by Megan Walker
How can I be so bad at this? How can I be failing both my kids so much in one afternoon?
I can replace the Twinkie. Ty wouldn’t be able to tell, would he? It’s not like in those sitcoms where a parent buys a new goldfish after accidentally killing the old one, something I swore I’d never do. But this is a Twinkie, for heaven’s sake.
I bounce Rachel in my arms over to the pantry, and pull out the Twinkie box.
Which is empty.
And this—this—is what makes me burst into tears right alongside my daughter. An empty Twinkies box.
Stop it, I tell myself. Stop it. You can get more Twinkies before they get home. And who cares about Twinkies, anyway, when you’ve got a delicious apple pie in the—
Shit.
I never set the timer. How long ago did I put the pie in?
I sniff the air very deliberately, and there it is—the scent of burning crust. Which probably would have been a lot more noticeable if I hadn’t lost my sense of smell in the recent shit-splosion.
“No, no, no,” I say, and haul a crying Rachel to her little bouncy chair in the living room, strapping her in and running back to the kitchen. I fumble to grab some pot holders and open the oven.
Smoke spills out, stinging my eyes. I pull out the pie, which is blackened on top and smells like a pastry shop in hell.
Tears leak down my cheeks, as I hurriedly open the kitchen windows, fanning the smoke out so it won’t set off the alarm.
I can’t even make a pie right, I can’t even . . .
“Worthless, good-for-nothing bitch!” I find myself yelling. I’m shaking all over, and wrap my arms around myself, trying to hold myself together.
Rachel’s still crying. I need to go get her. Even if I can’t do anything to help her, I need to try.
But just as I manage to take a step out of the kitchen, the doorbell rings.
Panic again. Did one of the neighbors hear me? Do they think I’m abusing my daughter by screaming like that?
Am I?
I wipe the tears from my face, swallow past the thick lump in my throat. I’ll just tell them I’m having a tough day. That what they heard was the TV, on too loud.
I open the door, but it’s not a judgmental neighbor. It’s a postal delivery guy, holding one of those electronic pads to sign.
He stares at me, his eyes wide, and I wonder if I still have poop in my eyebrows, until I see him smile kind of leeringly.
“Hey,” he says, like he’s trying to buy me a drink at a bar.
I don’t have the energy to even glare at him. “Do you have a package for me?” I ask.
His smile stretches wider. “As a matter of fact, I do,” he says, his gaze dropping openly to my chest.
And that’s when I realize I’m not wearing a shirt. Just a pink cotton bra that I’m spilling out of, my boobs still bigger than usual from the few weeks I tried to nurse.
“Oh my god,” I say, crossing my arms instinctively over my chest. Then I jump back in the house and slam the door closed, after catching just a glimpse of disappointment on his pervy face that he’s not about to star in some delivery-man/housewife porn fantasy. “Oh my god.”
I wince. I’m not supposed to be taking the Lord’s name in vain anymore, but that feels like the least of my failures right now.
I look at Rachel, still crying in her bouncy chair. A fresh bout of poop leaking out the sides of her diaper.
I look at the pile of shredded costumes bunched up on the table by the sewing machine, and the remaining crumbs of Ty’s Control Twinkie on the table next to the bowl of soggy Twinkie mush, which even the dog apparently thought was too gross to eat.
I look at the charred pie still smoking on top of the oven.
I look at Rocket, who is right now barfing up synthetic sponge cake and bits of a Santa stripper costume.
This feels like one of those times when you can’t do anything but laugh at how ridiculous your life has become.
But not me, not now. I slump down onto the couch and I cry.
Twenty-one
Josh
Anna-Marie asks me to meet her at home that afternoon, before Ben gets back from work. I don’t know if she wants to stage an intervention over my current emotional state or if she’s just looking for an afternoon hookup, but either way, I’m fine with it (though clearly I’d prefer the latter). I tell her to give me an extra hour, because I end up on the phone with the director of Axel’s project, who is yelling at me because, as Felix warned me, Axel has decided he wants to quit acting and become a professional video game player. The director is on edge—I’ve heard some rumors that the film is having problems with a threatened lawsuit over rights that were supposed to have already been settled—but there’s very little I can do for him besides talk to Axel’s mom.
Which I do next. According to Axel’s mom, all this is Felix’s fault because he and Ty told Axel he didn’t have to be a star.
I refrain from pointing out that the kid doesn’t have to be a star. This is another reason I don’t take on kids. I’m not in the business of telling my clients they are required to keep acting, and I’m not interested in serving the interests of parents who are making their kids work against their will.
And yet, here I am. I spend twenty minutes trying not to call Jean Dane’s parenting into question before she does what I consider the most questionable thing of all.
She puts Axel himself on the phone.
“Hey, Josh,” Axel says. “I don’t need you to be my agent anymore, because I quit.”
“So I hear.” I take a deep breath, and decide to try to treat this little rebellion the way I would treat the same news from any of my clients. “Are you sure that’s what you want to do?”
“Yes,” Axel says. “I don’t have to be a star. It’s more important to do what makes you happy.”
“Okay,” I tell him. “And acting doesn’t make you happy?”
He hesitates, like he hasn’t really thought about it that way.
“It’s not my job to tell you that you have to work,” I tell him. “But it is my job to make sure you aren’t making a decision you’re going to regret.”
Actually, with a kid, none of this is my job, because it’s the parents who have ultimate say. But if Jean is going to put Axel on the phone, she gets what she gets.
“I won’t regret it,” Axel says. “I want to play video games.”
“Okay. Why do you think video games would make you happier?”
“Because they’re fun,” Axel says.
“A lot of people think acting is fun. Do you?”
He pauses. “I don’t act because it’s fun. I act because it makes me money, and it makes me a star.”
“And you don’t want to be a star anymore.”
Axel hesitates again, and when he speaks, his voice sounds smaller than before. “I don’t have to be, do I?”
Shit. Does the kid think that this is all he is? If so, it’s no wonder he treats people the way he does. “No, Axel,” I say. “You don’t have to be. But have you thought about what you’re going to do if you quit? Because being an actor is pretty cool. And you could try to be a professional video game player, but that might take time. It’s not going to happen overnight.”
Another pause. “What would I be until that happens?”
A person, I want to tell him. You’ll still be a person, even if you stop being what other people expect you to be.
I’m over-empathizing with him now, and I know it. “I don’t know,” I say. “I’m just your agent. What you do with your life outside of acting is between you and your mom.”
“Okay.” His voice sounds shaky, now, like he isn’t at all sure what he wants.
And I feel for him. “Take some time to think about it. You don’t have to make this decision right now. But if you finish out this film, y
ou’ll have a lot more options than if you don’t.”
“You’re really not going to make me?”
“Nope. That’s really not my job. But if you have any questions, or need anything, have your mom call me, okay?”
“Okay,” Axel says.
I hang up feeling like that may be the first conversation Axel’s ever had in which an adult told him he has options in his life.
I wonder if Jean Dane is going to fire me next.
When I finally arrive home, I find Ben sitting on our stained suede couch in his boxers, eating bacon and eggs. He must have bought both of these things, because I don’t think there were any in the house.
Also, given that it’s three in the afternoon, I’m guessing either Ben got out of work incredibly early, or never went in at all. I don’t see Anna-Marie’s purse hanging on the hook by the door, or her latest pair of cute-but-uncomfortable shoes underneath, so I’m also guessing I beat her here.
“Hey,” I say. “Could you take that into the kitchen? It really bothers Anna-Marie when you don’t, and it’s not cool for you to disrespect her like that.”
I keep my voice friendly and even, but Ben still rolls his eyes. “What, she’s got you on my case now, too?”
I grit my teeth, resenting the implication that my wife is some kind of nag who has me do her dirty work. “It bothers me too, okay?”
Ben doesn’t say anything to acknowledge this, but he sets the plate on the coffee table and scoots forward on the couch just enough that if something drops, it’ll hit our fancy imported rug instead. Which isn’t much better. “Where were you this morning, anyway?” he asks.
I didn’t think Ben was even up when I left the house. “I took my car in to get detailed.”
“Really.”
“Yeah. Did Anna-Marie show you the mess you made in your drunken rage?”
He looks at me skeptically. “She did, but I’m not taking the blame for your weird sex play.”
Speaking of. “Hey, Anna-Marie asked me to meet her here before you came home. I think she wants to talk to me alone. Do you think you could make yourself scarce for a couple of hours?”
“Yeah, sure,” Ben says with a shrug. He spears some scrambled eggs with his fork. “Are you guys okay?”
“We are,” I say. “No thanks to you. Did you seriously have to tell her that I didn’t know if I’d pick her or you in a life or death situation?”
Ben throws up his hands—or at least the one hand not holding the forkful of breakfast food. “You seemed unsure!”
“I didn’t want to make you feel abandoned when you just had that awful conversation with Wyatt,” I tell him. “I obviously know that my wife is my priority.”
He frowns and takes a bite of the eggs.
“And seriously,” I say. “Please just keep your pants on and take the food in the kitchen. She’s not really asking that much.”
“Since when are you friends with Felix?” Ben asks, this time completely ignoring my request.
“What?”
“Don’t play dumb,” Ben says. “Anna-Marie told me you guys are friends now.”
I don’t want to have this fight, but I can tell by the defensive tone Ben’s taking that I’m not going to be able to avoid it. “Yeah. Is that a problem?”
“Seriously?” Ben says. “You’re asking me if it’s a problem if you’re best friends with a homophobe?”
“I don’t think he is,” I say. “I know his church says shitty things, but—”
“Yeah, well, you don’t know for sure that he isn’t, do you? People are good at hiding things.” Ben stabs a piece of bacon. “I mean, your own wife apparently wants to be a phone sex operator, so . . .”
I blink at him. There are so many things wrong with this conversation that I don’t know where to start. “She wants to be a phone sex operator?”
I guess that’s where I want to start.
“Yeah,” Ben says. He raises an eyebrow at me. “So can you blame me for being worried about your marriage?”
“My marriage is fine!” I say. “And it would be even better if you would listen to either of us when we tell you to show some respect for the house rules.”
“Well maybe you should show some respect for me by not being friends with people who are homophobic. Fuck, Josh, just because these people’s attitudes don’t affect you doesn’t mean they aren’t damaging.”
I close my eyes. “I know that.”
“Well, you sure don’t act like it.”
I open my mouth and close it again. I know he has a point, but I think some of this is also coming from a place of fear, like if I have another friend, I can’t really care about him. Normally, Ben is more secure than that, but he’s just been told he’s not enough by his husband.
I wonder if what’s going on with him is the same as what’s going on with me. We’re both fine, as long as our people are okay. If they aren’t . . .
“I don’t want to fight about this,” I say as calmly as possible. “Could you please just take the food in the kitchen?”
“Fuck you, Josh,” Ben says. And then he sets down his plate on the couch and storms out of the room. A minute later, he passes me again as he heads out the front door—wearing pants now, thankfully—and slams it behind him.
Anna-Marie arrives soon after, and finds me collapsed on the couch. I’ve at least moved Ben’s food into the kitchen, but I haven’t properly checked the cushions for grease damage.
She smiles when she sees me, but then her smile quickly falls.
“I got in another fight with Ben,” I say.
“Oh,” she says. “I was going to come in and jump you, but—”
I was hoping that’s what this was about. It’s been a long time since we’ve rearranged our work schedules to have sex for any reason that isn’t an ovulation predictor. “And now you’re not because of Ben?” I say. “Stupid Ben.”
“Oh, no,” she says. “I still will. Is he here?”
“No. I told him to give us a couple of hours.”
“Excellent.” Anna-Marie’s smile turns coy. “Do you want to?”
She doesn’t have to ask me twice. I stand up and then she’s in my arms, and I was thinking we were going to go upstairs, but our hands are working too quickly at each other’s clothes, and my whole body heats up, consumed with this desperate need for her. It’s almost like the other night, like we both need this reassurance, need to comfort each other in the way that only we can. We fall to the floor, and Anna-Marie climbs on top of me, and soon we’re locked together right there on that fancy imported rug, my hands running up her back as we move together. The stress and the mistakes of the last few years haven’t weakened the heat between us, which is still as powerful and life-changing as it was back when we met.
We cry out as one, and Anna-Marie collapses on top of me. I hold her tight, whispering in her ear that I love her, god, how much I love her. She kisses me, and then rolls to the side, and we lie there for a moment until she’s recovered enough to retrieve my shirt and button it over her body.
God, that still turns me on.
“So,” Anna-Marie says, settling in beside me like she has no intentions of ever leaving the rug, “what was the fight about?”
“Me telling him to eat in the kitchen.”
Anna-Marie winces. “I’m sorry, I—”
“No, you were right,” I say. “And it wasn’t just that. Also he’s pissed at me for being friends with Felix, for several reasons, I think. And something about you wanting to be a phone sex operator?”
“Oh my god. I told him I once had a dream about being a phone sex operator. Not that it was my new life passion.”
I laugh. “Yeah, that sounds more like it.”
“So,” Anna-Marie says. She sucks her lips inward, and I can see she’s a little hesitant. “I know that I told
you I wouldn’t interfere, but I talked to Wyatt.”
Ah. I figured there was more to wanting to meet in the middle of the day than just the quickie. I’m glad she spoke to him. The longer this goes on, the more I’ve been feeling like we’re shunning him. “How did that go?”
“Good, I think?” Anna-Marie says. “He has a different perspective on the whole thing.”
This shouldn’t surprise me. God knows Anna-Marie and I seem to have completely different conversations with each other often enough. “What did he say?”
Anna-Marie sighs. “He said that when Ben went to talk to him, he said—and I quote— ‘I miss you. Ugh.’”
That sounds like Ben. “Is that all he said?”
“Apparently.”
“Did you ask him about saying Ben isn’t enough?”
“Yeah,” Anna-Marie says slowly. “So, apparently he and Ben have never talked about the baby thing.”
I sit up too fast and get a bit light-headed. “What?”
“They fight about it,” Anna-Marie says. “But Wyatt says Ben has never been willing to sit down and calmly have a conversation about it, so Wyatt never feels like his feelings get heard. He says he feels like Ben came back expecting that Wyatt could never have another need in his life besides Ben, and that’s why Wyatt said he wasn’t enough.”
I groan. “Yeah, okay. I don’t think one person can ever meet every need you might have in your life.”
“Right,” she says. “Like, I still need Gabby.”
I cock an eyebrow at her.
“And I will talk to her!” Anna-Marie says. “One crisis at a time, please.”
“Right. And at this moment, we’re talking about Ben’s.”
“Exactly. And Wyatt says he can’t live like that, never able to discuss this thing that’s so important to him with the person he loves. He feels like Ben doesn’t care about his feelings at all.”
I nod. The full picture is becoming all too clear. “And Ben’s been stonewalling him because he’s so afraid that Wyatt will leave him if he can’t give him exactly what he wants.”
“I think so,” Anna-Marie says with a sigh. “You should see Wyatt. He’s a mess. He wants Ben back, but he says he’s afraid that if he tells Ben he can come home, Ben will never talk about it with him, and they can’t go back to being that way. He says he thinks all the time about begging him to come back, but he doesn’t know how to do that while still maintaining his self-respect and not being a doormat.”
