31. Diana
I stare down at the beautifully plated tomato, cucumber, and feta salad in front of me with a sense of despair.
It sounds like a simple enough dish, but something about the vinaigrette Michael created and the quality of the ingredients he used made me fall in love with it when I first tried it last night.
Today, though, I can’t appreciate the way the rich cherry tomatoes’ flavor bursts in my mouth, or the freshness of the cucumber and its satisfying crunch.
I can’t relish in the sweet and tangy dressing that had my tastebuds wanting more of something so simple yet beautiful.
And I know I won’t even get to enjoy the entree and dessert I ordered, either.
There are no words to describe how amazing last night’s dinner was, or how excited I was to have more of Michael’s amazing food with our girls, and now it’s been ruined by my ex.
My ex who cannot stop making snide comments or remarks.
My ex who keeps trying to belittle the amazing work Michael and Lexi put into this endeavor by using backhanded compliments like “cute restaurant” and “the food is so simple” and “did you guys run out of cash, or did you mean to decorate the place like this?”.
My ex who hasn’t spoken to his daughters all summer but tries to gaslight us all into thinking there was nothing wrong and he was just “busy.” Luckily, none of us buys it—not even the girls, I don’t think.
My eyes flash to Michael, whose muscles are wound so tight it’s a wonder he can even breathe. His eyes are on his plate as he grits his teeth while we are all forced to listen to the Rodrigo show.
“…So anyway, after that weekend Elizabeth and I spent in Palm Springs, we decided we should visit the West Coast more. So I was thinking you girls—Cami and Emi—should come on a trip with us the next time we go.”
“Whoa, hold on.” I say, raising a hand. “Elizabeth? I thought your girlfriend’s name was Katie.”
Rodrigo purses his lips and takes a sip of his drink before responding. “That didn’t work out. Katie grew a bit too… attached.”
I scoff. “So who’s this new woman, then?”
“Just someone I met through work. She’s an intern through our company’s MBA program.”
“An intern? Rodrigo, really?”
He groans. “Here we go again. Another made up drama for your Lifetime movie.” Rodrigo rolls his eyes and takes another sip of his wine. “She’s twenty-four. An adult. It’s not the end of the fucking world, Diana,” he hisses.
“It’s not even about her age. It’s so inappropriate! And I’m not letting you take my daughters on a trip with a woman I’ve never met.”
“Oh, like you fucking this dude right here is any different? Or did you not let him spend the entire summer with my girls?”
I gasp, appalled. Between the language he used and the blatant disrespect in front of his kids and Michael and Rachel, I don’t even know where to start.
But even though I want to go off on him, I can’t tell him he’s wrong.
I did leave them alone with Michael when I left for New York, and he took them to the aquarium.
Still, I open my mouth to let him have it, but catch the look on my girls’ faces before I do. Devastation. Stress. The beginning of tears building in both their eyes. So I grit my teeth and bite back the words that beg to be spoken.
Michael pushes back from the table, the legs of the chair scraping across the floor in a way that makes most patrons turn to look at us with nervous curiosity. “Rodrigo? I think we should step outside for a moment.”
“What? Michael, no.” My stomach drops—it twists and turns.
The Michael I know today would never start a physical fight, but I know he has a past. I know he was a troublemaker when he was a teenager (a bit of a euphemism based on the stories he told me).
So I anxiously reach over and take his wrist in my hand, doing my best to pull him back down. “Please,” I beg.
“Fuck, yeah. Finally. Let’s do this.” Rodrigo gets to his feet and rubs his hands together like a villain in an old school spy movie. “I’m going to kick your ass.”
“Papi, no! What are you doing?” Cami tugs on her dad’s shirt and tries to pull him down, but he’s an unmovable force, his rage blinding him to the fact that his little girl is even speaking to him. Emi cries in earnest now, unrelenting tears building. But it isn’t their father who calms them down.
Michael runs over to where they’re both seated and crouches beside them. “Hey,” he tells them in a soft, soothing voice, grabbing one of their hands in each of his. “No one’s going to fight anyone. I just want to talk to your dad for a second.” His eyes flit to mine. “I promise.”
But Rodrigo scoffs, making me believe that, though Michael has no intention of starting something, he may have to finish it. “Yeah, okay,” my ex says with a sarcastic laugh. “Let’s talk.”