Page 55 of The Write Choice

“Or a night in.” Ben waggles his eyebrows. “You know, sexy pajamas, gray sweatpants…”

“This is going too far,” I groan.

“The ladies love gray sweatpants,” Ben insists.

Yeah, on you. You’re jacked, I think, but that’s not something I’m willing to say aloud to a man I practically just met.

Ben’s eyes light up, and for a second, I’m afraid I did actually say that out loud. He leans forward, resting his forearms on his knees. “You should ask Jenny for some book recommendations. You know, those romance ones?”

“I’m not reading those,” I protest quickly. “I’m still working on Daniel’s.”

“You’ve been working on that for a year,” he mutters good-naturedly.

Ben shakes his head. “Trust me, man, you don’t have to. Buy them and just leave them around. She’ll pick one up. Jenny devours those things, and I can’t say I mind.” He stops short of winking at me, but I can tell he wants to. I grimace.

Daniel smirks. “They show up in our library sometimes, which I would assume is Jenny’s doing.” He looks to Ben, who tries to look innocent for all of one second before he nods in confirmation. Daniel smirks. “I catch Mac reading those things and she lights up, if you know what I mean.”

“Everyone on the planet knows what you mean,” I mumble.

Daniel is amused as he stands and collects our forgotten paper plates to throw them in the trash. “We’ll figure it out.” He claps his free hand on my shoulder in reassurance as he passes me. “But I think you should start by helping her determine what it is she needs out of life. From what you said, she seems a bit…” He searches for the word. “Adrift.”

I chew on the inside of my bottom lip as I think about this. “Adrift” is putting it lightly, but he’s got the gist of it.

“I heard Mason and Brody hit it off.” Ben changes the subject, and while I’m grateful to not be talking about my sex life and my sad wife anymore, I have to rack my brain to remember who Brody is. “My nephew,” Ben supplies when he sees me struggling.

I nod. “Oh, right. Yeah, they’re in the same class.” He’s only been in school for a week, but I should know who my son’s friends are.

Daniel comes back into the living room after clearing away the food. Ben seems not quite sure what to say next, which is fair. It dawns on me that I should ask if he can meet with my team to talk about ideas for the addition, since he teaches at the high school, too. I decide against it, though. I don’t want to drag work into every aspect of my life. I’m doing a bad enough job of leaving work on time, and apparently an even worse job at leaving work at the office when I am home.

We sit in awkward silence for a few minutes. I hope Katie’s night is less uncomfortable than this is. Eventually, Ben suggests we watch whatever hockey game is on. Daniel grimaces, but hands him the remote, and we settle in to watch the game. My heart’s not in it, though. As happy as I am to have friends here, I have a nagging feeling that I have some things to figure out on my own.

Chapter 16

Katie

Two more weeks. That’s all it takes for everything to fall back into exactly the way it was in New York. Well, not exactly the way it was. At least here, I’ve been added to a group text with Mac and Jenny. Jenny started it just after I left her house, then promptly renamed the group Jenny’s Book Club and texted a few screenshots of covers with half-naked men on them asking which we should read first. Mac sent back a picture of her holding one up in front of what I think is her home library, typing: This one appeared the other day. Might as well start here.

Since then, the conversation has devolved into some complaints about domestic life, though they can’t really relate to my texts about Brandon’s work-life balance, or lack thereof—Daniel is always home, which is an issue for Mac in its own right, and Jenny and Ben commute together. They also can’t relate to the struggle of trying to get two kids ready for school or keeping them occupied during the cold winter months without too much screen time. I leave out the part about wanting to claw my ears off when the kids inevitably end up running in loud circles around the house to get their energy out. But they try to understand, and I appreciate the effort.

Brandon, however, is showing next to zero effort to change his ways. He has come home after dinner almost every night for the past two weeks. Two of those nights, he didn’t get home until the kids and I were in bed.

I knew the honeymoon period wouldn’t last, but I’m surprised how quickly things shift back. At my therapist’s gentle insistence, I haven’t demanded Brandon move back to the guest room, but I’m getting close. Each night, I have to inform Mason or Christine that he won’t be home to read them bedtime stories or hear about their days at school. And every time, my resolve to leave this place at the end of our two-month agreement hardens. If their father has to disappoint them, he may as well do it in a city that feels more familiar.

Any other wife would probably wonder if there was another woman at this point. For some reason, I don’t. I trust Brandon; I just don’t like how he operates when it comes to our family. I hate it when our kids are sad, especially when he’s the one causing it, and I’m the one who has to deliver the news. I’m sick of it.

But I’ll have to wait until my next appointment with Nora to unpack that, because it’s Monday again, and I have lunches to pack, shoes to find, and a toddler to wrangle into something suitable for school.

“Mama?” Christine asks from her little table in the corner, but I’m too busy being angry at Brandon and packing Mason’s lunch and trying to shovel some breakfast in my own mouth to respond. “Mama. Mommy!” she exclaims just as Brandon swoops in and squats next to her.

“What’s up, baby?” His voice is gentle, and I harden my heart against how soft he always is with our kids. I will not let the image of his giant body sitting on the floor next to Christine’s toddler-sized table worm its way into my feelings. I don’t have any room for anything but resentment right now.

“What’s dis, Daddy?” She points to something on the table as I smear some jelly on a piece of bread and shove it against the slice where I already spread sunflower seed butter.

“That’s a koala bear,” Brandon says.

“What’s ‘ko-all-ah-bear’?” She says it slowly and all mushed together, trying to get her mouth around the unfamiliar term. I love it when she tries out new words. Her little voice sounds like someone who sucked in helium from a balloon while chewing on a wad of gum.

“It’s a bear,” he responds.