“Anyway,” my ex is saying, “I’m sure you already took care of it, but I wanted to remind you that the girls are off gluten, so no waffles for breakfast this morning.”
“Wait, what?” I blink in bewilderment. I always make waffles for the girls. That’s our thing.
Kara huffs impatiently. “No gluten, Matt. Scramble some eggs instead. I also sent you options for lunch and dinner.”
What the fuck is she talking about? “What the fuck are you talking about?” I ask aloud. Then I cringe and glance toward the living room, but the girls are too busy fawning over Rufus to notice that Daddy said a bad word.
“You didn’t check your email,” Kara says flatly.
“I had a game last night,” I answer through clenched teeth. I’m already heading for the kitchen counter, where I left my cell phone. I hurriedly open my email app and click on Kara’s name.
“And you didn’t check it this morning?” Kara’s tone is laden with disapproval.
I ignore her and scan the message. For fuck’s sake. It’s essay-length. And yup, she did include potential meal plans for me to implement during this way-too-short visit with my kids. She refers to them as “suggestions,” but we both know better.
“What do we have against gluten?” I ask tightly.
Her lips pinch together in a frown. “I told you last week—Elizabeth has been having some stomach sensitivity lately. I’ve monitored her food intake and I believe the gluten is wreaking havoc on her system.”
Or she just had one fucking stomach ache—probably because she snuck in some cookies when Dictator Mommy wasn’t looking—and it has nothing to do with fucking gluten.
“We spoke about this,” Kara says irritably. “And you agreed that we needed to change the girls’ diet.”
I don’t remember agreeing to that at all, but truth is, I probably did. Our weekly phone calls consist of Kara droning on for about an hour, while I say things like “uh-huh” and “sure” and “sounds good.”
“Fine,” I mutter. “Libby can’t handle gluten. Gluten is evil. Gluten will be banished from this household.”
“Are you mocking me?”
“Not at all.”
Kara’s dour expression tells me she knows I’m lying. Then she pastes a smile on her face and calls out to the twins. “C’mere, angels! Say goodbye to Mommy!”
June and Libby rush over to hug and kiss their mom. Kara squeezes both of them tight before saying, “Be good for Daddy, okay? Call me if you have any questions. I've got dinner plans tonight, but I’ll have my phone on.”
“Big date with Dentist Dan, huh? Don't forget to floss beforehand.”
She gives me a dirty look over our daughters’ heads. “I am having dinner with Daniel, yes. But I repeat, my phone will be on.”
My daughters are four years old, and great at telling me exactly what they need. But Kara doesn’t think I can make it twenty-four hours without consulting her on their care? Anger rushes through me once again, and it takes a superhuman effort not to say something snarky.
Honestly, I’ve had divorced teammates before, and I’d never understood how they could still carry a grudge against their exes. But now the joke’s on me. Right now I’m more ready to throw off the gloves with Kara than our team enforcer is when someone fouls our goalie.
Fortunately, a moment later she’s gone, and it’s like a weight has been lifted off my chest. Kara is a difficult woman. She loves our children dearly, I know that, but she acts like she’s their only parent. I have no say in anything when it comes to the girls. None.
Elizabeth has been having some stomach sensitivity lately.
Elizabeth. Libby’s full name brings on one last ripple of anger. I didn’t even have a say in naming my kids, for fuck’s sake. Kara informed me after the delivery that the girls would be named after her great-grandmothers—June and Elizabeth. I didn’t get a veto.
And, Christ. What am I going to do about breakfast? I promised the twins waffles when we spoke on the phone. Waffles are our ritual, damn it. They already don’t get to see me as often as any of us would like.
Drawing a deep breath, I grab my phone again and pull up the Fetch app. In the subject line, I type: SOS! BREAKFAST EMERGENCY! MAYDAY!
Hopefully that sounds dire enough to trigger an insta-response. The message itself is less crazy.
Sniper87: Hey HTE! I’ve got my kids this morning and I’ve just been informed that gluten is the devil. I require gluten-free waffle mix—ASAP. Please help.
I don’t expect her to answer the SOS herself. I mean, I’m sure she’s got better things to do than field the pettiest client emergencies. But surprisingly, it’s Hottie’s name that shows up in the response box.
HTE: Oh boy! Does someone have celiac disease?
Sniper87: I doubt it. But my ex-wife lives to make things complicated.
HTE: Gotcha. Will send someone with gluten-free waffle mix ASAP.
Sniper87: For reals? You can keep me out of the penalty box?
HTE: Get out that waffle iron, Sniper.
“Daddy!” June appears at my side, tugging on my pant leg. “I’m hungry!”
“Me too!” Libby chimes in, and suddenly I’ve got two pairs of gray eyes peering up at me in accusation.
“Working on it,” I assure them. “How about some OJ for now?”
“Fruit punch,” June orders.
“And ice cream!” Libby shoots me an angelic smile and adds, “I missed you, Daddy.”
I narrow my eyes at her. “Stop trying to manipulate your old man, Elizabeth. You’re not having ice cream for breakfast.”
“What’s manipoolate?” June asks.
“It means your sister is trying to trick me into giving her a tummy ache.” I head for the fridge and peek inside. “You’re in luck. We’ve got fruit punch.” I always put this stuff on my grocery order because it’s Junebug’s favorite juice.
Also? It’s organic. Take that, Kara! I give her the mental finger as I pull out the carton and then grab two small plastic cups from the cupboard. Rufus, my jerk of a dog, decides to pick that moment to dart into the kitchen and run between my legs, causing me to lose my balance. I end up spilling fruit punch all over my light-gray hoodie. Awesome.
“BWAHAHAHAHA!!” The twins break out in laughter, pointing their chubby fingers at me. “Daddy! You’re all purple!” June exclaims in delight.
“Don’t laugh at your father, you little monsters.” Groaning, I strip off the soaking wet, purple-stained hoodie and toss it on the back of one of the counter stools. I’m pretty sure some of the juice seeped through the fabric, because my chest feels wet. I glance down. Yup, there are purple splotches on my left pec. Double awesome.
I grab a dishrag and quickly wipe up the liquid that spilled on the floor and counter. Then I pour two glasses, plant the girls’ butts on two stools, and watch as they happily sip their juice.
Man, it’s easy to please my children. Give them some fruit punch and they’re smiling like it’s Christmas morning. Though once their little tummies start growling and they realize their waffles still aren’t ready, I doubt they’ll be smiling anymore.