When Sparks Fly

“Yeah. Right. I’m good for now.” I don’t think that I am actually good for now, though. Because what Mark is saying feels a lot like a slap across the back of the head. Have I been that oblivious?

The conversation rolls around in my head all the way home from the pub. Because I realize Mark is right. I’ve spent years burying my head in the sand when it comes to my feelings for my best friend. I’ve been in love with Avery this entire time, and I didn’t want to own up to it. And how horrible does it make all the flings I’ve had while I’ve been living with her?

I’m in a crap frame of mind by the time I get home. The condo is empty, and it’s closing in on seven. Maybe she’s hanging with her sisters. Or still working. I know she’s trying to pick up the slack after being out of commission for nearly two months.

My phone rings from the other end of the couch. I assume it’s Avery letting me know she’s on her way home. It’s dark and she doesn’t love driving at night if she can help it, but at least it’s dry out there. There have been a few instances in which one of her sisters has driven her car home when it’s been raining. It isn’t the most convenient scenario because they live closer to Spark House than our condo, but no one makes a big deal out of it.

I scramble to answer the call before it goes to voicemail. “Hey, how’s it going?”

“Oh, thank God you answered. Your father will be calling you any minute, I’m sure, and I wanted to get to you first.”

I sink back against the pillow tucked behind my head. My mom doesn’t usually call me to chitchat, so I’m reasonably wary. Especially when she brings up my dad in the first five seconds. “Why? What happened?”

“What do you think happened? He got caught cheating. Again. On wife number four. She’s posted all over social media too. You should see the pictures she put up! It was bad enough that he married his secretary, but now apparently, he has a mistress who’s a stripper. Can you believe it?”

“Unbelievable,” I mutter.

It’s actually not unbelievable at all. My father is the king of philandering. My parents’ relationship was basically a dysfunctional joke, and I had the unfortunate experience of being subjected to their train wreck of a relationship until they finally divorced when I was eighteen. And the only reason that happened was because my father knocked his intern up and got caught taking her to a doctor when she had a miscarriage. And that isn’t even the half of it. In between all their dalliances and marriages and relationships, they always end up back in each other’s beds. It’s like they can’t quit each other, so it’s a perpetual cycle of hurt and revenge. I don’t even know if they’re aware it’s what they do.

This call from my mom feels like an omen, a bad one.

“I’m glad I was smart enough to leave him when I did. A leopard never changes its spots, and your father has proven that time and time again. I’m actually surprised it lasted as long as it did. This better not mess with what’s left of my alimony payments. I can just see your father claiming bankruptcy over this because he has another ex-wife to pay off.”

“At least he doesn’t have any more kids to put through college.” I rub my hand over my face.

“Such a mess your father has made of his life. I can’t handle the drama. All of our mutual friends keep calling me, asking if I’ve heard and do I know what’s going on. As if I keep tabs on my ex-husband!” I let her have her rant, because the alternative is her getting upset, saying I’m siding with my dad on this.

“You’re not talking to him again, though, right?” I ask, hoping she’ll get off the hamster wheel this time.

“Of course not. Although he did leave me a voicemail asking to have drinks. It may be a good time to make sure the money will still continue.” And with that she’s back on the wheel.

The reality is they’re both assholes and they deserve whatever hellish relationships they end up in. It would honestly be better if they both wound up alone, but they’re fiends for the drama, and they seem to derive an ungodly amount of joy from messing up other people’s lives.

She finally lets me go so she can take another call. When my dad calls, not two minutes after I hang up with my mom, I let it go to voicemail. I can’t handle a conversation with him after the one I had with my mother because I know exactly what he’s going to say. All he ever does is give excuses and refuse to take ownership for his actions.