CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
MAN SANDWICH
I sent Ryan home after Mateo left. I hope Mateo realizes that. Maybe I should text him and tell him. But I don’t. I can’t. I have to figure this out before I talk to either one of them again. Throwing myself into bed, I stare over at my phone on the nightstand. Every time it buzzes, my heart leaps into my throat.
But it’s just my mother each time, wondering why I cancelled her evening with the kids, asking if everything’s okay. I give her brief, nondescript answers, which only lead to more questions. The buzzes keep coming, and I stop answering her eventually. I don’t have the time or energy for that.
A tightness strikes my chest. I feel like I’m trying to get into a pair of jeans after they’ve been washed and dried. Honestly, I almost never wash my jeans. I know that sounds gross, but it’s because they’re too tight after. Ever notice how your favorite pair of comfy jeans all of sudden feels like they don’t fit anymore once they’ve been cleaned?
Guess that’s how I feel about Ryan. He was always so comfortable, so dependable. Perhaps with a little time, he’d start to feel good again. Or maybe it would always be work to try to make us fit together. Either way, he was right: if Mateo wasn’t in the picture, I’m sure I’d give him another chance. The kids would be so happy if we got back together. But could Ryan and I fit together again?
People are like puzzles. Everyone has certain edges, some sharper than others, and some pieces fit together, and some just don’t. Some are certainly easier to figure out than others. And just like a puzzle, you can break them in a second, but it takes a lot longer to put them together.
When I was a tween, I remember doing a puzzle of my favorite boy band then putting some rubber cement over the top to try to preserve it. It held together for a little while, but eventually started to crack. No matter what I did, I couldn’t hold all the pieces in place. I closed my bedroom door real hard one day, and the whole thing shattered.
Just like Ryan and me, I couldn’t hold us together. One wrong move, and the whole thing fell apart. Is love supposed to be so fragile?
Ryan asked me to think about giving him another chance. When I think about it, it does make sense. We are a good team. We owe it to the kids. But when I feel about it, there’s only hurt and pain. You can’t make someone feel your love. That person either feels it, or they don’t. Ryan would say he loved me, but for the last few years of my marriage, I didn’t feel it in my heart. I’m not sure if the problem was with him or with me. Either way, it didn’t work. And there’s no reason to think that would change.
Mateo’s words echo in my head. Don’t think. Feel. When he told me he loved me, I felt it deep in my heart. And it’s not just the words, it’s the way he looks at me, touches me, cares for me. It’s like the man was made to love me. He knows just how to do it. My stomach tightens, knowing I never said the words back to him. Do I love Mateo? I’ve only said that to one man. But I know the answer. Every part of my body knows the answer.
But is love enough?
Isn’t that the age old question?
All moms feel torn—torn between their work in and out of the home, between their duties as a wife and as a mother, between being in the boardroom and in the classroom as room mom. There simply aren’t enough hours in the day to be a mom, wife, daughter, friend, sister, boss, worker, and volunteer. What usually happens is we put ourselves last on the list. We forego sleep, exercise, nutrition, new clothes, haircuts, friendships—anything in the name of being a “good” mom and wife. The pressure and guilt are overwhelming.
And now out of nowhere, I have a chance to give my kids exactly what they want—their dad and me back together. Shouldn’t I do that for them? What kind of mother would it make me not to do that? The question haunts me the entire night, and by midafternoon the next day, I’ve stuffed myself with carbs, eating every piece of bread in the house, called in sick to work, and faked one too many smiles for the kids. And I’ve got nothing left.
Walking to my backyard, I sit down on the back porch steps. The Savannah sun’s rays feel like little embers on my skin, providing warmth but little comfort for all the burning I’m doing inside. I continue to agonize: Make my kids happy? Make myself happy? I hear the door open behind me, knowing it’s one of my kids, but I can’t even bring myself to turn around, wanting a moment to just be a woman, to be Emerson, not a mom.
I hear Jacob’s voice. “Grandma’s on the phone,” Jacob mutters behind me.
“Tell her I’ll call her later.”
“I called her,” he says, causing me to turn my head to him. He holds the phone out to me. “For you.”
“I don’t feel like talking,” I say and turn away. “Apologize for bothering her, and tell her I’ll call her later.”
I hear him say a few words to my mom before the click of the phone. Then he tells me, “I just thought you could use your own mom.”
Everything melts—my heart, my anger, my sadness. I turn to him and hold out my hand, and he plops down beside me, wrapping his arm around my shoulder.
“How’d you get so smart?” I ask.
He shrugs a little. “Even moms need moms.”
“I’m okay, Jacob. You don’t need to worry about me.”
“I like Mateo,” he says with a firmness to his voice that I wonder whether I’ve missed before.
“Me, too. He’s a good man. What did you like about him?”
“You smiled a lot when he was here,” he says. “I liked seeing you smile.”
My hands fly over my mouth in a weird mix of happy and sad. Sad that maybe my kids haven’t seen me smile and laugh enough the past few years, and happy that means so much to my son. “I love you, Jacob,” I say and throw my arms around his neck, hugging him tight, hard, as long as I can, never wanting to let go, until the inevitable happens.
He starts to wiggle free, trying to escape the prison of my maternal embrace, groaning, “Mom, okay, that’s enough.”
* * *
The days come and go with no word from Mateo or Ryan. I asked for time, and boy am I getting it. Be careful what you wish for has been given a whole new meaning.
I keep telling the office I’m sick, trying to explain why I’m not doing a damn bit of work. They probably think I’m dying at this point. But I’m too paralyzed by analysis to do anything and can’t chance having to face Mateo.
I’m not someone who shares a lot while in the middle of something. I’ve always found it easier to share an old story than one I’m living through. Ever notice that? I tend to put on a brave face and power through. It’s why I haven’t reached out to Layla and Poppy or my mom, why I haven’t reached out to anyone.
But Poppy and Layla are the same way. We all know that about each other, so we know when it’s been a while since we’ve seen or talked to each other that something could be wrong. All things considered, my drama basically just started, so I’m surprised when I look through the peephole and see Layla banging on my door, holding Greer on her hip.
I open the door and find the culprit standing right behind her. My mom’s eyes send me into a sort of adult time-out. My head sags, my shoulders slump, and silence takes hold of me. It’s like I’m ten years old again. I’m sure she’s upset I never called her back after Jacob’s phone stunt a few days ago.
Before I can get any words out, my mom’s hand flies up. “We’ll talk later,” she says.
“Poppy needs us,” Layla says.
“What’s going on?”
From behind some bushes, Poppy jumps out in front of me. “Bachelorette party!”
“What?” I scream and pull her into a hug. “You’re getting married?”
“Tomorrow!” she says, her breath heavy with excitement.
My eyes pop out of my head. “Tomorrow?”
“Damn straight!” she shrieks. “So tonight we party!”
“Okay!” I say, full of happiness for my friend but also so many questions—like how did this happen so quickly, where is the wed
ding, how in the hell did she pull a ceremony together in a few days?
“I’m watching my grandkids tonight,” my mom says, tickling Greer’s chubby belly. “Even you.”
Layla smiles and pushes me towards my room. “Go pack a bag. We’ve booked a hotel. And don’t forget to pack a black dress.”
“Black?”
“I’ll explain later,” Poppy says.
A thousand excuses not to go explode in my head, ranging from silliness like laundry, to the fact that I’m supposed to be sick from work and shouldn’t be out partying, to the hardcore truth, that I don’t want to discuss Mateo or Ryan. But they are so happy, so high. And I wouldn’t miss out on that for the world.
I stand in my room, unable to start packing. I’m completely frozen and know I’ll stay this way until I work through this stuff with Ryan and Mateo. “Mom,” Ava says from behind me. I turn around and see her holding out a Vera Bradley duffle bag. “Thought you might want to borrow this.”
“Thanks, baby,” I say, giving her a little hug.
Her feet shuffle a little. “You know how you let me decide about Justin?” I nod, opening up a drawer. “I knew you didn’t want me to be with him, but you were going to let me make my own decision, remember?
“I do.”
“Were you just saying that? Would you have let me see him again?”
I gnash my teeth a little before turning my head turn to her. If she’s dropping the Justin bomb on me right now, I’m going to lose my shit. “I was being honest,” I say. “You know, I wouldn’t have liked it, and I would’ve policed you to death, but I was prepared to let you make that decision.”
She sits down on my bed, playing with the comforter a little. “I know Daddy wants you back. We all heard him say it the day Mateo was here.”
“What does this have to do with Justin?”
“You know I’d rather you be with Daddy, just like I knew you’d rather I not be with Justin. But you were going to let me decide. I know this is your decision, not mine.” Tears roll down her face. God, she’s trying to be mature, but it breaks her heart. I wrap my arms around her. “It’s not that I don’t like Mateo,” she cries. “It’s just Daddy.”
“I know how much you love your dad.”
“I do, but I’ll be going to college in a few years.”
She can’t even finish her thought. And that’s not exactly a glowing recommendation for me to be with Mateo. Best-case scenario, it’s half a blessing. She dries her face quickly, takes a deep breath, and sucks it all back in. I hate seeing her do that, knowing she gets it from me. I wish she’d just let it all out. I wish I could. I can’t seem to give myself permission, either.
I kiss her on the forehead, then she helps me throw some things together. Jacob yells goodbye from upstairs. I hear Connor giggling in the living room with his grandmother, but as soon as he sees me, he crosses his arms over his chest and turns his head away. My friends’ eyes fly to me, wondering what that was about, having no idea what a scattered mess my family life is.
I walk over to Connor. The boy hasn’t spoken to me since Ryan left, apparently believing his silent treatment can force me and his father back together. I bend down in front of him. “Connor, look at me.” He doesn’t.
“Connor,” my mom says firmly, “look at your mother.”
His eyes turn to me, holding in tears. “I love you,” I say.
“No, you don’t,” he cries.
“Connor, I love you very much.”
“You stopped loving me just like you stopped loving Daddy!”
That’s rough. It’s a tough thing to hear. But Connor is hurting, so I need to stay calm. And I need to watch what I say. I can’t tell him I never stopped loving Ryan. That would just confuse him. And it wouldn’t do much good to say that his dad left me. “Moms can’t stop loving their kids.”
“Well, kids can stop loving their moms,” he says. While I know he doesn’t mean it, my heart starts to hurt and not in the growing pain way. It hurts like I’m about to lose someone I love.
“If you loved me, then you’d let Daddy come home. I love him!” he screams. “I won’t ever love Mateo. Ever!” He bolts up off the sofa, his feet pounding up the stairs.
Covering my eyes with my hands, I rub my face. “I can’t go,” I choke out. “I can’t leave him like this. I’m sorry, Poppy.”
“It’s okay,” she says.
“You’re going,” my mom says. “He’ll be fine in five minutes.”
“Look at him,” I say. “I can’t. I can’t do this to him.”
Layla rubs my back and throws my own words back at me, the ones from Greer’s baptism. “A good mom knows when to take a break,” she says.
* * *
Only Poppy would have a surprise wedding. Other than celebrities trying to avoid the press, I don’t think anyone does that. But once Poppy decided to marry Dash, it was a race to the finish line. So tomorrow they are having the most unique wedding in the history of the universe. As for tonight in our hotel room, Poppy settled for the standard fare.
“Last time we had a bachelorette party, I ended up with that damn list,” I say, picking up my wine glass. “This is so much better.”
Poppy hired a half-dozen male strippers. She jokingly said it was her gift to me—a good girls threesome. I certainly hope Dash and Gage don’t get wind of this. They would flip their shit if they could see their women right now getting lap dances and rubdowns from two extremely hot guys while sexy stripper music is blaring.
Lucky me, I’ve got twins working on me.
Poppy laughs, “The guys were going to drink beer and watch sports!”
I have no doubt that’s exactly what they’re doing, having long ago traded in strip clubs for suburbia.
I lean back in my chair, as lap dance twin is grinding and thrusting up on me. I take a look down, and while my eyesight is not the best at the moment—we’ve been drinking over an hour—I see that the man is really hung. Unless he’s stuffing his drawers, but I don’t think so. The song changes, and he pulls me to my wobbly feet.
As I gain my balance, I find myself in the middle of a hunk sandwich. I feel like a ping-pong ball. One twin thrusts, forcing me into the other twin, who thrusts me right back. Perhaps any other week of my life, this would be fun and sexy as hell, but being caught between two men leaves something to be desired at the moment.
I take a glance over at Poppy, clearly in her element. She’s like a kid in a candy store. I still can’t believe she’ll be getting married in a few hours, and not just because she has her hands all over her two mostly naked guys, and their hands are all over her. I look over at Layla. She has her eyes covered and looks like she might be praying her breasts don’t leak.
An hour later, our company is gone, and we’re all giggles and smiles in our pajamas. It doesn’t matter how old women get, we still like sleepovers. But now instead of doing each other’s hair, Layla pulls out her breast pump, asking, “How much do I need to throw away since I drank that glass of wine?”
“Google it,” I say, “but I think you’re supposed to toss the milk produced the first two hours after you drink. But double-check me. I can’t remember exactly.”
“Wait! You can’t drink when you breastfeed?” Poppy asks. “This pregnancy and baby thing keeps getting worse and worse.”
“You and Dash come to some agreement about that?” I ask as the sound of sexy stripper music is replaced by the vacuum sound of the breast pump.
Poppy smiles. “After Dash got hurt, all I could think was how much I wanted to spend my life with him. I actually asked him to marry me.”
“You asked him, Poppy?” I cry.
“Sure, why the hell not? I felt like it, so I did it,” she says. “I don’t care about any PC crap. Dash doesn’t, either.”
“What about kids?” Layla asks.
“He told me he realized something when he was hurt, too. He said that having kids wasn’t worth losing me. He said he’d rather spend his life with me
and no kids, than have a life without me.”
“And I guess you believe him?” Layla asks. “You don’t think he’ll change his mind down the road?”
She shrugs. “Maybe I’ll change mine.”
“Really?” I ask.
“All I know is that we love each other and that’s enough,” she says.
With that, I lose it, crying into my hands. Poppy and Layla both start saying my name over and over again, no doubt thinking I’m a crazy person. I try to pull myself together, hating I’m now shitting all over Poppy’s night. “I’m sorry,” I say. “God, I’m sorry.”
Layla wraps her arm around me. “What’s going on?”
“Does this have anything to do with Connor?” Poppy asks.
I wipe my face and take a deep breath, and then, after apologizing some more, I fill in the missing pieces about Ryan, how I haven’t heard from Mateo, how I’m torn between my kids and my heart. “Whoever thought a sex bucket list would lead to this?” I half joke.
“You know the list was never about sex, right?” Poppy says, and I look at her, confused. “It doesn’t matter how many things are checked off. It’s about putting you first in your life. Making yourself feel good.”
“You heard Connor. He’s never going to accept Mateo,” I say. “How can I feel good if my kids don’t?
Poppy quickly responds, “How can your kids feel good if you don’t?”
“All I know is that I’d sacrifice anything for my them,” I say.
“Maybe that’s the problem,” Layla says.
“Huh?”
“Emerson, you know I love you,” Layla says, “but Poppy’s right—for once.”
“Thank you,” Poppy says.
“Being a mother does not mean being a martyr,” Layla says.
Poppy touches my hand. “Maybe being with Mateo is the best way to love your kids.”
“How’s that?”
“You want your kids to love passionately, or just settle for convenience?” Layla asks me. “You need to show them the kind of love you want them to have. Show Connor and Jacob what a real man loving you looks like. Because God knows, they haven’t seen it from their father. And what about Ava? Do you want her to settle for what you had with Ryan, or fight for what you could have with Mateo?”
The Sex Bucket List Page 21
