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LIAM: It’s handled. Just finish. You don’t need to rush home.
JILLIEN: The hell I don’t. DRUNK!?
LIAM: He needs to sober up before a real punishment can set in.
JILLIEN: What do you mean real punishment? Did you punish my child?
Shit. I knew this would come to a head, but this is not a text conversation. Ethan hasn’t come back down yet, so I charge upstairs. He’s on his bed, passed out. I collect all of his screens and put them on Jill’s bed. I place a garbage can by the bed and remove his shoes. He groans a bit. I pull his hair out of his face, place him fully on the bed on his side, and prop pillows up behind him.
“E, puke this way if you have to, into the can. Don’t try to make it to the bathroom, ok. Ethan?” He groans again and turns over. I grab a glass of water and a bottle of Advil. I write a quick note of instructions and prop it next to the care kit. I’ll grab him a Gatorade. I cover him with his favorite blanket and close the door on the way out. I’ve heard my phone ringing and dinging. I don’t even bother to see what she’s written before I type my text.
LIAM: I handled it. I took care of him and what needed to happen. Yell at me later. Your son’s passed out, not on his back. And I’ll keep checking on him. But there’s a lot more to be pissed off about than drinking.
JILLIEN: That’s for me to decide.
JILLIEN: You don’t get to punish my child or have those types of conversations. Who do you think you are?
LIAM: Direct your anger in the appropriate direction. I’ll see you when you get home.
I’m done being a second-class citizen around here. She’s either in this or not. Fuck. Fuck Ethan. She doesn’t trust me. If this had happened on an apartment night, she probably wouldn’t have even told me about it. Now I’m more pissed off at her than Ethan. Fuck. This is going to be a really shitty evening. I head to the kitchen to make the steaks I bought for Ethan and me. I might as well fight on a full stomach.
42
JILLIEN
I’m ready to rip him apart. I had to hear about this from Meg. This is unacceptable. Jake said they were really fucked-up, but Fletch handled it. Not ok. He has no business being any kind of authority figure in my son’s life. That’s my job. Is he saying I’m not doing my job? Fuck. Traffic is shitty. It’s shitty. And I’m not a shitty parent. Or a shitty daughter or employee. What is he saying by handling my son?
I straighten my pencil skirt and fix my turquoise blouse. I flip my hair to the back, pull back my shoulders, and barge in the back door. The door slams along the wall. He’s in the living room. I can see him. He’s poured a glass of something. Really?
“Your response to my son getting drunk is to drink?”
He stands and stares. Then he drains his glass. “Welcome home, honey. How was your day?” I stomp up to him. He can sense the tension. He’s prepared for it, I imagine. He’s a brilliant man who knows he overstepped. “Simmer down, Jillien. Let’s talk, but we can’t do that if you’re going to be irrational.”
“I’ll show you fucking irrational. Is Ethan ok?”
He nods. “He puked about twenty minutes ago. I cleaned out the can, and gave him some water. He’s going to sleep for a good long time.” I bolt upstairs, and he’s asleep. He looks ok, though. There’s a note with some aspirin by his bed. And a full glass of water and a bottle of Gatorade.
E
Take the aspirin and drink a full glass of water. Then sip the Gatorade slowly. We’ll talk in the morning. It’s going to be ok. No more lies. We made a pact.
Fletch
Pillows are propped up all around him so he doesn’t roll onto his back. He took care of him. That’s my job. I take the note and slip it into my bra. I see all of his electronics on my bed. I want to put them all back where they belong to spite Liam, but instead, I head back downstairs.
He’s wearing his blue windowpane checkered shirt with dark green Dockers. His back is to me, and he’s doing the dishes. Usually I find all of that sexy, but right now it’s the outfit of a man who overstepped.
I stand in my little dining area and face him. I cross my arms. “You don’t punish my son. Is that clear?”
He turns, grabs a dishtowel, dries his hands slowly, then leans back against the kitchen counter facing me. His face is stern, his eyes cold. I’m not sure what he’s angry about.
He says, “What are my rights here? Take you to dinner, sex you up, and babysit? I’m like a substitute teacher. All the work and none of the authority. I’ve changed everything for you. And you won’t even let me out of the tiny box you keep me in. Everything is so compartmentalized. Christopher has a box. I don’t know shit about your relationship with him. And the only time I ever asked, it was a fucking disaster. Ethan has a box, and apparently, I’m not allowed anywhere near that unless it’s in your presence. I see the way you bristle when we spend time alone together. Despite your best efforts, he and I have a relationship separate from you and me.”
What the hell is this? He’s put together an argument. I’m a little put off by him not defending his behavior but attacking mine. “Shut up. I don’t do any of that.”
He starts ticking things off on his hand. “Everything in its place, then you think there won’t be any mess. There’s the sex box. And we don’t talk about sex when we’re having dinner anymore. So, I assume there’s a relationship box. There’s the work box, and then the granddaddy of them all, pun intended, the dad box. That one leaked a bit when we were in Philly for Christmas. I thought I showed you how much I cared and supported you when he treated you like shit. That I could be there for you to help share that burden. But no, Jillien needs to stand on her own. Jillien can take care of everything. Jillien doesn’t need anyone.”
“I don’t do that. Stop it.” I back away from him. I have no idea why he’s saying these things to me.
