Page 46 of Stuck With You
Do I care what Miles does or who he’s sleeping with inside a closet or out? Nope. Not even a little bit. Do I care that he muddied my name and reputation and stripped me of every possible thing he could? Not so much anymore.
The only thing I want from him is the support he’s been ordered to provide for our children. If it were an option, I wouldn’t even want that. But Ollie needs speech therapy, and I want to be able to sign him up for soccer without having to sacrifice something important. The list of things goes on and on. I’m not talking about extravagance or luxury. I just need my bank account to be at a minimal level so I can care for our kids without worrying that I won’t have enough for food and diapers.
I also have to pay for the repairs on the car he bought, even though he knew I wanted a minivan. But I suspect the shithead left my name on the car as a spiteful gift. Now that I’ve seen Slade’s quote, I have no doubt.
“I’m sure she’s keeping him too busy to return my calls.” There’s another beat of silence that only tightens the knot in my gut. “What else is there?”
“He was beingcoyabout a move to a new network.” It comes out softly.
I pause my Kiss unwrapping. “A new network? Where?” It’s Miles’s goal to make it to New York City.
“He didn’t say, but the dumbass look on his face told me it’s a big move.”
I want to hang up and start searching. My mind races with what this means. He either has no intention of being involved in Ollie and Frankie’s lives, or he’s gaining speed to do something crazy.
The timer goes off on the oven, and I spin to turn it off. I grab the towel to pull the cookies out and set them on the stove.
Nooooo.I stare at them.
“You ok?” I hear Roxie’s tentative voice.
“Uh. Yeah.”
“He can’t do anything. He hasn’t been involved, isn’t paying child support, and flinging his ding-a-ling at every opportunity possible.”
She sounds so confident, but my stomach is taking cover. I know better than to think he can’t or won’t do anything. Miles always gets what he wants, and most often, that seems to be to destroy me.
I hear someone hollering on the other end of the line.
“Hey, I gotta go. You sure you’re ok?”
“Yeah. Thanks for telling me.” I guess I need to start following what he’s doing again because I’ll be damned if he’ll catch me off-guard.
“I was thinking I’d come visit for Thanksgiving. I need a break and an excuse to avoid dinner with my family.”
“Ok. Sure.” My gut aches with this new information.
“I love you.” Roxie’s soft voice hits me in the chest.
“Love you, too.”
We hang up, and I stare at the cookies. They do not look like they’re supposed to. It’s quite fitting—a flat melting mess you no longer recognize.
I scoop up the foil and crumple it into the overflowing trash.
I put the next pan in and set the timer, praying they look like actual cookies.
I tie up the bag and tug it out of the trash can, then slip on my shoes and haul it out the back door to the bin. I lift the lid and drop it on top, suddenly wanting to kick the living shit out of something. Maybe the trash.
I catch a flicker of headlights out of the corner of my eye and see the neighbors’ shiny trash cans at the end of their driveways.
I blow out a breath into the cold night air and tip the bin to wheel it to the street. I tighten my grip on the handles, wanting to strangle it along with the unknown rising around me.
I hurry down the driveway and almost make it to the end when the wheels catch on the raised edge of the sidewalk. I jerk to a stop, and the bin topples over, the trash bags tumbling out.
Of course!I stand fuming.
I give the large plastic container a hard kick and then another. “Mother fucker, piece of shit, no good, scumsucker. . .” I fist my hands, letting my head fall back to the dark sky filled with bright stars that feel like tiny specks of hope too far to reach. “Uuugggghhhh!” I stomp.
