Page 7 of My Wife
I thank the bridal party and the wedding planner.
She asks, “What would you like me to tell the guests?”
“Please express my gratitude for their time and my regrets. You can let them know Rexlan got married today … to another woman. They can donate their gifts to a charity of their choice.”
Sorsha turns on her and says, “Not so fast. I pay, so you do what I say.”
The wedding planner goes still, but before she receives instruction, Sorsha says to me, “You ruined everything, Jess. I knew you were just trying to strike it big with our family’s empire.”
Eyes bulging, I shake my head.
Pamberlie crows a laugh. “That’s rich, coming from you, Mother, living off the child support for Rex and me and sour grapes.”
She hisses, “That’s Liz-Fizz, an all-natural lizard elixir, notgrape juice.”
Through a crack in the door, I eye the cake, standing alone in an adjacent room and awaiting the reception. As a hobby baker, I asked if I could handle the cake. Of course, Sorsha said no. But still, cake is cake.
Biting the inside of my lip, I calculate how quickly I’ll be able to cross the floor in these shoes and make it to the door.
Ignoring her daughter, Sorsha sneers and to me, she says, “You’ll pay for this.”
Whatever fabric glue, stitching, and hair spray hold me together threatens to dissolve, but I won’t let these people see me cry. No one ever has.
Still in my gown and with my purse over my shoulder, I rush toward the wedding cake, pick it up, and blaze through the doors, gulping the fresh and balmy air when it suddenly starts to rain.
3
LIAM
I gunit all the way to the Ice Palace, the Nebraska Knights practice facility and arena across town as if I’m trying to outrun my new normal—sleeping on the floor, waking up with a kid staring at me, and doing the chicken dance at the break of dawn.
Being a father.
The thought squeezes my brain and my chest.
Having blazed through every scenario in my mind about how this happened, and why Pam, who hardly qualifies as my ex, thought it was a good ideanotto tell me that we had a kid, I repeatedly find myself at a dead end. She’s taken herself out of the picture, so it’s not like I can give him back.
I’ve considered detouring and finding someone else to take care of him. His nose is constantly running—he refuses to learn how to blow it. There’s the sleeping issue. Plus, he refuses to talk.
I’m not totally stone-hearted and imagine he’s had a tough time. But what am I going to do? I can’t turn my back on him. However, I can’t square the circle that is my hockey career and this new responsibility that I didn’t know existed.
To say I’m in a belabored state of shock is an understatement.
I’ve already broken a sweat by the time I reach the locker room, drop my gear, and get to the gym. I find my name on the roster posted on the wall. Today I’m in Group C, highlighting my recent demotion.
“Hey, look who is back,” crows Grimaldi, third-string wing.
Great, I’m with the benders and bench warmers.
Grady claps me on the back as he exits the weight room with Group B.
I’ve played for two other teams in my career and every coach, assistant coach, trainer, and everyone in between has a different way of doing things. Coach Tom Badaszek is the most hardcore of them all, which is why it shouldn’t surprise me to find him in the gym.
But it does.
I’d expect him to be in the rink with Group A right now.
Grimaldi says, “So how was the time-out chair?”
