Page 73 of Pick-Up
Should I be asking? My buzz is making me reckless. I’ve literally never asked him a single question about his kid. Not her class. Not hername. And, though it’s been an unconscious choice, I realize suddenly it’s because I want to keep things separate. Our time here. Our complicated lives at home. As soon as I know details, I can’t unknow them.
“Fine.” Ethan smiles easily, the twinkle lights illuminating the dreamy angles of his face. It’s a really nice face. “I talk to her every day when I’m away.”
“Do you travel a lot?” See how I switch gears? Rum makes me crafty. I’m workshopping that theory.
“Less now. I used to travel all the time. And have work events most evenings.”
“Youhadto slow down or youchoseto slow down?”
“I think both,” he says, staring at his hands. “I just never said no to a flashy party or trip back in the day.”
“I bet your wife loved that. Out every night.” I point a finger at him. “I bet you never did pick-up.”
“I still never do pick-up. But at least now I do drop-off.” He frowns sheepishly. “If I’m honest, in retrospect, I think I may have been trying to escape my marriage. Now that things have shifted and I’m around more, I realize how unbalanced it was. And what I was missing.”
“So much mac and cheese.”
“Excuse me?”
“That’s what you were missing. Primarily. At least, that’s what my ex-husband misses at our house.” I am trying to lighten the mood, but it is interesting to hear his perspective—a reformed workaholic dad.
“I like mac and cheese,” he says.
“You know,” I say, “for what it’s worth, we all think we don’t have it as parents sometimes. We all feel like we’re doing it wrong.”
“I think that all the time,” he says, nodding. “But then I remember that my friend Bruiser from college has kids and I think:How bad can I be?”
I laugh. We smile at each other. And, looking across the table at him, I have to admit to myself that, yes, he’s hot as hell. But it’s not just that. I kind of love talking to him. It’s so comfortable, but also entertaining.
“In all seriousness,” I say, “it’s hard to give up your freedom. To stop going out and having those kinds of adventures.”
“It is. But I’ve become more of a homebody in my old age.”
The same is true for me. And yet I can’t help but think about the difference between me and Ethan, despite the apparent similarities in our circumstances and in our worldview. I realize—even as we chat easily about the challenges of being away from our kids, about the way that having a kid changes you, even as he nods in understanding—that he has no real idea what I mean. Whether or not he travels is a choice; it’s not a circumstance. I gave up my “freedom” the moment Nettie was born. He had to get there. And getting there is “growth.” I can tell his career always took precedence in his household by the way he talks aboutoptingto stay home more often.
Even now, his ex-wife—cheater or no—takes his kid when he goes away. His daughter’s biggest disruption while he’s gone is her parents switching custodial days. She sleeps in her regular bed, among her own things, eats her broccoli prepared per usual and the usual array of snacks. Ethan likely is not responsible for organizing anything at all before he leaves—no childcare, no meals, no reminders or schedules for school assignments. No procuring socks for major events like Silly Sock Day. Even divorced, he has someone to carry the bulk of his mental load. This is a gender thing, but it’s also the chasm created by my particular deadbeat-ex predicament.
As if in hallelujah, my phonebingswith a text. I look down and, with a start, realize it’s from Cliff, of all people. His ears must be burning! His stupid oversize ears. Twice in one week. To what do I owe this glorious gift?
“Ugh!” I groan more loudly and obviously than I would have before all the rum punch.
“What is it?” Ethan asks.
“My ex…”
“What does he want?”
“Whatdoesn’the want?”
“To parent?” says Ethan, who is also clearly a little tipsy.
“So true! Shall I read it aloud?”
“Please do.”
“ ‘Sash! Baby!’ ” I read, as I mime gagging. “ ‘Are you per chance on some Caribbean island with Martin Bernard?’ ”
“Ugh. How does he know?” I ask Ethan.
