitalize on my canceled trip by getting tickets to a Broadway show for tonight, since we switched weekends with Rosie.
I’m not even surprised.
“Mommy?” calls Alba from the kitchen. “Can Rosie sleep over?”
Valencia gives me a sideways glance. “You know, her arm does seem fine,” she whispers.
“It’s still broken, though,” I whisper back. “You don’t need to deal with that.”
“Not this time!” Valencia calls to the girls.
My phone vibrates again. And again. And then two more times.
Hmm.
With a lazy sigh, I pull it out of my pocket. The texts are from Asher? It’s two in the morning in Paris. What’s that about? I open the first one and gasp.
The first message is a picture of Asher wearing nothing but the unbuttoned white polo and the briefs I sent him. Plus, an unfocused smile.
The second is a picture of him without the polo. And the smile is downright blurry.
And then the texts start.
MARK HONEY THE ECLAIRS ARE REALLY GOOD HERE IN PARIS. THERE IS ONE BAKERY THAT PUTS GOLD LEAF ON TOP. I WANTED TO TAKE YOU THERE TOMORROW.
I DON’T KNOW WHY EATING GOLD IS COOL. IT JUST IS.
I’M SAD AND A LITTLE DRUNK BECAUSE PARIS IS AMAZING BUT YOU AREN’T HERE AND I DON’T LIKE IT AS MUCH AS I THINK I SHOULD.
THIS JOB ISN’T EVERYTHING AND I MISS YOU ALL THE TIME AND I LOVE YOUUUUUUUUUU.
“Holy shit,” I whisper.
“What’s the matter?”
“My superhot wingman is drunk texting me.” And I love every single word. Especially that last part.
Valencia gasps. “Did he say anything mean? Isn’t that a thing with you guys?”
“He told me he loves me.” I don’t want to look away from the screen. I can’t actually. I just stare at those three words. And I feel them too. Everywhere.
“Oh!” She covers her mouth with her hand. Then she scoots closer on the sofa to read over my shoulder.
OH SHIT I DIDN’T MEAN TO SAY THAT IN A TEXT I WANTED TO SAY IT IN PERSON. I WAS TRYING TO WAIT.
AND YOU WAIT TOO MUCH TOO. YOU WAIT FOR ME ALL THE TIME. BUT I DON’T KNOW WHY. I SNORE AND MY HAIR IS FLOOFY.
YOU NEVER COMPLAIN ABOUT MY STINKY FEET BUT IT’S ONLY A MATTER OF TIME.
TONIGHT I’M LISTENING TO MAROON 5’S DAYLIGHT ON A CONTINUOUS LOOP, LIKE AN EMO LOSER. BUT IT HURTS SO GOOD.
“Oh, that poor, sweet summer child,” Valencia says as the texts roll on. “Your man needs you.”
“I know,” I groan. “But there’s not enough of me to go around right now. This is the worst.”
“Mommmmyyyyy!” Alba calls. “Can Rosie sleep over tomorrow night instead?”
“Does Rosie want to?” Valencia yells back.
“Yes!” my daughter shouts. “Duh!”
“I should just text him back,” I say.
Valencia pokes me in the ribs. “No, Mark, please go into your super-tidy bedroom and throw a few things into a bag. Get your passport. Go to France. That’s what you should do.” She locks eyes with me. “ Tonight. Now.”
Wow. The moment she says this, I can actually picture stepping off that jet at Charles de Gaulle, hurrying towards the immigration line to see my man, kissing the hell out of him on his birthday.
But it’s just not practical. I have to work on Monday morning. It’s already eight on Friday. Plus, I have my kid. “I couldn’t do that,” I say, even as the image of Asher’s smile flashes before my eyes. “I can’t just walk out on you and Rosie.”
“You’re not,” she says firmly. “The person who needs you right now is Asher, not Rosie. She can spend the whole weekend with us, and she’ll have a great time. You need to be in France. Now . Go get your man. I’ll hold down the fort here. Seriously. How hard could it be?”
“Daddy!” Rosie yells. “I got icing on the pirate cat!”
“F-fiddlesticks,” I say, setting my wine down on the table in preparation for cleaning that up.
Valencia holds out a hand. “No. I got this. I got tonight and tomorrow night, too, if Bridget decides to go to the opera or the damn symphony. Go, Mark. It’s hard work finding your special someone.
If you love Asher, go tell him so in person, and when you get your butt in a cab in ten minutes, text him that you’re on the way. ”
She’s completely right. My guy needs me. My friends have my back. My kid is doing great. There’s only one place I need to be right now, and it’s not here.
My chest squeezes with gratitude for Valencia. I’m lucky to have this life. “Are you a hundred percent serious?”
“A hundred and ten percent.”
I meet her warm brown eyes. “Okay. I’m really going to do this crazy thing.”
Holy shit. I am.
“Hurry,” she says, then wags her phone as the door swings open, and Valencia’s wife strolls into the vestibule.
“Who has yellowtail rolls and mackerel? This girl,” she calls out.
Valencia nods in the direction of her wife. “I’ll look up flights, and Zoe will handle the kitchen. Pack a bag and talk to Rosie. Quick!”
“Talk about what?” My daughter comes around the corner, probably to beg for a sleepover. Her hair is in a messy ponytail and red icing lines her cheekbone. I look at her? my baby girl .
And my heart tugs in another direction.
Rosie has always been my number one. From the very first time I held her, I knew I’d never let her down if I could help it.
“What, Daddy?” she asks, cocking her head. “What’s wrong.”
“Nothing. Everything is fine.” I sit back down as Zoe crosses into the kitchen with a wave. “It’s just that Asher is sad, baby. I was supposed to go to Paris for the weekend to see him.”
She marches into the room and slides onto my knee. “Why don’t you go?”
“Because you needed me too.” I give a little tug on her ponytail. “And you’re my number one. Always.”
“I know that .” She shrugs her narrow shoulders. “But maybe Asher needs you a little. He’s your number two, right? You could go and I could stay with Alba.”
“Only if you’re sure,” I say, wrapping my arms around her. “I’d come home on Sunday night, or maybe Monday. But no later.”
“And you’ll call me from Paris?”
“Of course.”
She looks me right in the eye. “And you’ll bring me those chocolates from the airport? In the shape of the Eiffel Tower?”
Valencia snorts. “Work it, girl. Work it.”
“I’ll take some macarons,” Zoe calls out.
“Possibly,” I hedge to Rosie. “That was a lot of chocolate. I might have to choose a smaller treat.”
“Fine.” She gives me a cherubic smile. “Bring one for Alba too.”
And now, I can go. “It’s a deal.” I set her on the couch, kiss her on the head, and run to my room to pack.
Ten minutes later, I’m in a cab.