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Being friends with Marigold now meant torture. I had already been forced to watch her beauty from afar, but if we could be friends, that afar wouldn’t be quite so distant. It meant being near her. And more than anything, I wanted to be in her orbit, no matter what I had to do to get there.
Marigold took a deep breath, her chest rising and falling dramatically. “I don’t know how to be friends after what we went through.”
That made sense. It would be a challenge. A few years ago, when the pain was still fresh, I wouldn’t have thought it was possible. But now, after all this time and space, could we go back to that?
God, I hoped so. It would make life so much easier. We had children together. We were forever connected through them and through my family. It would be a challenge, but it would be so worth it if we could pack away the awkwardness and the animosity.
“It would be easier if you’d talk to me.”
Before that last word even left my mouth, flames flickered in Marigold’s eyes. And not the good kind. “I—You. You’re the one who—urgh.” She squeezed the sketchpad in her hands, the paper flexing beneath her grip.
“What? Finish it. Tell me.” I kept my tone serious, cold.
Come on. Get mad. Yell if you want. Throw a hair dryer at my face like that first time we argued. But for the love of God, just say something.
Instead, she closed her eyes on the pressure between us, taking a deep breath through her nose and out through her mouth.
For a moment, I didn’t think she’d respond. Finally, though, she opened her eyes and zeroed in on me. “No.” Her eerily calm tone sent a shiver through me. “No, bringing up the past will do us no good. Let’s just do this for the boys.”
My heart sank. I’d really thought we were getting somewhere. There was even a moment when I had the inkling of hope that we could get back to the days of being friends. When we’d ride bicycles down the street and eat Mom’s cakes late at night. Back when we were young and reckless. Realistically, I knew that wasn’t possible. With jobs, kids, life stuff. But the emotion could still be there. The nostalgia too. The reminder that we had once been amazing together.
Marigold Wells was just that. A Wells. She was as much a part of my family as I was. She belonged in this house, with us, and as much as she was afraid to say it out loud, I think she knew it too.
Until this moment, if I’d been asked what the most uncomfortable question a kid could ask their parent was, I would have bet everything I owned on Where do babies come from? Or maybe What do you mean Santa’s not real?
But no. No. Today I was hit with one far more awkward. My wonderful, precious, perfect kids really went overboard and pulled this one out of their magical little brains: “Why did you and Mom divorce?”
It felt like a trick question. Actually, it was more like a booby trap, and I was centimeters away from a trip wire that would set my whole house on fire. Had they asked Marigold? She would have been far better at coming up with an answer to such an on-the-spot question. For the love of all that is holy, I needed a really good distraction.
Unfortunately, we were in the back of the school drop-off line, so there was nowhere to go but up (metaphorically, of course, because this conversation was going downhill fast). It was a cool morning, but suddenly, sweat was forming at my hairline and trickling down my spine.
“Well, uh, sometimes parents have to do what’s best, even if they don’t exactly want to.”
There. You are an adult, Liam. An adult who responds appropriately to weird questions posed by children. You are a vessel, pouring wisdom into your sons. Whether the wisdom revolved around handling tough relationships or how to throw a spiral with a football.
Dallas looked up from where he was fidgeting with the string on his backpack.
“So you didn’t want to divorce?”
Lungs seizing, I pressed the AC button and cranked the fan up to high, praying I didn’t pass out. “Well, no. Not really, but—”
“So why did you do it?” That question was from Miles.
“Well, when your mom and I—We were…”
I sucked in a breath as black dots danced in my vision. The boys, of course, were watching me, wide-eyed and rapt. So I willed my lungs to relax and tried again, this time taking in enough air to banish those spots.
“Things—” I cleared my throat. “Things got difficult, and ultimately, her decision to leave was best for all of us.”
“Oh.” Dallas nodded.
There, done. End of conversation. Jeez, was the AC not working? I held my sweaty palm up to the vent. Why was it so hot?
“So Mom left you?” Miles asked. I swore the kid, sensitive as he was, affected a pitying tone.
“Uh,” Breathe, Liam. “I guess. But we did what was right for you guys. That’s what mattered.”
Dallas scratched his temple and stared out the window. “Hmm. So Mom didn’t love you anymore?”
