Joint Custody

by Lauren Baratz-Logsted

  What happened???

  Chapter Forty-Two

  Earlier . . .

  As the song changed again, this time shifting from slow to upbeat, a dark-haired head danced past, recognizing The Woman.

  It was The Brunette.

  “Hi!” The Brunette said.

  Chapter Forty-Three

  Later . . .

  Oh no! I whimpered.

  “Oh yes,” sighed The Man.

  Chapter Forty-Four

  Earlier . . .

  The Man’s back was to The Brunette, but he recognized her voice, and his face fell.

  “Oh, hi!” The Woman said, anxious energy infusing her voice.

  “You like ballroom dancing?” The Brunette said, addressing her comments to The Man’s back. “I like ballroom dancing! Maybe I’ll need to sneak you away from her, you beautiful hunk of flesh, and—”

  It was here that The Man turned toward The Brunette, unable to completely mask his discontent.

  “Nice to see you again,” he said.

  The Brunette was unable to hide her shock that this was The Man and that the two of them were together again.

  “Oh, it’s you,” she said.

  The Brunette gawked at them as The Man and The Woman shared an uncomfortable moment of eye contact.

  “I’ll catch up with you later,” The Woman said to The Brunette.

  “You better.”

  Unable to take her eyes off them, The Brunette danced back into the crowd.

  The Man and The Woman were still in their slow-dance position, even though the beat was no longer slow, and The Man stared at The Brunette, who was dancing in a hectic way by herself. Between moves, The Brunette kept giving disapproving looks at The Man, who was finding it difficult to tear his gaze away.

  A little later, the two were dancing in an upbeat fashion to upbeat music, but now The Man couldn’t help but see people everywhere, and it felt like they were all staring at him. In his self-conscious state, he managed to step on The Woman’s feet, more than once.

  “Sorry, sorry, sorry,” he said.

  He felt The Woman watching him watch the room, but he couldn’t stop himself. Everything seemed so uncomfortable now, and he stepped on her feet yet again.

  “Sorry.” He tried to laugh it off. “I, I’m not very good at this.”

  She pulled away for a beat, swallowed, then laughed it off as well.

  “It’s OK,” she said. “Try this.”

  The Woman showed him an easy dance move, and The Man gamely copied it. Having achieved success at the easy, he felt a little more relaxed. Reacting to his more relaxed state, she eased back into it.

  They danced on, happy together again.

  Chapter Forty-Five

  Later . . .

  So that’s it? The night ended well? You took her home and are gonna go out again . . .

  “Let’s get some fresh air,” The Man said.

  He opened the door, and I trotted out after him, uneasy.

  Chapter Forty-Six

  Earlier . . .

  There’d been yet another song shift, and The Man was trying to stay in it. But he couldn’t. He was too caught up in the room. He saw The Brunette, and he could’ve sworn she dragged her finger across her throat in a threatening manner.

  He knew she hadn’t really done that—who would do such a thing?— but he couldn’t escape the feeling of being watched, of being judged, and he pulled back.

  “Are people watching us?” he asked, anxious energy pouring out of him.

  The Woman looked at him, her expression inscrutable.

  “No,” she said. “No one is watching us.”

  It was true. Everyone was in their own worlds, even The Brunette, who was doing the Charlie Brown with some impossibly tall and gorgeous man. The Man thought it might be a New York Knick. But then he realized: What would a New York Knick be doing there? His mind was going to crazy places.

  The Man nodded, trying to shake it off. He moved to take her back into his arms again, but she pulled back, smiling but still inscrutable.

  “Let’s sit for a little while,” she suggested.

  Gulping, The Man nodded, allowing himself to be led off the dance floor.

  She managed to snag a booth that was just being vacated and encouraged The Man to sit. Then she went over to the bar by herself to get them drinks.

  The Man watched her order from the bartender. And even though he couldn’t hear them, he could tell they were easily exchanging small talk. He marveled, not for the first time, at how comfortable The Woman always was out in the world.

  He saw her look back at him, and this time he thought he could read her expression: wistful.

  The Man slumped in the booth, knee tapping, glancing all around. He saw The Woman accept their drinks from the bartender, leaving a good tip on the bar before picking up the glasses.

  She stood there for a long moment, looking across the room at The Man. He caught her glance, pushing away the anxious tells and waving at her with an eager smile.

  For her part, she raised one of the glasses a little higher, as though waving back, but the accompanying smile struck him as sad.

  She closed the space between them, handing him his drink and sliding into the booth across from him.

  “Thanks,” he said.

  He took a big gulp. She took a small sip.

  He smiled widely, if a little manically, at her, unable to keep his knee from commencing to bounce once more.

  “So,” he said, “when do you wanna get out there again? Cut the rug some more?” He waggled his eyebrows. “Maybe I could dip you this time?”

  The Woman looked at him and then down at her drink, searching for the words to respond with.

  The Man processed this.

  Finally, she spoke.

  “When we were together, before, I thought the problem was unwillingness to compromise. That if only we could compromise, we’d be OK.”

  “I’m really trying,” he said.

  “I know you are. And I love you for wanting to try.”

  He relaxed a little, hearing her use the word “love,” particularly that she’d applied it to him. It had been a long time since he’d heard anything like it, and he’d longed to hear it again.

  But then he looked into her eyes and saw that, as always, she was a step ahead of him. And then it felt like their eyes were both pleading that her next words not come out.

  And still . . .

  “But maybe,” The Woman said, “compromise isn’t always the solution.”

  “But I’m willing to compromise,” The Man said.

  He took her hand in his.

  “I want to compromise for you,” The Man continued. “I love you. I don’t want to mess this up again.”

  On the verge of tears, she put her other hand on top of his.

  “It’s no good for me to get the things I love,” she said with gentle force, “if it means you having to do the things you hate.”

  He knew she was right. Still . . .

  “I don’t have to hate it,” The Man said. “I can love it! Give me a chance. I, I can do it. I will do it.”

  “But you do hate it,” The Woman said. “You’ve always hated it. It’s who you are.”

  He couldn’t lie to himself anymore, and his heart sank.

  “You would never ask me to change who I am to be with you,” The Woman said. “I’m not going to ask you to change to be with me.”

  The two stared at each other across the table, knowing what they now knew. They clung to each other’s hands, unwilling to let go.

  This was it.

  Chapter Forty-Seven

  Later . . .

  That was it?

  The Man and I were up on the rooftop, something we rarely did, The Man being much more of
an indoor kind of guy; except, obviously, for forays to the park, which we both love. The Man leaned his elbows on the ledge, staring out at the city. Me, I was slumped back onto my hind legs, looking up at him, crestfallen.

  This is it?

  How did we get back here again?

  Obviously, I wasn’t referring to the roof. I knew exactly how we got up there: we took the stairs. What I wanted to know was, after all that work, how did we manage to come full circle to them still being broken up? We’re a Mets household, not a Yankees household, but we did have Yogi Berra for a bit, and all I gotta say is: talk about your déjà vu all over again!

  Holding back tears, The Man looked down at me, his little buddy.

  “That was it,” The Man said.

  We stared at each other then, feeling each other’s pain, existing together, just taking it all in. The Man turned his attention back to the city.

  “You know, Gatz,” The Man said, “I just want her to be happy.” He paused. “Even if it’s not with me.”

  How could you say that? You two are meant to be together!

  “I know what you’re thinking.”

  Clearly.

  The Man looked down at me again, his brow furrowed, like he was working something out for the first time.

  “When you love someone, you should want what’s best for them. Not what’s best for them in relation to you.”

  He let that sink in for a moment, for him as well as for me.

  “You should want them to be happy in whatever form it takes. And for her, for both of us . . . that’s not with each other.”

  I was heartbroken. I had no words.

  But there was one detail that was puzzling me.

  This was Friday night, the weekend, meaning I was supposed to be with her.

  Once more, The Man did his mind-reading thing. For a guy who doesn’t always pick up on social cues, he can be amazingly intuitive. At least with me.

  “She and I agreed,” he said, “that it’d be less disruptive, for everybody, if she came for you tomorrow morning instead of tonight.”

  Gotcha.

  The Man yawned, rubbing at his eyes.

  “That took a lot out of me,” he said. “Let’s go to bed.”

  Woefully, I nodded, trotting behind him inside and back to our apartment.

  Once there, he rubbed my ears, kissing me on the forehead.

  “I love you, Gatz,” he said.

  Then he disappeared into the bedroom.

  Almost immediately, I heard him wonder aloud, “Where did all these rose petals come from?”

  Normally, I would’ve followed him in there and done my best to communicate an answer to his question.

  But these weren’t normal times, and I was too caught up in my own thoughts.

  How could I have been so wrong about everything? They weren’t . . . happy together?

  A scene from the past played out in my head from back during the holidays, their third and last holiday season together. The tree had been haphazardly half-decorated. The Hanukkah candles had gone unlit. The two had tried to feign enthusiasm, probably for my sake, but neither of them had been invested in the process anymore.

  Was it possible that I’d been wrong all these years? Was it possible that The Man and The Woman had mistaken, and I had mistaken, their mutual intense love for me for love for each other? Of course, love had been there, but maybe they should have always been just friends, the best of friends, but it was never really True Love.

  I sank into the couch, mulling it all over, The Man’s words coming back to me.

  When you love someone, you should want what’s best for them. Not what’s best for them in relation to you . . . What’s best for them . . .

  My wheels were turning.

  And oh, what wheels they were!

  I remembered The Woman telling her work friends about meeting New Man for the first time at the London Book Fair. I pictured what that must’ve been like: a smile escaping his face as he looked down at her, the same smile—but with her lips and teeth, of course—escaping hers as she looked up at him.

  I pictured them later, when they’d gone out to the fancy restaurant together, laughing over their first meal.

  I pictured them each reaching for a bottle of wine at the same time during Book Club, their fingers lingering. They couldn’t help but blush and smile.

  I pictured the two of them splashing around in the pool at her parents’ place in the Hamptons, having a fun time. Probably not editing.

  Finally, I recalled that night at New Man’s apartment. I’d been so caught up in the view, I hadn’t taken in their reflection in the window, hadn’t seen what was really going on. But as I closed my eyes now, casting my mind back to picture it all, I could suddenly see New Man and The Woman slow-dancing in the reflection. They were happy and content, and taking this all in now, I was happy and content for them to be so.

  I was touched by these memories.

  He IS what’s best for her. He IS what’s good for her. But I—

  I was filled with shame then, recalling my own bad behavior.

  I pictured myself nastily barking at New Man in her kitchen, completely unprovoked. I pictured myself glaring at New Man during the dinner on the lawn at her family’s place in the Hamptons, prompting him to put down his burger. I pictured myself in New Man’s kitchen, lunging at New Man to knock the box with the ring in it out of his hand, causing him to yell at me that I was stupid—which, I now saw, I was—and The Woman recoiling from him.

  I’d been proud of myself in the moment, but now?

  I was horrified at my own actions.

  I . . . I’m making her unhappy.

  Of all the things I’d ever intended to do in my life, that had never been one of them.

  I trotted into the bedroom to check on The Man.

  The Man was sacked out under the covers, and I watched him from the doorway. I can usually tell when his sleep is troubled, but curiously, he seemed to be sleeping just fine.

  Maybe I can’t make both of them happy, I thought. Maybe I can’t make them be happy together. But I know how to make at least one of them happy.

  Chapter Forty-Eight

  The next day . . .

  I’d have thought that, given what had gone on between them the night before, things would be more awkward than ever when The Woman came to get me that morning. But sometimes, humans can surprise you.

  They chatted easily in the doorway, easier with each other than they’d been since before their breakup. He even offered her a cup of coffee. She even accepted. They even shared a laugh over The Brunette’s “dancing skills.” When two people can share a laugh together, it’s always a good sign.

  I’m not going to say it was perfect. You could tell there was an undercurrent of sadness still, but they were OK enough. They were OK with each other. And, in time, I thought they’d be even more than OK. With a love as deep as they’d shared and with their shared love of me, how could they not be friends? I might have been wrong about a thing or two recently, but this was one thing I knew for certain.

  We couldn’t tarry there forever, though, could we? I mean, the whole point of joint custody was for me to spend weekends with her. Since it was Saturday—glorious Saturday!—we soon found ourselves at her place.

  She’d stopped for groceries on the way, and I waited somewhat impatiently for her to put them away. At last, she said, “OK, buddy, is there anything special you want to do today?”

  The Woman turned to find me with the leash in my mouth, thumping my tail incessantly.

  I was ready to go out.

  Oh boy, was I ready.

  Chapter Forty-Nine

  The same day . . .

  Out on the sidewalk, the sun was shining. It was a beautiful day.

  “It’s such a gorgeous day today,” The Wo
man said, “isn’t it?”

  Usually, I keep pace with her. But this time, I pulled her along, trotting at a brisk pace.

  “Do you have somewhere you need to be?” she asked, sounding amused.

  But I had no time for chatter.

  When we reached the end of the block, she started to turn left. Nope. I pulled her straight.

  “OK, bud,” she said. “We can play it your way.”

  At every block corner, I pulled her in the opposite direction of where she was attempting to go. With great determination, I dragged her all over town. Perhaps she thought me mad. But if I was mad, it was only north by northwest. Because I had a purpose and a direction. Steadily, inexorably, I was leading her uptown.

  I’ll admit, occasionally I got distracted, stopping to bark loudly at a truck or sniff at a falafel cart before remembering I was a canine with a mission. But, mostly, I was inexorable.

  “Aren’t you getting tired?” she said at one point. “Let’s head back.”

  I pulled her forward again, harder.

  She shrugged.

  Eventually, the buildings around us must’ve begun to look very familiar to her. We had arrived in New Man’s neighborhood.

  “Gatz, let’s turn back,” she said, unsettled.

  I hated to unsettle her, but I knew what I was doing. I know I’d thought that before (more than once), and I’d been wrong before (more than once), but this time I was right. (I was almost sure of it.)

  Please be right, please be right, please be right.

  Ignoring that she was unsettled, I plowed on. Onward and upward.

  “Gatz, there are treats for you at home. Let’s go back.”

  Nope.

  “Gatz.” I could hear the anxiety in her voice.

  Suddenly, I stopped in my tracks, parking myself on the sidewalk, and looked up. She looked up too. New Man’s apartment loomed above us.

  “Gatz, what are you doing?”

  She stared at me. I stared back at her.

  “Gatz, let’s go.”