Page 2 of The Game Is Afoot

I follow after her with considerably less joy. My thoughts have transformed fromAm I wasting my life away at a job that’s never going to see my true worth?toWhy is this man just letting himself into our house?He has a key, but that key is for emergencies. And taking Pearl to school on his regularly scheduled morning when we’re not even late—hell, we’reearly, thanks to this new routine I’ve got us on—that’s not an emergency.

But I fix my face into something neutral because it’s still so new for Pearl, seeing us interact with each other almost every day, andI’mnot going to be the reason why there’s tension.

“We’re fine, Corey!” I call as I grab my blazer off my bed. “Just a little startled with the front door opening like that. No warning from the doorbell…or even one knock.”

Okay, well, I’m not immune to just a pinch of petty. It’s basically my right after years of solo parenting while he got to travel the world, putting his work first.

As I turn the corner, though, slipping on a couple of gold bangles, my eyes lock on that one-dimpled smile, identical to Pearl’s. Polly runs around him in circles like this is the best day of her life and Pearl has launched herself onto his side, her striped-socked feet dangling off the ground, but Corey’s flashing that smile right at me, his eyebrow playfully arched.

“Now imagine how startled you’d be if it wasn’t me but some axe murderer off the street walking on in here.”

“Axe murderer?” Pearl asks, an edge of worry in her voice. Which makes sense—axe murderers aren’t some far-off scare when only a few months ago, your friends’ mom locked you in a room to escape kidnapping and assault charges.

I arch my eyebrow right back at him and let out a long, weary sigh to rival Pearl’s for good measure. But when he holds up his hands in apology, my cheeks instantly burn with embarrassment.

In one hand is a brown wicker basket with shiny lemons and something green peeking over the top—probably the latest bounty from his new apartment complex’s community garden. But it’s what’s in his other hand that makes me want to dig a hole right here in the floor and fling myself into oblivion. It’s my keys, with a black fob for my Prius and a keychain Pearl made me for Christmas that says “Mom of the Year” in sparkly beads. I swear the words are taunting me as they dangle back and forth from Corey’s fingers.

“Did you know your keys were in the door?” he asks, reaching out to hand them to me.

“Uh, yeah. Of course.” I mumble as I snatch them back. “I was just…getting them ready to go.”

“Getting your keys…ready to go?” He flashes another infuriating dimple that makes me want to ban all dimples even though Pearl’s is up there on my list of things that make life worth living.

“Yeah, Mommy is so silly! She does that all the time.” Pearl’s feet are back on the ground, and she starts digging around in Corey’s basket. “She’s always like, where are my keys? I can’t find my keys! And then me and Papa have to find them in the door, and then we’re late to school. But it’s okay because Ms. Lilliamin the office likes her now. Hey, this smells good!” She holds up a big bunch of fresh mint, smiling wide, and I take back what I said about her dimple. All dimples are out to get me apparently.

Corey laughs, high and hearty, and I roll my eyes at both of them. For the record, I have alotof things in my hands when I’m walking in at the end of the day—my bag and my laptop and this giant water bottle because we’re all supposed to care about drinking water now—so sometimes I just don’t have the physical capability to also get my keys. It’s not my fault my hands are small. And anyway, our neighborhood is safe—Ms. Joyce across the street would come hollering from her perch at the window and probably try to take down the intruder herself if anyoneactuallytried to break in.

“Plus, she is already thinking about a lot,” Pearl continues, and I almost pump my fist and shout out “Yeah!” But I’m trying to look like a responsible, non-petty adult. “She’s asking for a raise today, and also she might have to fight that lady Rose.”

“Oh yeah?” Corey says. “Rose trying to square up?”

“No onewill be fighting.” I slip on my flats by the front door so we can move this morning along before Pearl tells her father how I let her have ice cream for dinner last weekend. Or what word I muttered when that Kia Sorento cut me off on the 405.

Corey, thankfully, gets the message. “Is it okay if I leave my car here while we walk?”

Pearl crosses her arms and looks him up and down, likeThey really just let everyone parent these days, don’t they?At least with him back in Beachwood full-time, someone other than me is getting that look regularly.

“Are you sure we have time for that?” she asks, and Corey throws his head back in another raspy chuckle. “It’s less than a mile, my Pearl girl. And school doesn’t start for another thirty minutes.”

Pearl looks to me to confirm this, and I nod, begrudgingly. We haven’t ever walked, me and Pearl, but technically, in so-perfect-they-are-basically-unrealistic conditions, it’s possible. Even with my new routine, though, our mornings are never that perfect.

“It’s a good way to start your day, with fresh air and sunshine,” Corey says. “My therapist recommended it, and it’s a lot easier than everything else he has me doing, that’s for sure. Here, you gotta smell these, too, baby girl. I picked them for y’all this morning.”

He pulls a lemon out of the basket and scratches the rind, holding it up to Pearl’s nose. They both breathe in deeply, eyelids fluttering closed. It’s such a quiet, special daddy-daughter moment that I’m tempted to snap a picture with my phone, but my mind is still stuck on the whole “my therapist” part. I mean, it’s not the first time he’s brought the guy up. He talks about therapy now like it’s no big deal. Which, I know, Iknow—it isn’t. But he didn’t grow up thinking that, just like me. You only went to therapy if there was something really wrong with you. If you were working a steady job, doing what you needed to do—you didn’t needtherapy. And if you did, you certainly didn’t talk about it.

But ever since he put his touring career on hold and moved back to Beachwood to be here for Pearl, Corey all of a sudden is someone who casually talks about therapy and starts his day with sunshine and stops to smell the lemons. I know he’s not doing the work he wants to do—he’s had to transition to mostly studio drumming instead of playing live music like he’s always loved. But still, he just seems so—so…contentall the time. Like he’s got that elusivebalancething figured out.

And I’m…I don’t know. Jealous?

Because how is he so good at that?!

That was my plan last year, after everything went so bonkersand I ended up getting sucked into the dark, dangerous world of the PTA and becoming an amateur detective for a few weeks. I was going to rest. I was going to take care of myself, or “practice self-care” as all the woo-woo books and Instagram posts refer to it. I was burned out and had no choice.

And don’t get me wrong, I’ve tried! I’ve perused the aforementioned woo-woo books and Instagram posts. I bought green juice. I didn’t know it would go bad so fast and had to throw it out, but Iboughtit. And I got a ten-day streak on my meditation app last month. I may have fallen asleep a few of those days and let Tanya keep talking over my snores, but see? Rest!

It’s all just…a little harder than I thought. Which is really a scam if you think about it. Why is taking care of yourself so muchlabor?

I tried to put on my oxygen mask first, but turns out the strap was all twisted and maybe I should try and gobble a few pretzels first because who knows if they’ll even be serving food later with all these airline budget cuts?

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