1. Recipe For Change #2
“There ya go.” He shuts the folder, and his relaxed demeanor is back. “Now that work’s covered...” He reaches into one of the desk drawers and takes out a small card. “I’ve got something for you.”
“What’s that?”
He smirks. “One of the other chefs, Jerry, is working for the owner of TOP, and they sent us a few gift cards. I’ve got about fifteen of them.”
“TOP?” I look down at the metallic card, then turn it around and notice the words engraved in the back.
Tease. Obsess. Play.
“What the hell is this for?”
“It’s for a...” He tilts his head. “A subscription service.”
“To...” I look down at the card again. Cherry red, sleek, and somewhat cryptic. With how vague Ian is being, this can only be about one thing. “Erotic content?”
“Bingo.”
Jesus Christ. “What—Are you giving me a jerk-off gift?”
“Well, it’s not like I’m handing you lube or anything.”
“There’s plenty of free stuff I have access to,” I say as I hold the card out. “Give this to one of the younger people who actually have the energy to jerk off.”
“See, that’s just proof of how much you need it.” He shakes his head firmly. “Take the card. How about Sadie sleeps over tonight? Last time she did my nails, and you know I’m overdue for a mani.”
Half the time I talk to Ian, I actually can’t believe what I’m hearing. “You want to babysit so I can masturbate.”
“Uh-huh.” He bites his bottom lip to hide a chuckle. “I’d offer to babysit so you can take an actual woman out, but?—”
“I’m not ready for dating.”
“So take the card.”
I hesitate, then with a nod I tuck the card in my pocket, my face flushing. Though I have every intention of throwing it out, I could use a night by myself. The house is a disaster, and the meal prep schedule I came up with has gone to hell already. “Sure, okay. I’ll drop her off after dinner.”
“Great. See you later.”
He waves, the same cheeky smile on his face. As if it wasn’t weird enough that he gave me a gift card for an erotic subscription service, the thought of him knowing I’m jerking off as I do it has killed any possibility of it actually happening.
But he doesn’t need to know that, so I slip out of the restaurant and into my car.
Looks like I have a date with myself tonight.
“Did Mom call?”
Sadie has been buckled into her booster seat in the back of the car for three minutes, which is two more than she usually lasts before asking about Josie.
Though I can’t blame her for it, a new part of me gets ripped out every day.
“Yes, baby,” I lie. “She said she loves you and she misses you a lot.”
“Is she coming back?”
Another hit. Another morsel ripping away. “Of course she is, just not now. She needs some more time to feel better.”
Sadie looks out the car window. I can’t pinpoint how exactly, but she seems older. I see it in the sharpness of her eyes and the set of her jaw. And the fact that she stopped smiling six months ago, when her mom last committed herself to rehab.
“How was school today?”
“We learned about colors. Did you know that blue and yellow make green?”
“I did, yes. What do blue and red make?” Through the rearview mirror, her wide eyes stare at me. “Purple, your favorite color.”
Jaw dropping, she grabs her backpack and takes out her notepad and markers. I assume she has to see for herself, and I’m proven right when she strikes a blue patch of color with her red marker and holds it up for me to see. “Daddy, you’re right!”
I nod, grateful for her short attention span. “You can keep trying more combinations at home. Are you hungry? We’re having meatballs.”
“Yes.” She falls into silence again, and though I’ve had months to get used to this new version of Sadie, I still haven’t.
Before Josie left, she spent more time talking than thinking.
She looked forward to everything. Now with every little change I see, I can’t help but wonder.
..is it growth? Is it trauma? Should I push her or let her be?
“Are you and Mom getting divorced?”
My shoulders tense and when I check the rearview mirror, I find her studying me.
Fuck my life.
I get that Josie is sick, and she needs help before she can come back and care for her daughter, but I’m so fucking mad at her.
I can’t help it. She left me here to deal with the aftermath of our relationship failing.
With our daughter wondering where her mom is.
It’s been two years of this—of her jumping from rehab to rehab, relapse after relapse.
“Why—er, why did you ask me that?”
“Dalton’s mom says you’re divorced and Mom left us behind.”
Dalton’s mom, whoever she is, should chew glass. “Oh, really? Do you know what divorce means?”
When she nods, I do too. “Okay, well...first of all, Mom didn’t leave us behind. She’s not well, and she’s in a place that’ll help her so she can come back to us. But she wishes she could be with you every day.”
We come to a red light and I twist in my seat, turning my focus on Sadie. “But yes, Mommy and I are divorcing.” A light in her eyes dims. “It’s not your fault, and it doesn’t mean we don’t love you or each other. We do, so much.”
“Then why are you not together anymore?”
“Because sometimes you can love someone a lot, but they’re still not good for you.”
Sniffling, she looks down at her lap. “Is Mom sick because you’re not good for her?”
This question is loaded . I take the honest approach with Sadie whenever possible, but how do I explain that, yes, I’m partially responsible for my wife’s drinking, seeing as I unknowingly took her from the love of her life—my little brother —and got her pregnant, effectively trapping her in a relationship she didn’t want in the first place?
“You know how Uncle Logan is allergic to strawberries?”
“Uh-huh.”
“It’s just fruit. And it’s delicious, right? You love strawberries.” I get a nod. “But they hurt him anyway. It’s like that with me and Mom. Nothing wrong with us, and we love each other. But we don’t want to make each other unwell.”
This time, without any sign of acknowledgment, she turns to the window. Someone behind me presses on the horn, and noticing the light is green, I drive.
I need to change the topic. It feels like that’s all I’ve been doing for months.
“Ian and Amelie invited you to a pajama party.”
She straightens at the news, eyes lighting up in the mirror. “Really? At their house?”
“Yep.”
“Can I take Mollie?”
Mollie. Also known as the worst mistake of the last month.
I figured, Sadie has been asking about a pet for as long as I can remember, and what better moment than when she desperately needs a distraction?
So I got her the gray-and-brown cat the lady at the local animal shelter swore was “cute as a button.” Instead, I got a demonic beast who wishes upon the destruction of every material good I own.
“No, I think Mollie should stay.” It’s one thing she’s ruining our house, but I can’t let that feral creature loose in someone else’s apartment.
“ Pleeeease ,” she insists.
“No Mollie, sorry. She’ll keep me company tonight.”
A few minutes of silence go by. I’m about to ask if she wants to put some music on when her small hand reaches forward and squeezes the top of my arm from the back seat.
“You’re not bad, Daddy. Even if you’re like strawberries for Mom. Strawberries are my favorite.”
I swallow down a sob. Dealing with Sadie as a single parent on and off for the past two years has been impossibly hard, but sometimes, she’ll say stuff like this and all the worries and concerns I have over not doing a good job by myself vanish into thin air.
“I love you, baby,” I say as her hand squeezes. “Daddy’s not going anywhere, okay?”