Page 47 of Just My Ex

Which, now that we’re not together, might be never.

Still, that can’t get in the way of me and Navie having a grand ol’ time threading thick string through chunky, wooden beads. It’s great for her hand-eye coordination. And great for keeping me mentally occupied so I don’t repeat the conversations of this morning and last night over and over again in my mind.

Marley. The hurt at her words and letter has transitioned into a hot pile of anger and right now I just can’t even.

We had each other’s back for years. Sure we each had our hangups. And to be honest, if we weren’t related, we might not have become good friends, considering how different our personalities are.

But she is to me like the white clouds in the air high above Longdale Lake on a sunny day. They’re always there. Steady. Predictable. A thing of beauty.

No more, I guess. And whether all of this came about because of her own thoughts or if someone in the family had bent her ear and convinced her I’m the bad guy, well, that doesn’t matter.

To occupy my mind, I start cleaning Sebastian’s suite, snooping through his armoire in the great room in the process. Though it’s mostly empty, I do find a sheathed knife.

Shudder.

Ever since becoming a mom, weapons of any kind give me the heebie-jeebies. I carefully move it to the top of the armoire and hide it behind the line of molding at the top. I also find a canvas-bound photo album, which was put together by Celine, Henry’s mom, and it has a little inscription to Sebastian on the inside front cover. It’s full of photos of the Tate boys, most of which I’ve never seen before.

I show Navie a few of the photos, but she quickly loses interest and goes back to lining up her cars along the room, bumper to bumper. I dive into the book again, smiling over the candid shots of a tall, unsmiling Sebastian, a toothy Oliver with messy hair, and serene-faced Gabriel, the only blonde brother. Alec has broad shoulders and a chipped front tooth, and then there’s the baby of the family, Milo, dark eyed and still pudgy and round.

And of course, there’s Henry. Henry, barefoot, fishing on the dock of Longdale Lake. Shirtless in the kitchen at their home in Denver, flexing his biceps with Oliver and Alec, and yes, of course Henry’s the most stacked of all of them. Henry lying sideways in an overstuffed chair, his legs dangling off the plush arm, reading a book.

And now, he’s sitting on a bistro set that has those nice, mid-century modern lounge chairs with molded wood panels and a material that looks like leather but can’t be because it’s Colorado—you can’t have leather outdoors. He’s been working on his insufferable iPad, probably dreaming up a hundred and one ways someone—namely my family—could pose a threat and a thousand and one ways to fight against said threats.

At least he’s getting fresh, clean, non-Washington, D.C. air. That’s got to be good for him, right?

“Mommy, where’s the food?” Navie asks.

I’m so lost in thought I assume she’s referring to the basket of plastic fruits and vegetables and canned goods that Stella brought with her yesterday when she came to take care of Navie.

“What’ll ya have?” I ask her, rifling through the basket to pull out a fake can of baked beans. “These might be good.”

“Real food.”

“Yeah, I’m hungry, too.” It makes sense that she’s ready for a mid-morning snack. I kept holding off on eating because I was hoping to go on my run today and didn’t want to be weighed down with food. But with the craziness of the meeting this morning, I wasn’t sure how to proceed.

I heave myself off the floor and pad through the kitchen and to the balcony, where Henry is reading a thriller novel. Opening the door, I offer an understated yet jaunty, “Howdy,” as Navie scrambles past me and onto Henry’s lap.

He sets the book down and kisses the top of her head, twice, like he’s caught a whiff of her shampoo and needs a second hit.

I hear ya, buddy. I hear ya.

His face is lined. Not actually full of lines—the man has lucky Tate genes and wears his age well. But lines cloud over him, hanging on him like claws. It’s worry. It’s heavy. It’s a visual grieving.

“So, we’re hungry. Want to go down to the café with us?”

He hesitates, his eyes drawn to his notebook and iPad like he’s just opened his Christmas presents and doesn’t want to leave their comfort.

But then he says, “Sure,” and swings Navie around so that she’s riding his back, her arms around his neck.

We walk through the suite, Navie still clinging to his back, shrieking. She’s got the shrieking thing nailed down. He swings her off and tells her to go get her shoes but stops short at the coffee table.

“What’s this?” he asks, pointing to the photo album lying open.

I laugh and pick it up. “You have to see this one,” I say, flipping through the plastic pages until I see the one of Sebastian, his arms folded across his chest, one of the only ones where he’s actually smiling, and all five of his brothers are hanging on him in various ways. Henry’s got an arm and he’s hanging from it, his head so far back he’s nearly upside down.

Henry’s mouth twitches and there’s almost a smile there. He flips through the pages. I want him to tell me the stories behind the photos, but he doesn’t, the only sounds coming from him are a grunt or a snuffle at a memory of the antics. After turning a couple of pages, he closes it.

“I can’t look at this,” he mumbles. He puts it on the table and silently heads to the door.

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