I left the room, trying my best not to crush the eggshells under my feet.

8

daniel

Dylan’s in town. He sends me a text and asks me to meet him for a drink, so when my shift ends I go home and change out of my uniform. When I walk into the bar he’s sitting on a stool, whiskey in hand, shooting the shit with the bartender. I can’t even imagine what he’s saying; the possibilities are endless.

“Hey,” I say when I slide onto the stool next to him. “When did you get into town?” I signal the bartender to bring me the same thing Dylan is drinking.

“Couple hours ago,” he says. He takes a drink of his whiskey. “You shoot anybody today?” It’s an old, worn-out joke. One Dylan never tires of. His jab at my profession. Ironic, considering he refuses to choose one of his own.

I let it go. “Nope.” The bartender sets down my drink. “How long are you sticking around?”

“Not long. I’m just passing through.”

He needs a haircut and his wrinkled clothes tell me he’s probably crashing on someone’s couch and living out of a duffel bag. I take too big a drink and the whiskey burns a bit on its way down. “You see Mom and Dad yet?”

“I told you I just got here.”

“You should have gone there first.” I don’t know why I think that’s even a possibility. Dylan goes where he wants to. “They miss you.”

“What do you hear from Jessie these days?” he asks.

“I don’t.” It’s just like Dylan to mention the one thing he knows I don’t want to talk about. The thing I’ve failed at. I take another drink, wondering why I even bothered to come. “Mom worries about you. She called me the other day. Said she couldn’t get a hold of you.”

“I’ll try to get over there before I leave.”

“You do that, Dylan.” I stand up, throw some money on the bar, and walk out.

My empty house greets me when I return home. I turn on the lights and throw my keys and phone on the coffee table. Click on the TV and surf the channels. Around 10:00 P.M. my phone rings. I answer and Melissa asks the same question she always does, her voice low and inviting.

“Want some company?”

My house seems emptier than it usually does, and I don’t feel like being alone tonight, so I say, “Sure. Come on over.”

She arrives twenty minutes later, and she smiles when I open the door. We don’t speak, but I step aside and when she walks through the door I follow her down the hallway to my bedroom.

9

claire

Chris flies out of the Kansas City International Airport every Monday morning and returns on Thursday night, spending Fridays in his office at the company’s headquarters. He’s now the director of sales for a large software development company, and from what little he’s shared with me, the culture sounds dreadful. “It’s ridiculously competitive,” Chris said, shortly after starting, but the tone of his voice made me think he was more than a little excited about the challenge.

Even when he’s not at work he is always working, sitting on the couch with his laptop or in the office with the door closed. He’s on the phone a lot, too. Once he walked into the kitchen and I thought he was talking to me, so I answered. But when he turned his head and I saw the Bluetooth headset I realized he wasn’t talking to me at all.

He gets in late bearing overpriced souvenirs—small stuffed animals for Jordan and unique gadgets or toys for Josh—purchased mostly from airport gift shops. In the two short months he’s been back to work he’s been elevated to the preferred parent, and I’ve become mean Mommy, the one that makes the kids eat their vegetables and go to bed on time.

“This is a bad habit to start,” I warned Chris, but I know why he does it. I wanted to tell him that Josh and Jordan are too young to hold a grudge, and that their memories of the last year are already fading. Kids are remarkably resilient. More so than their parents, apparently.

He had to travel an extra day this week and we were asleep when he got home last night. The kids’ summer vacation is in full swing and when Chris called from the airport he promised them a trip to the water park in Kansas City. The sun shines bright on this Saturday morning at the end of June, and the predicted high of eighty-five makes it a perfect day for careening down waterslides and splashing around in a wave pool.

Chris walks into the kitchen, rubbing his eyes. Josh puts a forkful of waffles and sausage into his mouth. “Are you still gonna take us to the water park, Dad?” he asks, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand and taking a large drink of his orange juice.

I hand him a napkin. “Finish chewing next time,” I say.

“Yep,” Chris says. He heads toward the coffee pot and pours a cup, then sits down at the table and yawns. Jordan smiles and Chris reaches over and tweaks her nose. “How’s my baby girl this morning?”

“I’m good, Daddy,” she says, smiling. She finishes her breakfast and climbs into Chris’s lap, throwing her arms around him in a spontaneous hug.

He holds her tight and says, “Aw, thank you.”

“If you’re done eating, put your plates in the sink,” I say.

“Can we change into our swimsuits?” Josh asks, barely able to contain his excitement.

“It’s a little early yet, but go ahead.” They tear out of the room, eager to get this show on the road.

“I can’t go with you today,” I tell Chris. “I’m putting the finishing touches on a big project and it’s due by noon. I was supposed to turn it in yesterday, but I asked for an extension so I could take the kids to the zoo.” Thankfully, my client understood; she’s a working mom, too.

“That’s okay,” he says. “We’ll be fine.”

Chris is more than capable of handling this outing alone, but since he started traveling we’ve lapsed into tag-team parenting, which means the kids spend plenty of time with each of us individually, but we spend very little time together as a family. I add this development to the long list of worries I already have.

“You don’t need to work so much now, you know,” Chris adds.

Oh, the irony.

“I’m not accepting that many new projects,” I say. “This one is just time sensitive.” I don’t explain to Chris that my desire to scale back has more to do with the kids being home this summer than any desire to curtail my workload; I plan on adding as many projects as I can handle when school starts again. I like the independence and the satisfaction of earning an income, and there’s a small part of me that also thinks I might like the idea of a safety net. That if I’m ever truly alone I’ll be able to stand on my own two feet.

“I’m going to get my oil changed and do the grocery shopping,” I say. “I’ll drop off your suits at the cleaner’s.”

Chris nods, running his fingers through sleep-tousled hair. “Okay,” he says. “Thanks.” There are shadows under his eyes and I’d tell him to get more sleep, but he won’t listen. “Can you refill my prescription while you’re out?” he asks.

“Sure,” I say.

“I’m sorry,” he says, so quietly I can hardly hear him. “I’m just not ready to stop taking the pills yet.”

“Chris, it’s okay. Really.” Besides, what can I say? I’m the one who insisted on the antidepressant in the first place. I top off his coffee cup and give his shoulder a squeeze. He reaches up and grabs my hand, squeezes back. It’s the first touch I’ve received from him in months.