Total pages in book: 115
Estimated words: 107630 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 538(@200wpm)___ 431(@250wpm)___ 359(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 107630 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 538(@200wpm)___ 431(@250wpm)___ 359(@300wpm)
“Mom! It’s my turn to pick the morning music,” Sage reminds me. It’s a tradition my mom started when I was a kid, and I’ve continued it with my girls, letting them take turns choosing a song each day. We started out with nursery rhymes and have progressed to pop music as they’ve gotten older.
“Nu-uh! You picked yestah-day! It’s my turn!” Olive argues.
They barrel into the kitchen with elbows flying, both fighting to be the first one to the stools at the island, where I’ve already placed their waffles and jelly. At five, they want to spread their own jelly like big kids, not have me do it, even though it’ll take an extra ten minutes for them to cover every nook and cranny and then lick the mess from their fingers. And that’s before they actually start eating.
Two pairs of blue eyes turn to mine, both demanding my judgment on whose turn it actually is.
“Sage, you chose yesterday. It’s Olive’s turn today.”
Like I knew she would, Sage argues back. “I did not! It’s my turn.” Of the two girls, she’s the spitfire, and Olive is the more laid-back one. But they’re learning from each other the same way Joy and I did.
Olive starts singing the Taylor Swift song Sage selected as a reminder. “Whoa-oh-oh-ohhh, it’s a cruel summah.” Her little drawl is the cutest thing I’ve ever heard. Truthfully, it’s more of a speech issue with -er sounds, but it’s adorable regardless, and I’ll miss it when she outgrows it.
Sage freezes, realizing that Olive is right. I can see it on her face, but she doesn’t want to admit that she was wrong.
“It’s okay, honey. You can choose again tomorrow—but what do you tell Olive for trying to take her turn?”
“Sorry,” she mumbles.
Crisis averted, Olive chooses her song. “Hey, Siri, play ‘Cruel Summah.’” She grins a gappy smile at Sage, who’s looking back in surprise. And then together, they sing along as they spread their jelly.
It’s the best start to a day since yesterday.
After I drop the girls off at school, the day is a whirlwind of teeth-cleaning and reminders that flossing is actually important and not a moneymaking scam by Big Flossing, and then I’m picking up the girls at school for an afternoon of dance classes, homework, and making dinner. Around six, my phone rings.
“Hey, babe,” I answer, after seeing Roy’s name on the caller ID.
“Bad news, babe. I’ve got to work late,” he says, not sounding sorry at all. This is becoming a more-than-occasional occurrence. I think he’s worked late more nights than not for at least the past six months.
Schooling my face so the girls don’t notice anything amiss, I sigh. “I get it. Not like the banker gets to work bankers’ hours, right?”
“You know it. See you later.”
I start to tell Roy that I’ll put his plate in the microwave so he can have dinner when he gets home, but he’s already hung up.
“All right, Girls’ Dinner tonight!” I tell them, feigning excitement. “You know what that means!”
“Toothpicks instead of forks!” they tell each other happily. I don’t know why, but they love it when I cut up their dinner and they can stab every morsel with a toothpick instead of a utensil. Whatever floats their boat, I guess, and it makes getting dinner in their bellies easier on me, so that’s a win in my book.
I grab the shaker of toothpicks and rattle it a bit with a forced smile.
After dinner, baths, and two bedtime stories, I’m alone in the living room when I hear the garage door opening. Roy comes in, looking exhausted and disheveled. “Hey, dinner in the kitchen?” He walks in front of the TV and straight for the plate I left him. No kiss—not even a hello, really.
I sigh, not surprised. I know. I’ve known for a while now. Months ago, I “ran into” one of Roy’s bank tellers at the grocery store, and she oh-so-casually mentioned the “new girl” who’d started at the bank. Even as she gently and subtly tried to warn me, I already knew. I just hadn’t decided what to do about it then. I still haven’t.
Everything’s perfect, except it isn’t.
“How was work?” I ask, following him into the kitchen. I’m almost begging him to tell me the truth. Or maybe daring him to.
“I swear, the tellers can’t fucking count. They know their numbers have to match before closing out the day, but they never do. If they were smarter, I’d think they were embezzling or something since they’re always wrong and I have to fix their shit.” He eats the dinner I made without comment or compliment as he blames the tellers—who’ve mostly worked at the bank longer than he has—for his late nights and time away.
He doesn’t ask about my day, about the girls, or anything else. We’re ships floating in the same sea, but I’m a cargo ship weighed down with responsibilities, to-do lists, and baggage, and he’s a speedboat zipping in and out of the harbor before rushing back out to do his own thing.