The Friends We Keep

“Yes.”


“Of course not. Why would you even ask?”

“You’ve never been this angry with me before.”

“You’ve never been this much of a jerk. Are you leaving?”

“No. I’m totally committed to you and the girls. Gabby, you’re my wife and I love you. We have to find a way to make this work for everyone.”

“I agree. And I think I get to be included in the ‘making it work for everyone’ statement.” She used her fingers to make air quotes. “You can’t make me do something I really don’t want to do, Andrew. It’s wrong. I need you to see that. I need you to understand that putting Makayla’s needs ahead of mine makes me feel devalued. I don’t want to punish her for getting pregnant, but I don’t believe everything goes on as normal for her, either. We still have time to work this out, but I really hope we can find a solution that we can all agree on.”

She waited for him to nod and explain how it was all so clear to him now. Instead he sighed.

“So it’s still all about you,” he said quietly. “I’d been hoping for more.”

“What?”

“I’m disappointed, Gabby. Disappointed and a little surprised.”

With that he rose and walked out of the room. She threw a pillow after him, but that wasn’t nearly satisfying enough.

*

Sunday morning Eric texted right on time. Nicole almost didn’t bother reading it. She knew what he was going to say. He was too busy, too important, too whatever to bother seeing his son. She didn’t know why he was always blowing off his kid, but there they were—locked in a pattern that didn’t seem to be changing.

Still, courtesy required that she answer, so she picked up her phone and glanced at the screen. Then nearly dropped it as she read the text twice.

I’ll be there at noon to pick up Tyler.

Who would have thought? She texted back her agreement to the plan, then went to tell Tyler he was spending the afternoon with his father.

Her son was sitting at the low table in his room, working on his drawings. He’d pretty much mastered a basic Brad and was now experimenting with different colors. Traditionally Brad was a red dragon, but Tyler liked him green and purple and brown.

Nicole looked from the boy to the wall. Jairus had sketched out several large Brads. One version had Brad swinging a bat. Another showed Brad surfing. The third was of Brad lying under a palm tree, reading.

Jairus had promised he would finish the sketches on his next visit and then they could start painting the mural. Tyler talked about the project every night and had made Nicole promise to document the process with lots of pictures.

“I heard from your dad,” she said, returning her attention to her son. “He’s going to take you to lunch today.”

Tyler didn’t bother looking up. “Okay.”

She wanted to say something like, “Hey, won’t that be fun?” or “Aren’t you excited?” But she couldn’t fake her way through the false enthusiasm. Eric saw Tyler so rarely, she had a feeling the visits were awkward for them both. They were caught in a cycle. The less Eric saw Tyler, the harder it was, the less he wanted to see him. Still, Eric was his father.

She sat on the floor. Her son smiled at her. “What, Mommy?”

“Do you ever think about your dad?” she asked gently. “About seeing him more?”

“No.”

“Are you sad about the divorce?”

Tyler frowned. “No. You and me are a team.” His expression brightened. “Maybe Jairus could be on our team. You know, when he comes to visit.”

“Like an honorary member?”

“Uh-huh. That would be great!”

“It would.” She hesitated, not sure what else to say. She wanted to be sure Tyler knew he could talk about anything with her. That she would always listen. But the kid was six. She didn’t think he was hiding deep resentment.

“I’ll let you know when it’s time,” she promised.

Tyler nodded.

“When you get back, we’ll go to the POP and walk around.”

He looked up and smiled. “I’d like that, Mommy.”

“Me, too.”

She retreated to the kitchen. Restlessness and unease gave her too much energy so she channeled it the way she always did—into cleaning. She took the burners off the stove and soaked them while she scrubbed the cooktop. By the time Eric arrived, she’d scrubbed the floor and cleaned out the pantry. She was tired, but feeling pretty darned righteous.

Her ex-husband pulled up in his BMW convertible, the top down. Eric wore dark-wash jeans that probably cost as much as all her utility bills combined and a T-shirt that could have been made of silk. His sunglasses were designer and his smile seemed to be even whiter than the last time she’d seen him.

Don’t judge, she told herself. There was no win in that. Eric and she were really different people. At one time she’d wanted to spend the rest of her life with him. If she thought he was a dick now, what did that say about her taste?

“Hi,” she said as he walked into the house. “How’s it going?”