Page 25 of Just My Ex

I know his subterfuge is for a noble cause. Being subcontracted with multiple governments to protect an ambassador and her large extended family is an honor. But it takes a toll on him and everyone who loves him.

But now, seeing Navie happy to be around him? My mom’s role as intermediary for his visits to Irvine has shielded me from this.

A panicky guilt threatens me. That darkness, the kind I’ve been fighting for a year, almost upends inside of me, a fizzy, poisonous drink about to explode.

But I keep it in check, like I always do, and now there’s just a dull sensation of numbness and a slight ringing in my ears.

Can I really, actually do this? Can I spend time with Henry, watch him play with our daughter, withoutall the feelingshijacking me?

Apparently not. I turn from the scene, my heart threatening to give out on me.

I should have thought this through. Is it too late to be like, “Haha, sorry everybody. Never mind! Navie and I are going to hide out in Scranton or Toledo or some other random U.S. town.”

It’s not too late to do that, right? Except, I know no one in those towns. Or really anyone else well enough to crash with for a while. Crashing at someone’s place until my uncle can’t bother me anymore? That feels icky.

I guess being here with the Tates feels slightly less icky.

Henry and I engage in small talk while he whips out some magnet game from his pocket. He and Navie fiddle with the little magnetic rods, displaying the colorful pieces on a metal board. She’s fascinated by it all. They both are.

Then she gets out her litter of small, squishy, stuffed animal puppies and tells him their names and all about them. He’s riveted, like it’s the most fascinating thing he’s ever heard.

After a half hour, I’m chomping at the bit to go running, and I’m hungry. But I can’t eat my feelings for breakfast before I run because, hello, stomach cramps.

I reach over and tuck a lock of Navie’s hair behind her ear. “Hey, bug? I’m going to go run on the beach. You stay with Daddy, okay?”

She barely acknowledges my existence, only nodding while she works on her magnet game design. Her tongue tickles the corner of her mouth as she tries to get it just right.

Exactly like her father.

However, may I remind myself that the way Henry concentrates and the actions of his tongue are no longer my concern.

“Hold up,” Henry says, plunking the magnet down on the floor and jumping to his feet. “I’m supposed to go with you.”

“Supposed to? Like, required by the government?” I laugh. This whole “supposed to” business is borderline ridiculous.

“Quinn.” His smile is kind, but it’s laced with concern and a hint of frustration.

“How about you both come outside, and you and Navie play on the beach so you can be there while I run?”

“I can’t do that. I can’t be that far away from you.”

“What do we do with Navie while we run then?” This is so inconvenient. I shake my head. “You know what? Never mind. I’ll be upstairs. Just bring her back up when you guys are finished playing.”

“Wait. You have to get your run in.”

I glance at him, sliding my hands down my hot pink running shorts—emphasis on “short.” Maybe I should have worn my baggiest sweats. Except, did I even bring my sweats? I was in a rush to get here, so I packed some weird stuff. Pretty sure I left my sweats in the bottom of a clothes hamper.

“It’s okay. Maybe I can use the treadmill here later.”

We both know that’s a lie, and he gives me a look like,Please.

Running on the beach is my one thing—a part of myself that is mine, not lost after motherhood like a lot of other things. It’s the thing that makes me feel most like myself. A couple of days of not doing it and I’m irritable. Add on a few more days, and I’m living as if I’m a distant memory of myself.

It was the thing that, after I’d recovered from giving birth to Navie, Henry promised he’d help me do.

He’d insisted on me getting back into it, saying it would help me get through the fog of early motherhood.

You gotta get back on the beach. Even just to walk and throw starfish back in, he’d insisted.

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