Page 3 of Alfie: Part One

The front lawn could be a golf green. There was even a tiny fountain at the center with a stone path around it. Flower beds and little trees. Perfectly trimmed hedges. A gardening service that came once a month.

The house itself was a modest monstrosity, if such a thing existed. Luxury on a slightly smaller scale. The second floor had a balcony, with its two pillars coming down to flank the front door. Everything was white and pristine, and the backyard was made forminglingand bullshit like that.

A few times, I’d heard from the kids when West hosted wine mixers and charity events.

I suppressed a sigh as West opened the door, immediately attacked with hugs.

“Hi, Daddy—we’re not late!” Ellie climbed him like a tree.

West chuckled warmly and squeezed them both tightly. “It’s so good to have you home, sweethearts.”

My home is their home too, douchebag.

I wished I could let go of him. I’d done fucking everything in my power to be the man he deserved—and I was still trying, to an extent. But, nada. He’d pulled the plug. We kept shit civil in front of our children, but the moment they left the room, I could tell he was looking for the nearest exit.

I let them get the hallway catch-up out of the way, with both kids rambling about the week we’d had, and West soaked it up and wordlessly grabbed the backpacks from me.

I stood on the doormat. I rarely walked farther. From here, I could spy the kitchen to the right, the den to the left, and the stairs in the center. The door to Ellie’s room on the second floor was visible, and it was filled with her drawings and her name.

Just like at my place, the walls here had plenty of pictures. Most traces of me had been taken down, except for two photos, and they meant nothing. It was a literal agreement between the two of us. Our kids needed to see us as friends, as a united front, so we’d decided to keep a couple things. He’d kept two family photos I was in, and I’d put up one photo of him and Trip in my living room. Plus, I put on the morning show he was theproducer of on the weekends I had the kids. It did them good to see I was “watching Daddy’s show.”

I didn’t watch, for the record. I had it on in the background. And it wasn’t like he was a host or anything. If his face had appeared on-screen, I would’ve picked another way to torture myself.

“Can I get a hug before you disappear, kiddos?” I asked.

“Duh!” Ellie ran over and jumped into my arms, and I was quick to hug her.

This part fucking sucked.

I closed my eyes briefly and breathed her in.

One week. I’ll see you in one week.

“…and then Grandma and Grandpa will be here tomorrow evening,” West was saying.

“Okay, but I can stay in my room and read, right?” Trip asked to make sure.

“Of course,” West chuckled. “I might join you.”

Trip snickered.

I smooched Ellie’s cheek and reluctantly let her back down. “Love you, baby.”

“I love you the mostest!” she sang. “Bye, Daddy!”

“Bye, honey.” I forced a smile on my face and swallowed the emotions that threatened to resurface like clockwork every other Friday. Trip was next, and he came in for a hug too. I squeezed him and kissed the top of his head. “I love you, son. I’ll see you next Friday.”

“Love you too, Dad.” He smiled up at me. “Will you get my pillow from Nonna and Pop-Pop before, or should I bring the one I have here?”

“I’ll pick it up on Tuesday,” I said with a nod. “Nonna promised me lasagna then.”

He gasped. “Save me a piece?”

“Always.” I grinned and watched him fist-pump the air, but almost subtle-like, and then he grabbed his backpack and jogged up the stairs.

I bet he was going to give his pillow a big hug. The li’l lad was obsessed with memory foam.

“Dinner’s ready in five, kids!” West called up the stairs.

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