Page 28 of Play For Keeps

“Jake’s not my boyfriend. He’s just a friend.”

“Why doesn’t he visit us if he’s your friend?”

“Would you like it if he came over to hang out with us?”

She nods her head. “I would really like that.”

I smile at her big, generous heart. I try to picture Jake here in our tiny apartment, playing Candyland and being introduced to Birdie’s extensive collection of Barbies. The image sets off butterflies in my stomach. But there isn’t time to think about that now. Being late would aggravate Grant and that’s the last thing I need.

So, I grab my keys and my purse, take Birdie by the hand and head outside to my car.

Ten minutes later, we’re seated at a table by the window at The Dockside. The weather is cooler today, so instead of the air conditioning blasting through the vents, the restaurant has its glass doors open to a patio, which has a few picnic tables, a patch of turf and a small jungle gym for kids to play on. It’s one of the reasons I like it here; I can enjoy my lunch while Birdie plays. I’m surprised when Birdie doesn’t immediately ask if she can go outside.

The waitress is filling our water glasses when I see my ex-husband walk through the doors of The Dockside and spot our table. Birdie is sitting across from me with the card she made grasped tightly in her hand when she notices her dad.

“Daddy!” Birdie jumps up from her seat.

“No running through the restaurant,” I remind her, moving her water glass into the center of the table before she knocks it over.

When Grant is a few feet away from our table, Birdie can’t wait any longer—she pushes her chair back and runs straight into Grant’s arms.

“Fuck my life,” I grumble to myself, pasting a smile on my face for Birdie’s sake. I stay seated as I watch Birdie with her arms wrapped around Grant’s neck as he kisses the top of her head.

He looks to me and his grin fades to a passive-aggressive smirk. “Hi, Evy.”

My stomach turns at the old nickname. I liked it once upon a time. Now, it’s like nails on a chalkboard. “Hi.”

He’s wearing a perfectly pressed golf shirt and khaki shorts with a tan Gucci belt. His blond hair is styled in place with his signature side part, his skin bronzed from the tanning bed he has in his basement. He’s wearing Italian leather loafers that I’m positive cost more than my rent. He looks the same. And so much like Birdie.

“How’s my Jay-bird?” he asks our daughter, taking the seat across from her.

“I’m good, Daddy.” She sits down and I help her push in her chair. “Here… I made you a card.”

She hands him the brightly colored card she spent all morning making, and he glances at it and then sets it aside. “That’s nice, Birdie,” he says dully. I want to punch him in the throat. He waves a waitress over so he can order a drink, the card already forgotten.

I will never understand him.

“What’s my girl been up to?” he asks Birdie once the waitress disappears.

“Well… I’ve made two new friends at school. One’s a boy and the other is a girl. She’s my best friend because she likes cats like me.”

He straightens the silverware on the table in front of him. “You wouldn’t like cats if you had one. They pee in a box, Birdie. They also shed and scratch the furniture.”

Birdie’s eyes drop briefly, but then she looks up again with a smile for her dad. I hate him. He’s such an asshole. Just for that, I want to take her to the SPCA after this stupid lunch and let her choose five strays to bring home. Dick.

“But they can jump up to six times their length,” she says, quoting Jake. I try to hide my smile. Birdie’s eyes are wide, hopeful, as if she’s hoping to convince her dad to love her favorite animal as much as she does.

“They also smell,” he huffs. “How’s school? I bet you miss Brentwood Academy.”

I want to stab him in the eye with my fork, but for Birdie’s sake I restrain myself. Grant paid twenty thousand dollars a year for his five-year-old to attend kindergarten with kids who had the same pedigree. I remember wanting to vomit when he said that to me. I argued that Birdie could get a good education in the public school system, which made him laugh. My kid is not going to a public school, was his response. And that was that. There were arguments I just knew I would never win and that was one of them.

“Grant, we should order. Birdie is hungry,” I tell him. My patience is already waning, so I try to move things along.

“Fine,” he says, picking up his menu.

We place our orders, and then Birdie is out of her seat and in Grant’s lap. She probably knows it will be months before she sees him again so she’s soaking him in. I can’t blame her.

“Mommy is a waitress now too,” Birdie says, watching a waitress carry an armful of plates to the table next to us. “She works at a fancy restaurant.”

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