Getting Real (Getting Some #3)(62)

That every time we try to talk, to have some semblance of a civil, meaningful conversation, we end up screaming at each other over old wounds and ancient wrongs.

There’s no water under the bridge . . . the bridge has been washed away.

I take a deep breath, making my voice go level.

“I shouldn’t have said it like that, but your relationship with the boys is not in a good place right now. You have to see that. There’s a therapist I know and I think—”

“I’m not going to therapy again,” she spits out like it’s absurd. “It doesn’t work—it never worked for us.”

“Not marriage therapy, Stacey, family therapy. For you and the boys.”

And we’re back to screaming.

“Jesus Christ, I said no!”

I fling my hands up. “Then I don’t know what to tell you. If you want to work on your relationship with our kids, I’ll support that. But I won’t force them to see you if they don’t want to.”

“Of course you won’t! God forbid you actually act like a parent and make them do anything.”

“That’s not true.”

“God forbid you’re not the fun-time dad—letting them do whatever the fuck they want, anytime they want.”

“That’s not true.”

She jabs her finger at my chest.

“You were never there for us!”

“I’m here now! Every day, morning, and night, I’m here! Where the fuck are you?”

Stacey’s voice drops to a lethal hiss.

“Oh, I did my time, believe me. You were just never around to notice.”

I look away from her, pressing the tip of my tongue against the sharp point of my tooth to keep from saying things I can’t take back. It’s a joke anyway—this is how it’s always going to be with her—as productive as banging my head against a wall.

After another breath, I meet her eyes and my tone is detached and indifferent and stone-cold final.

“Here’s how this is going to go. The boys will see you when they want to see you. You’re more than welcome to pick them up this weekend if you want. But they live here with me—that’s how you wanted it. If you’ve got a problem with that now, get yourself a lawyer and take me to court. Otherwise, I’ll tell them to call you before they go to bed tonight.”

And I turn around and walk away.

“You’re an asshole!” she screams after me.

I just raise my hand and wave without glancing back.


*

When I walk into the backyard, my jaw is tight and every muscle in my body is coiled with tension. The sun is starting to set and the kids are all gathered around the firepit roasting marshmallows. I feel my family’s questioning stares following me, but I avoid eye contact. I snatch a bottle of beer from the cooler and sit down in a chair at the far end of the patio—twisting the cap off and taking a long drink.

But I still can’t shake the frustration . . . the pointless, fruitless frustration. I just don’t get why she has to be so goddamn miserable all the time. It’s like she gets off on making me as pissed off as she is.

Two gentle hands land on my shoulders, just resting at first. Then kneading and squeezing—working at the knotted, tight muscle.

“Hey.”

I tilt my head up into Violet’s soft, concerned eyes.

“You okay?”

And I just look at her. Take her in. Take the time to absorb the calm sweetness that’s always radiating from her. Letting it fill me and wrap around me like a fleecy blanket.

And I think about how lucky I am to have her in my life. How amazing she is with my kids, with my family—how awesome she is, period. She could have literally anyone . . . but she wants me. With her whole heart. And she shows me all the time, in big ways and small.

The frustration seeps out of me, my chest loosening and warming with her touch and scent and the nearness of her—leaving me soothed and happy again.

Violet makes me happy. When she’s around, it’s impossible to feel any other way.

And I’ve seen too much to ever take that for granted. To waste a moment of it.

I clasp her hand and tug her around to my lap, sitting her down and wrapping my arms around her. Her lips are supple and warm when I kiss her. We don’t make out or anything—it’s a brief, sweet peck—and then I just hold her.

Because that’s enough. It’s everything.

“I am now.”





CHAPTER SIXTEEN


Violet


The temperature at night dips lower than usual for late September, but still warm enough that the heat isn’t turned on yet. Connor likes to sleep with his window open—it’s just one of a hundred wonderful intimate details I’ve learned about him in the last few months. The kind of sweet minutiae that truly makes two people a couple—the small facts that no one else is privy to.

Like how he knows I talk in my sleep. He discovered this a few weeks ago when I was mumbling in the dead of night and he decided to have a conversation with me. I didn’t remember it in the morning, but apparently he asked me how sexy I thought he was . . . and I answered “purple, definitely purple.”

The cat’s already out of the bag about my poetry hobby—so, after that, there’s really nothing I mind sharing with him. Connor Daniels has all of me now.