Total pages in book: 96
Estimated words: 95019 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 475(@200wpm)___ 380(@250wpm)___ 317(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 95019 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 475(@200wpm)___ 380(@250wpm)___ 317(@300wpm)
I ask Mom about her trip, and she displays some photos in her phone for me. From London, she shares Buckingham Palace, Westminster Abbey, and Big Ben. From Paris, the Eiffel Tower, Arc de Triomphe, and the Louvre. Then sites from Vienna, Rome, Barcelona, Lisbon.
“Wow, you didn’t get any rest the past month, did you?”
“You have no idea,” she says with a laugh. “And this is a gorgeous beach that’s about forty miles north of Lisbon.” She shows me another photo.
It’s taken from farther away, and when I zoom in, I accidentally swipe to the next image, where Mom stands with a man who’s got his arm hooked around her, his hand resting on her hip. The blood in my face drains, and my stomach churns.
“Sounds like it was a great time,” Dad says through his teeth. By the frustration in his tone, I can’t help wondering if he knows about whoever the hell is in these pictures with Mom.
“Sorry, I guess I swiped,” I tell her, and when she sees the picture, her grin softens. And then she looks to Dad in a way that suggests he knows about this. Of course. I’m the only one who doesn’t, just like I was the only one who didn’t know about the divorce.
“This is Enzo,” Mom says.
“Carrie,” Dad chimes in. “We agreed not to say anything.”
“Well, he’s seen now.”
It’s a simple exchange, but it reminds me of the way they would pick at each other the past few years. The sort of thing I imagine wore them both down.
“I would like to know what’s going on,” I say as the heat in my chest intensifies. “Or were you both gonna wait and tell me when you decided to have another kid?”
The light in Mom’s expression diminishes, and I hate that I did that to her, but I’m also pissed as hell since I’m always the last to know about these things.
“That’s not fair,” she says.
“None of this is fair,” I say through my teeth. “First there was that stuff going on for over a year, and now there are all these other secrets. How long have you even been seeing this guy…Enzo?”
“Can we talk about something else?” Dad asks.
“I want to discuss it.” My words are harsher than intended, but I can feel the resentment in me mounting.
“If he wants to know…” Mom says.
They start getting into it, back and forth, back and forth. Here I was hoping to enjoy brunch with my parents, tell them about my boyfriend and how amazing he is, and instead, this is what I get? And it reminds me of plenty of tense moments between them. The steady erosion of what was once love.
I sit in silence, feeling this ball of tension radiating through me, steadily growing until it feels like it’s so big, it might tear right through me. “Please stop,” I spit out, my face red, taking deep breaths as I try to remain calm. I don’t know how it came out, though, because they quiet and turn to me with stiff expressions. “How long have you been seeing Enzo?”
“It’s been about eight months,” she reveals.
Eight months when they’ve only been separated for a year. It seems fast, but if anything, it assures me that it was over between Mom and Dad long before they agreed to a divorce.
“He’s a nice guy,” she says. “I’ve told him all about you, and he’s excited to meet you when he gets a chance. We were thinking about doing a cruise for Christmas. Maybe you could come with us.”
“He might want to spend Christmas with me,” Dad rushes out.
She searches around uncomfortably. I’m sure she only mentioned Christmas to push through the awkward tension, but it’s only amplified it. She must realize that it’s too much for me because she says, “We can sort all that out later. We can manage with whatever you want to do.”
Even though there are no plans set, between Enzo and this tension about my hypothetical Christmas plans, it’s overwhelming. Fortunately, the waiter arrives, as though the universe realizes I need a mental break. I rush through the menu, flustered as my mind swirls. I swear I might throw up. When the waiter finally walks away, I say, “You know, maybe it’s too soon to talk about this stuff. Can we put a pin in it?”
“Of course,” Dad says.
“Sure, sweetie.”
Feels like some mercy knowing they’re willing to set it aside, but that can’t erase what’s going on inside me. And I feel like shit because even though I haven’t seen either of them in a month, after that pic on Mom’s phone, this awkwardness between us lingers, spoiling what could have been a lovely brunch by the lake.
Fortunately, there are other subjects. Dad catches me up on his job, and I tell them about mine, but I don’t tell them about Marty. I care about him so much, but I don’t want to share him with them when I’m in a mood.