Bad Mommy(50)

My eyes quickly went back to them. Darius was pitching Fig a baseball. He wound his arm like they did on television, lifted his leg. She threw her head back and laughed. He’d insisted on bringing the damn bat so he could teach Mercy how to hit, though he hadn’t glanced her way once since we got out of the car. Their chemistry, it was strange. I watched Fig bend over holding the bat out from her body. She was smiling, which was rare. So was the air of lightness around her. I’d never actually watched a baseball game, but I was fairly certain the players didn’t wiggle their asses around like she was doing.

“Oh, ew,” I said under my breath. “What’s even happening right now?” I wasn’t the jealous type. It bugged Darius. Sometimes I thought he wanted me to throw a fit about things. Like he did. Even the score, you know?

“Oh, eeeeew.” Mercy wasn’t looking at me as she scooped sand into the bucket, repeating my words over and over until I laughed. If Darius heard Mercy he wouldn’t let me live it down. If he’d heard, which he hadn’t because he was too busy flirting with a woman he claimed to think was crazy. What was that he said about family day?

And what did it all boil down to really? That Darius loved people who loved him? That he was like a needy puppy most of the time. He didn’t see that as a weakness, but I did. It was pathetic to watch him swoon over attention. People who he’d claim to hate five minutes before became his best friends once they expressed how smart and handsome he was. And his career choice, being the all-wise, all-knowing doctor who could see aptly into your soul. The patients worshipped him, and he sat in the burgundy wingback chair I bought for his office and relished it. Grow a pair, you know? Stick with your gut and don’t be groomed by a little attention.

But, Fig—Fig was the smart one. She seemed to pick up on his need to be favored. She toyed with his loyalty to me by siding with him and painting me as the big, bad wolf. I was starting to wonder who was in control of our lives at this point. It most certainly didn’t feel like us.

Darius caught my eye and waved me over.

“Come play,” he called, making a funnel around his mouth with his hands. I grinned and shook my head, pointing to Mercy. Fig glanced over and I kept the smile on my face. I wouldn’t let her see me react to what she was doing. I wouldn’t show weakness. What the fuck? Family day, my ass. Did he want me to just leave her in the sandbox alone so I could join in for a threesome? I closed my eyes and took a few deep breaths. You’re overreacting, I told myself. But was I?

“Avery doesn’t do sport,” I heard Fig say. That almost made me get up and march over, but I wasn’t in the business of proving myself to anyone. My heart ached painfully when Darius laughed at what she said. I was the butt of their joke. It made me sick. I was his team. You weren’t supposed to make your team the butt of your jokes.

I was fighting off tears when I finally waved them over for lunch. How long had they been playing baseball together? Forty minutes? An hour? Fig looked like the cat that got the cream as she strolled over. I noticed how tight her top was, how her tiny little tits pushed against the fabric. She wasn’t wearing a bra. Was there more of a sway to her hips? I stewed over the details as I unpacked the picnic basket I’d brought, slamming containers onto the ground while pretending to be fine. No, this was not in my head. They had been laughing, touching, and exchanging looks. It was like they were on a date and I was the third wheel. They collapsed on the grass, their banter drawing the eyes of those in our vicinity. I couldn’t look at either of them, so I focused on feeding my daughter. I needed to speak to my friends, get some perspective. If I was blowing this up, making it something it wasn’t—they would tell me. I had questions. When had I become the third wheel? How long had they been fucking?



“What’s wrong?” he asked as soon as we were home.

I shook my head, carrying a sleeping Mercy into the house and fighting back tears. I’d given him the silent treatment all the way home, staring out the window and watching the cars drive by. Super mature, I know. When I walked into the kitchen he was waiting for me, leaning against the counter staring at his feet. He has small feet, I thought bitterly. I wanted to laugh at how childish my thoughts were. For instance, if Fig was fucking him, she could do a lot better … in length and width. And where the fuck was George anyway? Shouldn’t he be groveling by now?

“What the fuck was that, Darius?” I yelled. I had meant to deal with this calmly, sit him down and have a marriage meeting. The type of thing mature adults did when conflict arose. Instead, I was red in the face and already yelling. Me—typical me. I pictured Fig lurking under one of the windows listening and softened my tone. God, how did it come to this? How did my life feel so invaded?

“What?” He held out his hands, completely baffled.

“You and Fig! All afternoon. You spent the entire day flirting with each other.”

“You’re crazy,” he said. He knew, he knew I hated those words. It was a dig. I threw the water bottle I was holding at his head. He ducked out of the way and it missed him by an inch. Goddamn, I needed to work on my aim.

“Don’t call me crazy. If you call me crazy I’ll cut off your dick while you’re sleeping and show you what crazy is.” His mouth gaped. “I’m not blind. What you did was completely inappropriate and disrespectful.”

“What? Fucking around with the baseball? I asked you to play!”