“Can you call Aunt Amy?”
“You don’t have an Aunt Amy.”
“Yes, I do. She was Theresa’s sister in college. She can fix my hair. She studied cometology.”
“You mean cosmetology. And no, just because she was Theresa’s sorority sister does not make her your Aunt Amy.”
“Are you calling Daddy?”
“Yes.”
“He knows how to fix things.”
I pasted on a strained smile. Steven knew how to break things, too. Like dreams and wedding vows. But I didn’t say that. Instead, I gritted my teeth, because child psychologists say it’s not healthy to bash your ex in front of your children. And common sense says you shouldn’t do it while you’re waiting for him to pick up his cell phone so you can ask him to babysit them.
“He uses duck glue,” Delia insisted, following me around the kitchen as I scraped the breakfast scraps into the trash and dumped the plates in the sink along with my sanity.
“You mean duct tape. We can’t fix your hair with duct tape, sweetie.”
“Daddy could.”
“Hold on, Delia.” I shushed her when my ex finally picked up. “Steven?” He sounded hassled before he even said good morning. On second thought, I don’t think good morning was actually what he said. “I need a favor. Vero didn’t show up this morning, and I’m already late for a meeting with Sylvia downtown. I need to drop Zach with you for a few hours.” My son flashed me a syrupy grin from his high chair as I used the damp rag to mop the sticky spot from my slacks. They were the only decent pants I owned. I work in my pajamas. “Also, he might need a bath.”
“Yeah,” Steven said slowly. “About Vero…”
I stopped patting and dropped the burp rag in the open diaper bag at my feet. I knew that tone. It was the same one he’d used when he broke the news that he and Theresa had gotten engaged. It was also the same tone he’d used last month when he told me his landscaping business had taken off because of Theresa’s real estate contacts and he was flush with cash, and oh, by the way, he’d talked to a lawyer about filing for joint custody. “I was meaning to call you yesterday, but Theresa and I had tickets to the game and the day just got away from me.”
“No.” I gripped the counter. No, no, no.
“You work from home, Finn. You don’t need a full-time sitter for Zach—”
“Don’t do this, Steven.” I pinched the blooming headache between my eyes while Delia tugged on my pant leg and whined about duct tape.
“So I let her go,” he said.
Bastard.
“I can’t afford to keep bailing you out—”
“Bailing me out? I’m the mother of your children! It’s called child support.”
“You’re late on your van payment—”
“Only until I get my advance for the book.”
“Finn.” Every time he said my name it sounded like an expletive.
“Steven.”
“It might be time to consider getting a real job.”
“Like hydro-seeding the neighborhood?” Yeah, I went there. “This is my real job, Steven.”
“Writing trashy books is not a real job.”
“They’re romantic suspense novels! And I’ve already been paid half up front. I’m under contract! I can’t just walk away from a contract. I’ll have to give it back.” Then, because I was feeling particularly stabby, I added, “Unless you want to bail me out of that, too?”
He grumbled to himself as I knelt to sop up the puddle of grounds on the floor. I could picture him at their spotless kitchen table in her immaculate designer town house over a mug of French-pressed coffee, pulling out what was left of his hair.
“Three months.” His patience sounded as thin as the hair on the crown of his head, but I kept that to myself because I needed a babysitter more than the satisfaction of whittling away at his fragile male ego. “You’re three months late on the mortgage, Finn.”
“You mean the rent. The rent I pay you. Cut me a break, Steven.”
“And the HOA is going to put a lien on the house if you don’t pay the special assessment bill they sent you in June.”
“And how would you know that?” I asked, even though I already knew the answer. He was banging our real estate agent, and his best friend was our loan officer. That’s how he knew.
“I think the kids should come live with me and Theresa. Permanently.”