Page 93 of My Wife
“Well, well, well, what do we have here?” Grimaldi asks, breaking into the moment.
Jessica takes my other hand as if to say,We’ve got this together.
Grimaldi adds, “Looks like a happy little family.”
Grandma Dolly bustles over and signs, “We have celebration cake waiting at home.”
Hate to say it, but Grimaldi is right.
* * *
The next week,while the little guy is at “Kinder Care,” Jessica and I go to a brunch sponsored by one of the brands that endorses me.
Anytime we’re out, people flock to her and she gets excited about kids and babies. She makes friends wherever we go and has a sort of magnetism that people can’t resist. It’s like a weird symbiosis that leaves everyone but me smiling and laughing.
I tell myself I abhor it, but my occasional smile defies that lie.
Back at the loft, while she’s on the phone talking to a woman we met at the luncheon who introduced herself as the Cobbiton Activities Commission coordinator, about Easter events, I get a text. It’s one I don’t want to read.
Unknown: Nice family moment at the Ice Palace. Looks like you were the king of the castle. But I could tell everyone Jess is not our little prince’s mother.
My stomach twists, but I reply because this message could only be from one person, Pam, my ex. No doubt she saw social media posts, put two and two together, and is now attempting to put me in an uncomfortable position.
Me: I don’t care what you do to tarnish my reputation, but leave her out of this, and above all don’t mess with my son.
Unknown: That depends on what you’ll do for me.
Blood rushes in my ears. Without thinking, I take a swing at the wall and shove my desk over before realizing what I’m doing.
Jessica appears in the doorway with a spatula in her hand. “I was just making a cake when I thought I heard?—”
“Baked goods don’t solve everything.”
“Sure they do. I could add some whipped cream. Remember what you said about not taking yourself so seriously.” The corner of her lip flickers with a smile.
I hammock my hands on top of my head and pace. Pam must’ve seen the game. She knows about Jessica. Now I have something at stake which is exactly what I’ve worked so hard to avoid. It’s been better to keep my life simple and not let anyone in.
In a small voice, Jessica says, “I was making it for you to have this afternoon. I have an appointment.”
Probably a job interview. I already came so close to losing her. Saved by the pie to the face.
Glancing around at the dented drywall and the mess I made of my desk, I realize I’m not managing my anger.
She starts picking up the scattered papers. “Do you want to talk about it?”
“Stuff triggered me,” I say vaguely, a shoddy explanation.
She lets out a dry laugh. “You were triggered, so you smashed your wall?”
“Better than punching someone in the face.” What if she’s really done with me this time?
She gets to her feet and locks onto my eyes with a ferocity I’ve never before seen. “It’s your job to get over that.
“Harsh.”
“Direct,” she says, using my words against me … for me?
I grunt.
