Baby two. Check!
Baby three…
I shake off the thoughts like shackles and pull into the garage. I made the right decision for us all when I asked for the divorce. I have to believe that. Anything is better than the volatile pressure cooker our lives became at the end.
Laughter reaches my ears when I walk into the kitchen and close the door behind me. I knew he would let them stay up late. I easily pick out the kids’ giggles, mixed in with the low timbre of Josiah’s chuckle, but I can’t quite place the other melodic laugh. When I enter the family room I realize why.
I’ve never heard Vashti laugh like this before.
It lights up her face, an inner glow that spills into her eyes and over her cheeks. She wears a lovely dress the color of buttercups that discreetly outlines her slim, feminine shape. Her hand rests on Josiah’s knee casually, at ease like she’s touched him that way a hundred times.
Oh, my God. She probably has.
They’ve probably shared these simple intimate touches many times in secret, or at least without me knowing. I may not want Josiah for myself anymore, but I’m not blind enough to miss when someone else does.
And the simmering affection shining from Vashti’s eyes tells me she wants my husband.
Ex-husband.
Plates litter the floor, along with cans of Diet Coke and LaCroix. A Monopoly board is splayed across the large glass table Josiah and I purchased from a furniture outlet in North Carolina. That somehow offends me most deeply.
On our table.
It feels like I interrupted them in a passionate embrace, twined together across the thick-paned glass in a pornographic pretzel, instead of playing a board game with the kids.
“Mom!” Kassim says, drawing everyone’s attention to me standing in the doorway. “You’re home.”
I manage a nod, unsure of my lines in this farce.
“Vashti lost everything in Monopoly.” Kassim points to the pretty young chef. He’s oblivious to how this all looks and feels to me, but maybe Vashti isn’t. She stands quickly and starts collecting dishes.
“Sorry about the mess,” she says a little breathlessly. “I don’t think we spilled any of the sauce from the ribs on anything.”
If Icouldsqueeze the voice through my constricted vocal cords, I still wouldn’t trust it. Her words fall into an awkward silence I’m not sure how to break, or why it’s there, for that matter.
“We got their food to go,” Josiah picks up where she left off. “Vashti and I had been working all day, and were both ready to call it a night, so we just brought it home.”
Once I finally find my voice, it’s not to respond to him or Vashti, but to ignore them.
“Kids, it’s way past your bedtime,” I say, my tone bright and hopefully normal. “You have school in the morning. Did you get your homework done?”
“Yeah, it only took like twenty minutes,” Kassim offers on his way to the staircase.
“Kassim,” I address his retreating back. “Are you going to leave your trash here in the middle of the floor? You know that’s unacceptable.”
“FYI, Vashti,” Deja speaks for the first time. “Just about everything is unacceptable in this house according to Mom.”
I’m surprised by the sting of hurt. I know better than to let my daughter get to me. “Getting to me” is her new favorite pastime, but for her to strike in front of Vashti, who may be…something I didn’t realize she was to Josiah…hits in a different way. Deeper.
“Fix that attitude, Day,” Josiah responds before I have to, his voice somehow gentleandstern. “Your mom’s right. You guys need to pick up after yourselves. She’s not your maid, and I better not hear that you’re treating her like one.”
“Yes, sir,” Deja replies demurely, gathering the dishes and heading toward the kitchen with Kassim.
“Thanks,” I mutter, not feeling particularly grateful. “It’s good seeing you again so soon, Vashti.”
I’m trying to relocate the home training I lost when I found this woman in my house laughing with my kids, her hand all over my husband’s knee.
Ex-husband.