Page 55 of Play Dirty

Gazing over at where Stevie is now sprawled on a lounge chair, hat and sunglasses protecting her face and Emma tucked against her side, I vow that I won’t make that mistake again. Not with Stevie.

If she gives me a chance, I hope I can be better at communicating, making sure she’s happy. Putting her needs before my own. That’s just the kind of guy I am. Or the kind of man I thought I was. I probably do better in theory than in practice, but that’s the entire reason I plan to do better in my next relationship.

Maybe I’m a romantic, but I’m not a one-night stand kind of guy, even when I tried. And Stevie has always struck me as the kind of woman who needs love, affection, and someone who’ll take care of her. She doesn’t need money—it’s about time and mindfulness. Now that I know her better, she’s even more fragile than I originally thought, and I’m still reeling a little from the story she told me about her ex.

That son of a bitch better never get out of jail because I’ll end him if I get my hands on him.

I’m generally not a violent person, but hearing what he did makes me want to hurt him.

Why would he throw the woman carrying his child off the second floor of their home? Even if he thought she was leaving him, that’s not the way to convince her to stay. Not in my book anyway.

I’m definitely not a relationship expert, but violence isn’t the answer.

And how do you do that to a woman carrying your child? I couldn’t hit Brenna when I found out she was fucking Philippe, much less when she was pregnant. It’s mind-boggling to me.

“Dinner’s ready,” Mom says, coming out of the kitchen. “Marty, if you go wake Bradley up, I’ll take care of the other two.”

“I’ve got Emma,” Stevie says, sitting up and gently jostling Emma awake.

“Perfect. It’s nice when there’s three of us.” Patty laughs.

That’s for sure. Even when there’s two of us.

It’s much harder when you do it alone. I’ve learned that firsthand.

I go get Bradley out of his crib, and he gives me a sleepy smile. He’s warm and soft as I bring him against my chest, and he sighs happily.

“Da-da.”

Hearing that simple word warms me all over.

I really fucking love my kids and can’t imagine only seeing them every few months. I don’t know what’s going to happen, but I absolutely can’t lose physical custody. I just can’t.

“Did you have a good nap?” I ask as we walk down the stairs.

“Sleepies!” he says enthusiastically.

My mother has everything set up on the table in the breakfast nook, Emma’s in her highchair, Martin in his booster seat, and Stevie is serving the kids while Mom finishes putting together the Caesar salad.

The kids chatter all through the meal, and Stevie seems right at home, ever patient with Martin’s non-stop questions and Emma’s clinginess. Bradley just babbles—usually nonsensically unless he wants something—so we do our best to encourage him to use real words without making him feel bad.

“We’re going to get in the bath after dinner,” I tell the kids. “Then we’ll watch one show, read a book, and bedtime.”

“Are we calling Mommy tonight?” Martin asks, his little face suddenly shrouded.

“Of course.” I nod.

She’d been out last night and hadn’t answered the phone, and my mother told me how disappointed they were.

“When is Mommy coming home?” Emma asks suddenly, her face scrunched in confusion.

I sigh.

This is the hard part.

How do you explain to kids this young about divorce? Moving across the country? Having new partners and such? It’s almost impossible. And though we’ve gone over this before, I try again.

“Remember, honey, Mommy lives in Tennessee now. Daddy lives here in our house in California and Mommy lives in her new house with…Philippe.”

---