Page 4 of Second Round

“Onlyyou?”

He made a dismissive motion with his hand. “Does that reallymatter?”

Did that meant that he was moving in with her? It wasn’t even about Margaret, who seemed like a nice person in the five minutes we’d spoken, but more about the amount of time the kids would get. They loved having Brent’s undivided attention. In some ways, he spent more consecutive hours with them now then he had done when he was still here. And how old was Margaret? Were they thinking about kids? My poor sweeties would get shunted to the sidelines when cute new babies appeared on the scene. Then they would turn into teenagers with psychologicalissues.

I sighed loudly. That single train of thought led into a dismal future that was still years away. Sometimes having a good imagination was the worstthing.

Brent shook his head. As usual he could see right into my head and figure out what I was thinking. “Don’t worry, Jacks. Everything’llbefine.”

“Isn’t there anything I could do tostayhere?”

He sniffed. “Well, you could buy out my half of thehouse.”

I did some mental calculations. The house down the street had sold for over two million, and ours was nicer. So the ballpark price would be from two and half million to three. Holy Mother of God, I’d need a million dollars to buy him out. That wasn’t happening. My dad had assured me that I could count on them if I had any big financial problems, but he was talking about the van breaking down—not a housepurchase.

But Brent knew all this before he made the proposal. He went over to the fridge to get a Coke, while I was busy having a stressattack.

“Look, if you want to stay in this neighbourhood, you’re going to have to downsize and getajob.”

“I like to be here for the kids when they get home.” I also liked making gourmet dinners for Brent and maintaining a beautiful home, but that job had been yanked out from undermyfeet.

“The kids are getting older. They can handle a little independence.” He motioned towards the plastic container of art supplies on the dining room table. “Maybe it’s time to stop dreaming and playingaround.”

Meaning stop making art. Everyone knew that artists didn’t make much money. All my instructors seemed to havemultiplejobs.

“Art isn’t about money for me, it’s more like anescape.”

“An escape? You live in a beautiful house beside a rain forest, you work part-time, and I support you and the kids. What possible stresses couldyouhave?”

I was tempted to reply, “Well, the man I was in love with, who promised to love me forever, decided he needed more out of life and walked out. On the scale of one to traumatic, that’s pretty high.” But instead I saidnothing.

Brent drank his Coke and looked around the kitchen and into the family room beyond. “Well, the place looks great. If you do some of that clutter-clearing stuff, it will look even morespacious.”

I knew exactly what he was doing now too, because we used to practice his first sales calls together. “Assume the close,” Brent always said. He was assuming that I would go along with the sale of the house, because what choice did Ireallyhave?

“Does it have to be right away?” I asked. I cursed the pleading tone in my voice, mainly because it waspointless.

He nodded. “It’s March. Most family houses are sold in the spring, so that families can move in the summer and start the new school year in their newhomes.”

“It’s a lot to consider at once. Give me some time to think things through.” Tonight, I could reread the terms of our divorce agreement. I was pretty sure we both had to agree in order to sell. But it wasn’t like I’d take him to court. We’d worked so hard to keep things calm and civil, so what was the point of poisoning his relationship with the kids now? And why did he get to be the one to initiate these major life changes? Still, Brent had been very fair about child support and staying in our home; all my divorced girlfriends had commentedonit.

“Sure. Take your time,” Brentreplied.

But once he got an idea, he was like a dog on a bone, which was why he was such a successful investment advisor. He would ask me again on Wednesday when he came to get the kids. He was already eyeing the house like a prospectivebuyer.

That was the trouble with knowing someone so well. You knew when an argument wasalreadylost.

2

SoftLanding

LeoGauthier

“Goats!Overhere.”

Hearing my old hockey nickname echo through the modern confines of the Vancouver airport was startling. I craned my neck and saw my new boss—Chris Luczak. He was dressed in dark clothes with his jacket collar pulled up and a baseball cap pulled down low. The typical disguise of an NHL superstar, or ex-superstar, hoping to avoid getting bothered in public. Since he was alone, he hadsucceeded.

“Lucky.” I shook his hand. “I had no idea that you were coming to theairport.”

---