That’s what boys do.
“Give me a hug,” Britney demands, and because Ethan is a sweet kid who loves his mother the way he loves me, he gives her a good one.
“Can I play Fortnite, Dad?” he asks once released from his mother’s hold.
I glance at my watch. “Thirty minutes, then it’s on to homework.”
“Awww… come on,” he protests. “An hour.”
“You heard your dad,” Britney chimes in, giving him a stern look. “Accept your thirty minutes graciously, or you can start your homework now.”
Ethan’s eyes come to mine, but I nod toward his mom. “What she said. Thirty minutes, then homework.”
Huffing his disappointment, he moves into the living room. When his back is turned, Britney holds out her fist. I bump mine against it.
One of the things we agreed upon early when we separated is that we would be united in all decisions and would never let Ethan play us against one another. The Golden Rule is when a parent lays down a rule in the house, the other supports it. If we disagree, we discuss it in private and adjust as necessary. Britney and I have remained a united parental block, and in my opinion, Ethan has flourished under the consistency, despite the fact he has divorced parents.
“Okay, I’m out of here.” Britney turns to the door. “Ben wants to grab an early dinner.”
“You mean, you want to grab an early dinner,” I tease, and she blushes.
“I can’t help it if I’m tired and ready for bed at seven p.m. You try carrying around a watermelon in your stomach all day and tell me if you have the energy for anything past that time.”
“Touché,” I acknowledge.
I open the door for her, and she starts to walk out, offering one last smile. But the smile slips, and she hesitates. “Are you okay?”
“Yeah,” I lie. “Why?”
Because I haven’t been okay since I returned to Pittsburgh from Langley two nights ago. I can’t stop thinking about Greer, the incredible time we spent in bed together, and the fact that she sought me out ten years ago.
Why? What did she want? Why didn’t she stay and talk to me?
And why the fuck do I care? I should never have had sex with her, and yet I was powerless to stop it.
Ultimately, I have to accept we’re still incendiary together, but it was a onetime thing. I’ve moved on.
But she will not leave my mind, and to say that all kinds of emotions are stirred up—both good and bad, but mostly confusing—is an understatement.
“I’m fine,” I say to Britney with a confident smile.
“You don’t look fine,” she says suspiciously.
“Would I lie to you?” I reply.
“Yes, you would. To keep me from worrying about you.”
She’s not wrong about that.
“I’m good,” I insist, putting my hand to her back and gently nudging her out the door. “Go eat your early old-woman dinner with Ben. Tell him I said hello, and to give you a back rub tonight.”
Britney wrinkles her nose. “It’s weird that you tell Ben all the tips we learned when we were pregnant with Ethan.”
“It’s weird we’re still friends and you married a guy I happen to like,” I counter.
She returns with a “touché” of her own and grins, then waddles out the door. Her due date is in two weeks, but she was early with Ethan, so we’re all ready for it to happen at any time. Ethan is beyond excited that he’s going to have a little sister.
I yell at Britney to be careful on the roads. She waves back and I shut the door, locking it. I stand there a moment, watching through the glass to make sure she’s safely in the car. When she’s reversing from the parking pad, I turn away.
Poking my head in the living room, I consider letting Ethan know we’re having pizza for dinner, but it’s unnecessary. The kid would eat pizza three times a day, every day, if I let him. I don’t disturb him since his game time is limited on school nights and head back into the kitchen to start dinner. I’ve taken a few days off since returning from El Salvador and had time today to make homemade pizza dough and sauce, which is cooling on the stove. Now I just have to get the toppings ready, which is quite the undertaking since my kid loves his pizza like I do, loaded with everything under the sun.
From the fridge I grab red bell pepper, pepperoni—the good kind, not pre-sliced—ground sausage, a block of mozzarella, and mini portobello mushrooms. Out of the pantry, an onion and a tin of anchovies. Yes, Ethan and I are adventurous eaters, although we both agree ham and pineapple have no business on a pizza.
As I grab a pan to sauté the sausage, I have a moment of sorrow that Fortnite is more important to Ethan than cooking with his dad. It’s something we enjoy doing together, but at this age, it’s not as important to him. Sucks, because cooking together is an amazing way to bond and have great conversation.