Chapter 21 Michelle - Reality Bites
MICHELLE: REALITY BITES
Six Years Later
The woman in the mirror looked nothing like the one I used to know: hair piled into a messy bun, no makeup, sweatpants—Scott’s, probably—and a gray T-shirt with a faded logo that had survived one too many wash cycles.
Nothing about her said wealthy heiress. Still, I sat like her, my back straight and chin angled just so.
Muscle memory, I suppose, a reflex from a life I no longer lived.
Posture was one of those stubborn holdovers that set me apart from the women in this working-class beach town and drew quiet judgment, as if I thought I was better than they were.
I checked over my shoulder, making sure the door was shut before opening the little drawer in the hand-me-down vanity and reaching all the way to the back for the velvet box.
I popped it open. Inside, the diamonds still sparkled like they had the night I wore them to Mother’s charity gala and later to the Allard Street House, where Scott had voiced opinions about my jewelry choice.
I smiled at the memory of that na?ve girl as I slipped the necklace from its cradle and let it dangle between my fingers, my thumb tracing the largest diamond.
Cool and perfect, everything I wasn’t anymore.
The stones caught the light, scattering it across the chipped paint and mismatched furniture.
This choker was the last remnant of my past. All the other jewels in my carry-on the day I exited that plane had already been quietly pawned.
Scott’s broken arm. The death of the washing machine.
A used car with under one hundred thousand miles on it.
But this necklace was the most valuable of all and the hardest one for me to part with. Some days, I just needed it.
Clasping the choker around my neck instantly transported me back there, to the parties, the country clubs, and laundry that went out dirty magically returned to me clean.
Studying my reflection in the mirror, I couldn’t help but long for the parts of myself I’d lost. I could still see shadows of the girl I used to be, ghostlike beneath the flickering, incandescent light. Not gone. Just… faded.
“Hi,” I whispered, my eyes misting over. “Do you hate me?”
I'd been struggling with this question lately, especially when hardships piled up beyond my means. Money wasn't just a luxury; it was stability. Without it, impossible decisions became routine. In those moments, dark thoughts crept in. What if I'd stayed on that plane?
I removed the necklace and hastily wiped the tears away. Why did I do this to myself? I’d made my choice, and I was sticking to it. The door creaked open just as I’d laid the precious metals back in their box for safekeeping.
“Mommy!” Keith didn’t wait for my reply, instead launching himself at me.
I caught him mid-leap, all 43 sun-kissed pounds of him.
I marveled at his faith in me. He trusted that his mommy would be there to catch him.
If I’d done this to my own mother, she would have stepped aside and let me drop.
Get up, Michelle. Falling is unbecoming.
“We have to go,” Keith said, already dressed in his T-ball uniform. “The game is starting.”
I checked the wall clock. “No, Bug. It starts in three hours.”
He blinked, no concept of time… or humility. “Now that I had my birthday, I’m going to be the best hitter ever.”
“I know you will be,” I said, kissing his cheek and running one hand through his wavy hair.
He was a blur of knees and elbows, five years of continuous motion and nonstop chatter.
Keith had Scott’s smile. Scott’s eyes. Scott’s impossible optimism.
Just last week, this little boy had taken a nap in the outfield mid-game, yet he truly believed today he was going to knock it out of the park. Yep, Scott through and through.
“And when you do, I’ll be the one cheering the loudest,” I said in my rah-rah voice.
Keith squished my cheeks between his sticky palms and planted a kiss on my lips, so sweet, so innocent.
I smiled and took a deep breath. This right here was why I’d stepped off the plane.
For Scott. For Keith. For Emma. To build my own little family, away from my former one.
It had been the right decision. And I was happy… mostly.
“All right,” I said, setting him back down on his feet. “Let me get changed, and I’ll be right out.”
“Okay, Mommy. But hurry, ’K?” Keith swung his way out of the room, making kapow sounds as his invisible bat hit the ball.
Three hours before the game, I wanted to say. No hurry at all.
Keith met me right outside the door, taking my hand and narrating what I’d missed in the fifteen-minute reprieve I’d taken for myself.
The narrow hallway opened into our cramped quarters.
We lived paycheck to paycheck, and one quick look around our apartment proved it wasn’t getting us much.
Two bedrooms, thin walls, and the constant hum of Venice outside the window.
Scott’s only requirement had been that our apartment be within walking distance to the beach, which accounted for the full-sized surfboard propped against the wall.
The tiny-sized one beside it belonged to Keith, who Scott had started training to ride a wave at three.
Rounding out the décor was a guitar leaning against the wall like a relic, strings dusty, the last remnant of Scott’s time on stage.
My little keyboard sat nearby, the one I used after the kids went to bed, quietly relearning what my hands used to know.
The rest was toys, laundry, and the small comforts of a simple life.
Scott, with a face full of stubble and still wearing the utility vest from work, was struggling to put Emma’s fine blonde hair into pigtails.
He looked tired, and who could blame him?
He’d left for work at four this morning.
When I was pregnant with Keith, he’d ditched his backup jobs for one laborious position, loading and unloading deliveries for a local distributor.
Scott often picked up extra weekend shifts to supplement an income that supported two households.
It was a sore spot between us. I knew when I married Scott that he had a son to support.
That was never the issue. Mitchell deserved everything his father could give him.
But sometimes it was hard not to notice the imbalance.
April lived rent-free with her new fiancé, Tony.
This one was a catch, or so she reminded me every time we made the kid exchange.
April drove a new car, shopped at department stores, and had her nails done every two weeks, while Scott and I were counting change at the grocery store.
It wasn’t resentment so much as fear. With Scott’s job not providing insurance, retirement, or any kind of safety net, one bad fall, one bad flu, and we’d be sunk.
“Daddy said we’ll get donuts after the game if I don’t run the bases backward this time.”
“I don’t think Daddy needs to bribe you with donuts to get you going in the right direction,” I said, more for Scott’s ears than Keith’s. Honestly, what I was really getting at was whether we had enough change for a dozen.
“Says the parent who didn’t have to take the walk of shame out onto the field last weekend,” Scott said.
Emma sat in a chair, swinging her tiny legs in footie pajamas and clutching a plastic doll by its matted hair.
She was the picture of angelic beauty… right up until she wasn’t.
Getting her dressed for the day was strategic, done moments before leaving the house to reduce the risk of a meltdown that would prompt the next-door neighbor to get out of his armchair and pound on our connecting wall.
“I wear tutu?” she asked when she saw me coming.
I froze. Scott stopped brushing her hair.
Our eyes met in pure terror. I was convinced that the tacky purple Barney the Dinosaur tutu Emma had received six months ago for her second birthday—from Uncle Paul’s ditsy new girlfriend—was a form of psychological warfare.
Emma demanded to wear it every day. Like, every day.
A refusal almost always resulted in a ticking tantrum in tiny sneakers.
“Maybe later, sweet pea,” I said, brushing the bangs from her forehead. “After the donuts.”
Yes, I said it. I was no better than Scott. I just liked to think I was.
He caught my eye, grinning, then went back to fixing Emma’s hair. A minute passed before he groaned and waved the brush around. “Nope. That’s it. I’m done. No matter what I do, she comes out looking like a Cabbage Patch doll.”
Scott was good at many things, but getting the kids out the door looking like they had a roof over their heads was not one of them.
I walked over and took the brush from his hand, stealing a quick kiss in the smooth exchange.
Even after six years, he still sent my pulse skittering—especially like this, scruffy and sleep-rumpled, the version of Scott I’d fallen hardest for.
He reached around and gave my ass a covert squeeze during the handoff, fingers lingering just long enough to spark heat low in my belly, his wicked little grin promising we’d finish what that touch started once the kids were finally asleep.
After a few twists and turns of Emma’s hair, the job was done. “There you go, Emmy.”
She slid off the chair, her pigtails bobbing as she ran to Keith. Wherever he was in the house was where she wanted to be. I’d be lying if I said I didn’t use him as a babysitter on those rare occasions when I just needed to close the bathroom door all the way.
“Sorry about the hair,” Scott said, following me into the kitchen. “I was trying to have it done before you came out.”
“It’s okay, I’m used to that beach tumbleweed on top of your head.”
He lifted himself onto the counter. “I was talking about Emma’s pigtails.”
“Oh. Right. My mistake,” I teased. “How was work?”
“It was work.”
My gaze flicked toward the living room, where two small heads were bent over a pile of crayons and a scattering of plastic safari animals. I closed my eyes, took a quick breath for courage, and turned back to Scott.
“Hey, I’ve been meaning to ask,” I said, hesitantly. “Did you take any money out of the emergency fund?”
Scott froze for half a second, just long enough for me to notice. Then he leaned back against the counter, and one hand went to the back of his neck, his usual tell. He shrugged, too casual to be innocent.
“Scott?”
“What?” He raised his brows. “I didn’t touch it. Maybe the ants finally figured out where we keep the cash.”
I didn’t smile or blink, just watched him. “I counted it last week. It’s lighter now.”
“You sure? Maybe you miscounted.”
I folded my arms, waiting.
“Okay, fine, I took twenty. Maybe thirty. Gas money.”
“It was eighty.”
Scott looked away, pretending to study the bare wall. “Guess my tank’s bigger than I thought.”
I gripped the counter, not wanting to get into it with him—but if not now, when?
“And a hundred was missing a few weeks ago,” I said.
“It’s the emergency fund. That’s what it’s there for.”
“No, Scott, it’s there for emergencies. When were you planning to tell me?”
“To be honest, Michelle, never.”
“Never!” I raised my voice.
He lowered his. “You’re always so uptight about money.”
“Because we’re broke, Scott.”
That knocked the nonchalance clean off his face. For a beat, he didn’t say anything, just shifted his weight, eyes flicking toward the window like the answer might be out there.
“It’s not a big deal. I’ll put it back.”
“That’s what you said the last time.”
He straightened then, jaw tightening. “You make it sound like I’m blowing it all playing poker with the guys.”
I stared at him, the unease rising. “Aren’t you? You come home late, stinking like pot. You said you weren’t playing for money, so if that’s the case, then it means our emergency fund is getting sucked into your lungs.”
He exhaled, again scratching the back of his neck.
“You have nothing to add?”
“We don’t have time for this discussion,” he said, jumping off the counter. “Later.”
“Sure we do. The kids are busy coloring.”
“No, we have to get to the baseball field.”
“Keith’s game isn’t for three hours,” I said.
“Yes, but MGM’s is in thirty minutes. It’s at the same park.”
That piece of uncommunicated information turned my mood even more sour. “I wish you had clarified that. You know I need time to prepare for afternoons with April.”
“Prepare how? With a pre-dug hole behind the bleachers?”
He wasn’t far off. You’d think, with all the coparenting April and I did, that our relationship would have improved over time, but it was just as contentious as the day we met.
Only now there were extra kids in the mix.
Mine. And I was fiercely protective. Though that wasn’t to say I didn’t love hers.
Sweet, helpful, and well-behaved, MGM was a model child.
We’d grown close over the years. Like me, he wasn’t a fan of ocean swimming, so when Scott took Keith out surfing, Mitchell stayed back with me, and we talked, baked, and played.
No, my stepson was not the problem. April and I being within spitting distance of each other… that was the problem.
I forced a smile. “Well, then, let’s get this over with.”
Scott studied me like he was deciding whether to push it or let it go. He pushed it. “I can practically feel the sisterhood forming.”
I shot him a look. “I wouldn’t.”
He sighed. “Can you play nice for once?”
“That depends,” I snapped. “Are you going to have my back this time?”
Scott had made the mistake of trying to stay neutral, never a wise choice when you were married to one of the combatants. For his own safety, there was only one correct answer to that question: Yes, honey.
He nodded.
Good enough.
I walked to the door, grabbing the diaper bag and Emma’s clothes. I’d change her at the field. Trying to wrestle her into an outfit now would have been like lighting the fuse on a grenade then hopping into the car with it. I didn’t have it in me for that battle.
Sidestepping me, Scott called out to the kids in forced cheer. “Let’s roll, team!”
Keith whooped and bolted ahead, tripping over his own excitement.
Emma toddled after him, her half-naked doll dragging behind her like a casualty of war.
And I followed them out into the California sun, bracing myself for T-ball, tantrums, and my regularly scheduled sparring match with April, carrying the gnawing understanding that the argument with Scott was coming back home with us.