Page 28 of The Single Dad's Guide to Recreation

ChapterTen

JOSH

There’s nothing like a meeting with my in-laws’ attorneys to tank my faith in humanity. As I exit the conference room on the top floor of the steel and glass monolith that houses the Kingston family enterprises, I’m truly thankful I had a lawyer friend look over the prenup I signed before marrying Lisa Kingston.

Otherwise, I’m pretty sure I’d be handing over my children as well as the keys to our old apartment today. I mean, yeah, I was depressed after Lisa died. Yes, I quit my job. But it was to take care of my fucking kids, not lie around and live off of Lisa’s life insurance.

Lisa’s parents think every problem can be solved by throwing money at it. I may not be any good at romantic relationships, but I know in my bones that I’m a better parent than either of them ever were to my wife. They gave her every so-called advantage, from a Mandarin tutor to a personal shopper, but they did not give her unconditional love.

Control freaks that they are, it drives them crazy that I’ve moved the kids up to what they call “that tiny town in the middle of nowhere.” I may have judged Climax at first, but now, their opinion only bolsters my conviction that moving was the right thing to do. Away from the pressures of growing up in Manhattan, where parents scrabble to get their precious offspring accepted by the best private schools when they’re practically in the womb. Public school was good enough for me, and it’ll be good enough for Mabel and Percy.

The much-too-long meeting with the attorneys confirmed one thing for sure. I have no business thinking I can make something work with Avery. I’m oh-for-one in the romance arena and I need to keep it that way. My kids have had enough trauma for one lifetime. I don’t need to add a breakup to it.

No matter what the damn clock says.

Unfortunately, that was only the appetizer. Lisa’s parents have also requested—aka demanded—that I have dinner with them while I’m in town. As if I’d be in town for any other reason than their summons. Needing fresh air before the next ordeal, I push through the revolving doors and step onto the sidewalk. The reflection of the late afternoon sunlight off the surrounding office buildings blinds me momentarily but when I’m able to see my phone screen, I realize I’ve missed quite a few calls.

Almost all from my father.

When I hear his recorded voice say, “Your mother had an accident,” I almost drop the phone. Fingers numb, hands shaking, I crush the damn thing against my ear to the point of pain so I don’t miss a word, even though my chest feels like it’s caving in on itself.

Stumbling toward the intersection, I somehow hail a cab and say something about getting me to Penn Station. Listening to the rest of the voicemails as we crawl through traffic—wishing Scotty could just beam me the fuck up so I could get to my family—is torture. By the time I hear the last message, I know that my dad arranged for someone to stay with the kids, that he and my mom made it to Albany, and that my mom will soon go into surgery.

I can breathe, but that’s about it. I have no idea who has the kids, where they are, or how my mom is doing. And now my dad isn’t answeringhisphone.

On the northbound train, after leaving a message with Lisa’s parents to cancel dinner, I check work emails, but it’s impossible to focus. Since I can’t fix what’s happening in Climax, my mind keeps circling back to what I did wrong with Lisa. Wondering if I could’ve made her happier. We’d only been dating for a couple months when that condom broke and she ended up pregnant. She was all about her career, so I fully expected her to end the pregnancy. But I guess hormones are powerful things because she decided to keep the baby, whether I stuck around or not. She floated through those nine months, climbing the corporate ladder by day and reading every parenting book there was by night.

But it was like a light switched off after we brought Mabel home. Having to recover from an unexpected Caesarean probably didn’t help, but Lisa quickly relinquished care for our little girl to the nanny, convinced that a professional was better equipped than we’d ever be.

After that, we both just went back to work.

I wish I’d known more about postpartum depression, including the fact that it can last for years. Wish I’d pressed her to talk to her doctor about it sooner. Once she did, I wish I’d pushed harder for her to keep up therapy. But the minute Mabel started preschool, Lisa decided she wanted another baby, and when Lisa decided something, it was nearly impossible to change her mind. She argued that she’d do better the second time around. And she did spend more time with Percy as an infant, as did I. Breastfeeding was easier, and he was a good sleeper. Things were better all around. Or so I thought.

Until she stepped in front of a bus.

The police declared the incident an unfortunate accident. But I still wonder whether or not she did it on purpose.

By the time I pull into the driveway of my parents’ house, I’m spiraling. I adore my kids, but—as is often the case for children who’ve lost a parent early in life—they do not handle change well. Last-minute, unexpected change is especially hard.

When I enter the house, it’s eerily quiet. No screaming, no tantrums. There are dishes in the sink and backpacks at the table, but no other signs of life. At the top of the stairs, I peek inside Percy’s room and find him sound asleep, clutching his favorite blanket, thumb stuffed in his mouth. After giving him a kiss on the forehead, I head for Mabel’s room. Her door is ajar too, but there’s a light on inside.

As I get closer, I recognize Mabel’s voice. I can’t understand what she’s saying but she sounds calm enough. When I peek inside, I witness something I honestly thought I’d never see again: my daughter being happily tucked in by someone other than me or her grandparents.

“Daddy!” Mabel squeals.

Avery screams, her hand going to her heart. “Good gravy! You scared the shish kebobs out of me.”

Mabel jumps up and pulls me over to sit down on her bed before snuggling back under the covers next to the woman I thought I’d convinced myself to let go of. She’s all Miss Avery this and Miss Avery that, while Avery quietly blows Mabel a kiss good night, saying that she’ll be downstairs.

By the time I get my daughter settled and return to the kitchen, Avery is closing the dishwasher. Instead of dropping to my knees and thanking her for everything she’s done, I ask, “What are you doing here?”

“I didn’t just waltz in here,” Avery shoots back. “Your dad called me because they didn’t know what else to do.”

Scrubbing my hands over my face, I groan. “I’m sorry. I got this series of panicked messages, then one saying they got the kids squared away, not to worry, but…”

“You were worried.”

“Yeah.”

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