Total pages in book: 107
Estimated words: 99723 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 499(@200wpm)___ 399(@250wpm)___ 332(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 99723 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 499(@200wpm)___ 399(@250wpm)___ 332(@300wpm)
He holds his arms out wide for a hug, which Harley readily gives him.
There’s no apology. No explanation. Nothing. Not that any excuse he could give would make his tardiness acceptable. The urge to pull Harley back to my side and protect him from Tyler rides me hard, but I fight it back. That would only make things worse . . . for my son and for me.
“What’re you doing here?” Tyler asks me, somehow looking confused at my existence.
“When you weren’t here at pickup time, the school called me. I was close by”—I give him a pointed look, silently communicating that I do that because he is wholly unreliable, and his jaw clenches at the rebuff—“so I came over to check Harley out. I didn’t want to pay the one dollar per minute fee for”—I glance down at my watch—“thirty-six minutes.”
“I had to pick up Amber from work first.”
As far as explanations go, it’s as good as any, but it’s most definitely telling. Amber is Tyler’s girlfriend, and choosing to pick her up before Harley shows his priorities clearly.
I glance at the woman sitting in the passenger seat of the truck, and she gives me a narrow-eyed scowl. Thanks to Tyler’s version of our divorce, in her mind, I’m the enemy, the evil ex who keeps trying to get her claws back into Tyler, who left me because I’m a crazy bitch. Girl code rules state that I should tell her to watch her back because she’s sleeping with the actual enemy, but she’s not ready to hear that. She’s too deeply under his spell, enthralled with the charming man he at least on the surface can be.
And if I’m honest, she’s a stabilizing force in Tyler’s life, or at least as much of one as he’ll allow, and selfishly, I can appreciate that. It means that he’s more consistent with his obligations than he used to be. Plus, she is nice to Harley, which is the main thing I care about, so I just offer her a hint of a smile, hoping that by not pressing her buttons, she can manage Tyler’s emotions when they leave with my son.
“Pickup time is six o’clock. Drop-off is four o’clock on Sunday. I’ll meet you at the park then.” Straightforward, factual, and emotionless is the goal, and I hit every point.
Tyler takes his sunglasses off, hooking them in the neck of his shirt. “Aw, Briar, don’t be like that. I appreciate you coming to sit with my boy till I could get here.” He places a hand on Harley’s shoulder, pulling our son into his side for a moment, and flashes me one of those aw-shucks grins that used to fool me.
This is his game.
For all his faults, stupidity isn’t one of them. He’s strategic. And this whole picture reframes in my mind. This is how he wanted it—me waiting for him, him heroically showing up to rescue Harley like the good-times-only dad, flaunting Amber in my face and me in hers. Every piece a pawn, but he’s the only one playing.
I ignore him. The gray rock method has become my way of taking back power, especially when all Tyler wants is to find some little way to still control me. Every time he tries to throw toxicity my way, I don’t react and just do my thing. I hug Harley tightly, pressing a kiss to the top of his head. “I’ll see you Sunday, honey. I love you.”
“You act like you’re never gonna see him again. It’s not even forty-eight hours, babe. He’ll be fine.”
The fact that he thinks I want forty-eight hours—hell, an hour—away from my son pisses me off. The last thing I want is to send him away, with his dad or anyone else. But I don’t react, knowing he’s baiting me with that and the endearment he used to call me. I haven’t been his “babe” in a very long time.
“Call me anytime.” I pointedly say the words to Harley and Harley only, nearly nose to nose with him so that there is no misconstruing my intention.
When Tyler doesn’t get the reaction from me that he’s looking for—whether that’s anger or affection, he tries another tactic. “Why don’t we do handover at my house on Sunday? I can grill out and we can eat dinner like the old days.”
The old days.
Sunday cookouts were our routine. I’d clean the house, top to bottom, making sure every nook and cranny was spotless, wash, dry, fold, and put away all the laundry, go to the grocery store, haul it all inside and put everything away, prep snacks and lunches for the week, and generally, do all the work, taking care of an into-everything toddler along the way, while Tyler played a round of golf with his buddies and drank too much beer. Then, he’d waltz in, disappear into the bathroom for an hour, reappear to throw the meat I’d trimmed and marinated onto the grill while I made side dishes and set the table, and then remind me to thank him for taking care of dinner as though he’d done me a favor.