Page 20 of Pick-Up
“You really should keep your hands up when you run though,” he calls, modeling the position.
“You really should stop dispensing unsolicited advice.”
He cocks his head, unbothered. Shrugs. “Fair enough.”
And, with that, Demon Dad turns and sprints away. I press Play on my podcast and bask in the afterglow of my run.
11 | Pony UpDEMON DAD
She really doesn’t remember meeting when the kids were small. I can’t decide if that’s bad or good. Either way, I am clearly delusional.
Why do I care? What is happening to me? I’m never like this.
I guess, if I’m honest, all those years ago, even though we were both still married, I thought we’d connected. One parent, oneperson, to another. Like we could have been real friends.
Maybe.
Could I just be friends with Sasha? Sure. I’m evolved. Why the fuck not?
Because. That’s why not. Even when I talked to her now, when her brow furrowed in that adorable way, when her green eyes filled with irritation and something harder to name, I just wanted to reach out and tug her ponytail.
I shake my head, like I’m clearing an Etch A Sketch. I can’t let my brain wander beyond that. I won’t. I’m cut off.
And I have the rest of my run to try not to think about it. Abouther. I close my eyes against the breeze. Against the image of her scowling. Of her on top of things. Turn my podcast louder. Focus on work. Blast out the noise.
I ruined my pace. But at least I apologized.
TO-DO
Finish the run, extra fast.
Get over yourself.
Stop thinking about Sasha.
When that fails, try harder.
Try harder.
Try.
Harder.
12 | No Time to Say Hello, GoodbyeKAITLIN
On Thursday at pick-up, I almost don’t recognize her. There’s a bit of the old Sasha in the way she struts up, posture at once straight and relaxed, smooths her hair and waits in oversize sunglasses for the children’s classes to emerge outside. She knows she looks good. She is “feeling herself,” as the kids say.
In place of her standard hoodie and Nike high-tops, she’s wearing an actual blazer in leopard print, high-waisted wide-legged black jeans and suede booties. She’s dressed forsomething.
I gaze down at my own skinny jeans, cross one leg in front of the other. I know they’re not on trend anymore. And they need a wash. But they’re comfortable, and it’s just pick-up.
Once, I wouldn’t have been caught dead looking basic. I would have known what was what. Seemingly, it’s still effortless for Sasha. Or maybe she’s trying hard. Either way, it’s exhausting to me.
It’s amazing how quickly something that feels essential can become obsolete. That could be the title of my autobiography.
I think about how much my daughter wanted to spend time with me last year, how distracted I was by my own impulses, how different our lives looked. I’m nauseous. The salmon I bought for dinner has turned in my mind.
I pull out my phone, open my to-do list in my notes app and type:Buy Ruby new clothes.I’ll troll H&M tonight. I may have come up short, but there’s still hope for her.
