Page 101 of Tough Love
“You may need to show me,” I say. “Because I think I’m a little fuzzy on the details.”
He grumbles, steering me toward the bedroom. “By the time I’m done with you, you won’t be clear on much at all.”
Sounds like the perfect way to forget a shitty day.
THIRTY-FOUR
Monday rolls around, and I sit impatiently on the living room floor building Lego with Briar while I wait on Evan to show up after work. He spent the weekend with his son, Deacon, but didn’t neglect to message me several times a day to check in and let me know he was missing us.
Us.
As traitorous as it feels, I can’t shake how nice the thought of us being a mismatched family is. Mum was understandably apprehensive about me taking on Briar’s care full-time, but I think I’ve surprised even myself with how naturally I fell into the maternal role.
Helps that I have such an awesome kid to work with, too.
He’s been more than I could ask for since we buried Kath. Understandably, he’s had his days where his mood has nose-dived and he’s sulked and thrown a tantrum about anything and everything, but I expected it. And I think that was what helped. Because I was prepared, I coped.
We coloured, played Xbox, I even had him in the kitchen helping me make dinner one night. Times like these I don’t need to force my own opinions about what’s best for him, I need to step back and let him guide me. And that’s exactly what I’ve done.
My phone vibrates on the coffee table, and I reach across to retrieve it. A message from Evan has come through, and I open the thread to find a photo he’s taken of himself with his head on a desk covered in paperwork. The caption underneath readsI’ll be home when this is finished, but there’s sooooo much to do!
I chuckle and snap a photo of Briar constructing his truck and trailer model, captioning it withWe’re hard at work, too. LOL.
He sends back a huge thumbs up, followed byI miss you so fucking muchand the kissy emoticon.
The fact he has to stay back to finish up paperwork doesn’t bother me. What does, is that it’s Monday again, one week after Tristan visited, the day he promised he’d come back for Briar.
I’ve checked the door and windows no less than a dozen times already. Paranoid doesn’t even start to cover it, especially after all the mess he’s made of late.
Still, burying myself in the usual nightly routines with Briar helps me keep my mind preoccupied with happier things.
“Who you talking to?” Briar asks.
“Evan. He has to work late.”
“Aww.”
You’re telling me, kid.Ways to tell you have it bad for a guy: two days apart is like a year in solitary.
“Hopefully he makes it home before you have to go to bed.”
He doesn’t.
I tuck Briar in after reading him a book from his collection, and give him my routine kiss on the head before turning the light out.
“Night, buddy.”
“Night, Aunty.”
Twelve chapters in my own book later, Evan still hasn’t shown. I get up to make myself a cup of coffee, the TV on low in the background to break the silence, and still when there’s a firm knock at the door.
Evan wouldn’t knock. He’s had my spare key since the first night he stayed over.
I stand frozen between my sofa and the kitchen, unsure what to do.
The knock comes again, a lot more forcefully. “Peaches…,” Tristan singsongs.
In two strides I have my phone, and in five I’m at the door to Briar’s room. I hastily bring up Evan’s number and hit Send as Tristan starts to hammer the door with what sounds like his boot.