“Mom!” Evan runs through the kitchen. “I can’t find any paper clips.”
“Did you look in the—” Jules stops herself and holds her index finger up to let me know we’ll continue this in a minute. She smiles, but as she swivels her stool toward her son, I catch her eyes rolling back slightly and I’m not sure if it’s in response to Evan’s incompetence in locating paper clips or my insistence that I’ve time traveled.
When I’d arrived at Jules’ house earlier, I’d knocked a few times, and when no one answered, I’d let myself in, figuring she was busy with the kids. As I’d rounded the corner to the kitchen, I’d heard Ben’s voice first.
“We’ve been over this. My workload more than doubled when Eric left.”
“Can’t they replace him?” Jules’ voice was small.
“Budget cuts.” Ben let out an exasperated sigh, as if he’d said those two words more times than he’d wanted to. “I’m lucky they didn’t cut my position too.”
“So now you have to take on his travel schedule on top of everything else? You are gone all the time as it is. Now you’re never going to see the kids . . . or me.” Her voice was almost a whisper as she’d said or me, and I’d felt my heart lurch. I had no idea she and Ben had been fighting about this. She’s never breathed a word of it to me. And in all my wedding planning, I had never thought to ask how she was doing.
“Listen, we’ve been over this. I have to work. It would be great if we could live on your salary at the restaurant, but the reality is that we can’t.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?” Jules’ voice elevated slightly, but vibrated as if she was trying to control it. “Forget it,” she snapped.
“I’ve got to go. Remind the kids of who I am if I’m not home to tuck them in tonight,” he joked to break the tension, and even though I couldn’t see Jules’ face, I was absolutely sure that she didn’t think it was funny.
I’d quickly ducked into the bathroom and closed the door, not wanting Ben to see me. Overhearing this conversation made me feel awkward, as if I was viewing hidden-camera footage of them in their bedroom. I’d never heard them argue over anything more serious than who was going to call the sitter to ask if they could stay out longer and have another cocktail. I’d waited a few minutes after the front door slammed, then made my way into the kitchen, where I’d found Jules lost in thought as she kneaded the dough. I’d wanted to hug her tight and tell her that Ben didn’t mean to be hurtful, that he was probably just tired, but then I’d have to admit I’d been eavesdropping.
“Auntie Kate, Auntie Kate—do you like my pink shoes?” Ellie’s high-pitched voice jars me out of my thoughts as she appears by my side with her American Girl backpack slung over her arm, balancing on one leg while holding her other foot out to me.
“They are gorgeous,” I say, reaching down to run my hand over the sparkly texture.
“My friend Megan has the same pair, but they are purple. We are going to be twins today.”
“That’s sweet,” I say just as Jules comes back into the room.
“Ellie, did you brush your teeth? Megan’s mom just texted me, she’s going to be here in five minutes.” Ellie reluctantly heads toward her bathroom.
“So if this is true—and I’m not saying I think it is—then that means I have to accept that Max did this to you—and with Courtney? I just can’t believe it—” She shakes her head, her eyes rimmed with concern. I can also see the strain in them, the extra concealer she’s using to disguise her shadows, and how her dress is hanging on her thin frame.
“Jules—are you doing okay?”
“Am I okay? Me? You’re the one who’s apparently”—she leans across the sink and whispers—“traveled back in time, and you’re wondering how I’m doing?”
“You just look a little tired. And when did you lose so much weight? Not that I’m not jealous as hell, but you’re turning all Twiggy on me.”
She grabs a dish towel and flings it at me. “So you’re saying I look like shit? Thanks a lot,” she scoffs, then presses her lips together into a half smile. “Anyway, I’m fine! Things are just crazy right now. I mean, whose idea was it for Evan to join club soccer anyway? Do nine-year-olds really need to practice three times a week? It’s not the World Cup, for God’s sake!” She points to the calendar on the refrigerator. “We have six tournaments this summer. Six! When am I going to get anything done? And don’t tell anyone, but I actually bought one of those chairs that has an umbrella built in.”
“You didn’t!” I cry out. “I thought we made an agreement that we’d never become soccer moms.”
“Hey, you’d be surprised at the things you start doing when you have kids.” She starts to busy herself with the dough again and I decide not to press. I can tell by the way she’s slightly arching her back and gripping the rolling pin that now’s not the time to push her.