When You Were Mine

I slap my forehead. “Of course, that’s where it goes,” I say, and then I am rewarded by a sight I’ve never seen before—Dylan’s face splitting in a grin. It makes me want to cry, but I choose to laugh instead.

Later, when Dylan is asleep, Nick and I curl up on the sofa with glasses of red wine and a series on Netflix we’ve been meaning to watch for ages—some gritty crime thriller, more Nick’s taste than mine, but I don’t mind. I’m just grateful to check out for a little bit.

But first I have to tell Nick about my conversation with Emma, which reminds me that she didn’t text me a good time to call today, and also that I didn’t call her. Both make something clench inside me, but I tell myself she would be busy on the weekend anyway. I’ll call her tomorrow.

“Harvard’s Family Weekend is two weeks from now,” I say to Nick, and he frowns, his wineglass almost at his lips.

“Yeah? So?”

“What are we going to do?”

“What do you mean, what are we going to do? We’re going to go. We’ve booked two rooms at The Kendall Hotel.” A boutique hotel in a converted firehouse, it is a stone’s throw from Harvard, pricey and in high demand.

“I know, but with Dylan…”

Nick’s frown deepens. “Can’t he go into respite care for the weekend?” He says it like we’re putting a dog in a kennel, and already I struggle not to feel irritated, even though I know his question is reasonable.

“I don’t think that would be good for him, so early into his placement.”

Nick stares at me, his eyebrows drawn together, a look of surprise on his face, as well as a hint of annoyance. “So what are you saying? We just… abandon Emma?”

“No, I’m not saying we abandon her. For heaven’s sake, Nick.”

He shakes his head. “I don’t get you, Ally. We’ve been looking forward to this weekend for months. And you must know how much it means to Emma.”

“Yes, of course I do.” I take a sip of my wine, not meeting his eyes. I’m not sure what I expected from this conversation, or even what I wanted, but I know it’s not this.

“So what are you saying?” Nick asks.

“I don’t know. I just wanted to discuss it, to try to think of a solution that works for everyone.”

“And I have one. Respite care.” He shrugs. “Anyway, this might not even be an issue, if his mother gets him back, right? When is the court hearing?”

It annoys me further that Nick doesn’t even remember the date. “Tuesday.”

“Right. So why don’t we wait till then and see how it plays out? Dylan might be out of our lives in a couple of days, so…”

“Is that what you want?” I blurt before I can think better of it.

Nick sighs. “Do I have to be the bad guy here?”

“I don’t want you to be. I’m just asking.”

“Why?” He gives me a penetrating look. “Why are you asking, Ally?”

The question feels loaded, but I know mine was, as well. I wish I hadn’t brought this all up; we could be halfway through the series Nick had lined up on the TV. Halfway through the wine, too.

Yet now that we’ve come this far in the conversation, I’m not willing to back down. There are too many things we’ve been skirting around for the last four days, and they need to be said, before our positions are set in stone, before

we discover we’ve become too inflexible to bend to one another as we usually do.

“I asked because you don’t seem as fully invested in fostering as I am. In fostering Dylan, in particular.” Nick is silent and I continue steadily, “I know it was my idea in the beginning, but you were on board, Nick. You were fully on board. You wanted to do this, sometimes more than I did.”

“I know,” he says quietly. He doesn’t look at me, studying the depths of his nearly-empty wineglass instead.

“So what happened? Because Dylan has only been with us for a few days, but I feel like he’s become my sole responsibility. And part of me doesn’t mind that, but it’s hard. And I don’t want there to be this… divide… between us. Because of Dylan.” That isn’t all I want to say, but at least it’s a start.

I realize my heart is pounding, my fingers slick on the stem of my wineglass. I don’t particularly like confrontation, and I know Nick doesn’t either. His face is shuttered, his lips pursed. I’m not even sure he’s going to answer me.