Page 18 of Power Forward

Good morning. Did you know the Turritopsis dohrnii jellyfish is immortal? Spooky! Hope you have a good day off with the kids.

“Wow! He lives on the beach?” Ryan asks, peering over my other side.

Sure enough, it’s another photo from his back porch that steps out onto a stretch of golden sand. In the distance, surfers ride the waves, and the water glistens in the sun. A cup of coffee sits on a table next to a black leather book and a pen resting on top. It’s in every shot he sends, and I’m curious to know what it is. Is it his notebook for work? Maybe a journal?

I can’t help but snort at the thought.

Hayden wouldn’t keep a journal. He didn’t do deep thoughts and feelings except when he was in that post-orgasmic daze, high on the endorphins. But since we met up for coffee at Rafe’s in Boston the other week, I haven’t been able to get him off my mind. There was a vulnerability to him that he was trying hard to hide, but I knew his tells, even after all this time. I could sense there was something he wasn’t telling me. The real reason why he wanted to be back in each other’s lives now. I wanted to know so bad, but I didn’t want to push.

It also means I’ve been on a wild roller coaster with my emotions, flicking between feeling touched that he’s thinking of me and my kids to being angry that he thinks he can just waltz back into my life like nothing happened. That he didn’t break my heart in such a devastating way.

I have whiplash from my own damn feelings, and I don’t know what to do about it.

“Can we go to the beach?” Isabela asks.

“No,” I say, locking my phone and placing it on the side. I’ll respond to him later. “We’re making a cake. Now, where were we at?”

We follow the recipe Jacob sent us step by step. Ryan carefully cracks the first egg, handling it with such care that no shell ends up in the mixture, but when it’s Isabela’s turn to crack the second one, she slams it onto the edge of the bowl. Pieces of eggshell go flying, sticking to the wall and the countertop, and the egg drips down the side of the bowl.

She holds her egg-yolk-covered hand up with a crinkle of her nose. “Eww, Daddy. Gross.”

A rumble of laughter escapes me. Okay, maybe I shouldn’t be giving eggs to a four-year-old. Lesson learned.

“You didn’t need to hit it so hard,” I say, wiping her hand with the dish towel. “Just a gentle tap.”

I pick the broken pieces of eggshell out of the mixture and put in another egg, showing her how to break it. Not that she’ll remember, but I try to involve them as much as possible when I’m in the kitchen.

When it’s safe, obviously.

Once I’ve checked that everything is in the bowl, I slide it under the stand mixer and push down on the attachment. I switch it on, but I must hit the wrong speed because flour flies out of the bowl.

“Daddy!” Isabela shrieks.

I quickly switch it off, and when I glance down, all three of us are covered in flour, along with the wall and the counter.

“I think you went too fast,” Ryan laughs, shaking his head like a dog and creating a flour cloud.

“You know, I think you’re right.” I rub my face, which only makes it worse and causes them to laugh harder.

Picking up my phone, I take a quick selfie of us and the destruction in my kitchen, then grab a cloth from the sink. I make quick work of cleaning up the kids, the counter and myself, then top up the bowl with more flour. I tense when I turn the mixer on at a slower speed this time, waiting for the floursplosion, and I sigh in relief when it doesn’t come.

“Well done, Dad.” Ryan pats my shoulder. “You did your best.”

My mouth drops open. “Did you just pet me like a dog?”

He laughs, and Isabela lets out a loud “woof!” causing all three of us to burst into laughter.

These two fucking kill me.

I slide the cakes into the oven and set a timer for twenty minutes, then head into the living room to join the kids once I’ve finished cleaning the kitchen. I slump onto the couch next to them and kick my feet up on the cushion of the sectional. Their attention is fixed on the TV, where our favorite show,Bluey, is playing. I snap a photo, making sure neither of the kids’ faces are visible, and upload it onto my Instagram stories with the caption,Watching Bluey with these two is my favorite part of my morning.

Then I open up the text thread with Hayden and send him the photo of the flourstrophe. I don’t know if he would be interested in this, but he said he wanted to be friends and get to know each other again, and my kids are a big part of my life. I don’t have to wait long, though, because his reply is instant.

Hayden

Wow… That’s… I’ve gotta say, it’s a good thing you’re good at hockey. Not sure you’ve quite mastered the baking thing.

My kid praised me like I was a dog when I managed to put the mixer on the right speed.

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