Nothing on the kids’ daily checklists had been checked off.
“We started off with breakfast, but then we just went where the day took us. Ryla showed me her dollhouse after breakfast, which turned into an impromptu Barbie fashion show. Then Max taught me how to play Friday Night Funkin’, which, by the way, was incredibly hard and your son needs to take piano or drums or something, because that kid’s rhythm skills are amazing.” Jace ran his fingers through his hair as he continued, “Then after lunch, Kevin the dog showed up and the checklist kind of went out the window.”
Jace was absently rubbing his hand through the tangle of curls at the back of his head, looking at me with raised eyebrows, as if waiting for me to be, what . . . mad? Mad that my kids were happy and laughing and clearly had a great day? I was confused how he could possibly think I’d be mad. Then, I looked back down to the schedule, realizing for a moment, how this must look to anyone else.
Controlling.
Like I was some sort of anti-fun momzilla, making a checklist for my kid’s day. Max’s therapist didn’t see any problem with creating structure for the kids, in fact, he encouraged it. This past year was a constant juggling game of coordinating the kids’ schedules, meals, laundry, housework, and counseling appointments—and that’s not to mention all the other odds and ends. If the kids needed new shoes, who got them? If they needed haircuts, who scheduled them? It was all here on Barry, keeping me sane.
But somewhere along the way, I lost the fun stuff. A sinking feeling settled in my belly, weighing me down.
“I’m sorry. We’ll do better tomorrow.” Jace’s quiet words came from my right, obviously mistaking my silence for censure.
I flashed a smile, shoving my feelings of embarrassment and horror and disappointment into a box deep within myself.
“It’s totally fine. My kids are happy, healthy. We’re all good.”
“Polly—”
“Please, no need to apologize," I cut him off, the heavy feeling in my belly moving into my chest and turning into pressure—the intense need to be alone was suddenly overwhelming. “I’m sure you’re eager to have some free time. Thank you for your help today. You’re free! Go! Before Ryla makes you be a cat!”
My attempt at a joke fell flat as Jace stepped back, a troubled look in his eyes. “You sure? I can help with supper. I don’t mind.”
How could I explain that I wasn’t mad at him, and it had everything to do with me? I waved him off, stepping backwards a few paces.
“Yes, really! Take your freedom and go. The kids will only take advantage of you if you stick around. Well, Ryla at least . . .” I trailed off with a humorless laugh.
I would love to say that I stopped talking right then, but that would be a dirty lie. No, instead I entered the portion of the evening I’d like to call,Polly felt so awkward she blabbered in run-on sentences until she borderline insulted his Southern rootsportion of the evening.
Coming soon to a theater near you.
“You’re young! You should be out drinking and living life at one of those, what do people call it?” I looked up at the ceiling and snapped my fingers. “A honky-tonk!” I practically shrieked. “Yes! A honky-tonk. You should go and dance and drink some moonshine at a honky-tonk until the wee hours of the morning!”
Jace, to his credit, was looking at me with confusion, not with pity or fear, which was most certainly deserved. Though, his kindness didn’t stop me from wanting to dissolve into a puddle on the floor.
“Alright. If you need me, you know where to find me.” Then, like a polite Southern gentleman, he gave me a head bob along with a dimpled smile I didn’t deserve. “Y’all have a good night.”
I held my breath as I watched him walk out of the kitchen, not letting it out until I heard the faint snick of his door close.
Bending at the waist, I fell forward onto the island countertop. I rocked my forehead back and forth against the cool granite in pure self-loathing until I heard one of my kid’s footsteps on the stairs. I forced myself upright to act like everything was ok—I was well practiced at that.
Later that night, I found myself sitting at the table after dinner, my laptop in front of me. Usually after dinner, I tried to spend a little time with the kids. But tonight, like so many nights over the past few months, I had things to do: emails to return, new shoes to order for Ryla, etc. The conversation I’d had with Jace played on repeat in my head until I read the same email three times and finally closed my computer, utterly exhausted. Rubbing my face, I leaned back in my chair and looked over at my kids. They were both on their tablets, the house dreadfully quiet. The laughter and smiles from when I got home had been extinguished.
We’d reverted to our factory settings.
CHAPTERTWENTY
JACE
I may not be allowed to love her, but that doesn't mean I'll let anyone hurt her.
Katja Millay,The Sea of Tranquility
Iwoke up agitated, having slept fitfully and waking well before sunrise. Something had spooked Polly last night. At first, I thought it was because we didn’t get anything done on her checklist, but then she got all nervous and cute, babbling about honky-tonks and moonshine, making me confused. It was all I could do not to wrap my arms around her, reassuring her that whatever it was, it was going to be alright. I’d stayed in my room the entire night, eating a protein bar I’d found at the bottom of my gym bag for supper. I’d listened to the sounds of Polly and her kids until they went to bed, then the silence that followed.
I’d purposefully come down to the kitchen early the next morning, not wanting to miss Polly before she left for work. Pale morning sunlight was streaming through the windows so I didn’t turn on the lights as I waited for my coffee to brew.
Polly rushed through the kitchen doorway as if on a mission, immediately walking to the table and to rifle through her purse, which must have been sitting there all night. Hair high up in a bun, her elegant neck was on full display. She was wearing earbuds, like in the library on Sunday night.
