Page 129 of Ella Gets the D
“I’m keeping Jackson home today, just to be safe.” Kids are relentless. They make gossip sites look like amateurs with what they yell. They repeat discussions from home without nuance or consideration of the sting it will cause the receiving end. Not my child, and not today, of all days.
She nods. “Smart. You took the day off?”
“Yup.” It’s not every day a woman’s divorce becomes final. I have a small cake tucked in the back of the refrigerator with my name on it. I’m not lying. It says “Ella gets the D”—with D for divorce, of course. The otherDisn’t here. “I should go.” There are a million calls to make. Grier. Julian. Mama.Katharine.
“Text me once it’s done. Officially Greene!” Morgan waves spirit fingers in the air with her mouth open and her eyes closed. “We should have another party.”
The yolk of the sun’s glow lifts the sky out of darkness, stretching vibrant orange hues with golden tips. Today, one Mrs. Hudson quietly sheds her title while another publicly calls attention to the end of hers.
What a way to start the day.
“Tacos!”
“Tacos!” The small crowd in my living room parrots back.
Tonight is a celebration, but not one to advertise with neon letters and a dartboard with my ex’s face plastered in the middle. Clinking cocktails to chants of “Fuck him!”—the junior and the senior—is good for a night in with my girls. My kids are a different story. They know I’m no longer with their father, but I’ll fight the urge to do high kicks in front of them.
Thus, Taco Monday. A commemoration of hand-sized tortillas stuffed with tasty meats and toppings. The margaritas and collective side-eyes are the silent eff to my ex.
Akua Allrich’s Kennedy Center performance croons through the speaker system in a succession of smooth melodies. Currently playing is “Take My Time,” a wonderful song in concept—but not for the three kids circling the kitchen island for their food.
“Here you go, vultures.”
Haile and Duke take off to the dining room with all their tacos and their tablets. Jackson is the only one who reaches on his toes for a kiss to the cheek. “Thank you, Mom. Love you.”
That’s my baby.
He’s been extra affectionate, hugging a little longer and sticking by my side. They miss Julian; we all do. The dinners. Games. Random sing-a-longs.
“Do you need to call your man?” Morgan bumps my shoulder on her way to the taco station.
“I’m fine,” I say through a breath and add more ground beef to the large serving platter. These kids will eat their weight tonight.
“Mm-hmm,” Erica says with a margarita in hand and no good intentions in her eyes. “What will you two do now that you’re officially a single woman? Besides each other.”
“Don’t start.” I point a serving spoon at Grier, who’s coughing to hold back a laugh. She better not act up, either.
Have I thought about this day since Julian and I decided to blur the lines of friendship ? Abso-freaking-lutely. Do I know what this means for us, for bringing things into the light? No, but that’s where I want to stand. In the open with him.
The doorbell rings.
“I’ll get it!” I call over my shoulder to the women scarfing down tacos like they deep-throat dick. I wipe my hands on the half apron covering my jeans and open the front door with a frown.
Claire and Katharine exchange a look void of smiles or any hint at a pleasant visit.What happened now?“Hi, dear. Canwe come in?” My former mother-in-law’s kind eyes sweep over me. Charles and I might be over, but I refuse to lose her in the divorce.
“Sure, of course.” I step aside for the duo I didn’t think knew each other and hang their jackets as they step out of their heels.Camila’s father is president and CEO of Mt. Corbel Health, and Charles Sr is chairman of the Board of Trustees, remember?That does check out.
Claire heads into the living room and assesses the space like it’s the first time she’s seen it. The foundation is still Julian, but my family has weaved in seamlessly. She takes in the kids’ craft storage neatly off to the side and the spring decorations that accent the bookcase of vinyl records. If my mind isn’t playing tricks, there’s a tip of a smile. “It looks good in here.”
“Thank you,” I say. “How are you, Katharine?” Our texts this morning were brief—expected when you break the news you’re filing for divorce because of a secret family.
“Better.” Her tone is strong, resilient. “You?”
“Free.”
Katharine’s eyes shine. “I’m glad you are, dear.” She takes a breath. “We don’t mean to disturb, but we wanted to tell you in person.” She glances left and right. “Where are the children?”
“In the dining room, eating dinner.” My gaze hops between them. “What’s going on?”
