Page 13 of Love Complicated

If there were ever two extremely opposite identical twins, it’s these two. They never agree on anything, aside from sticking up for one another and sleeping in the same bedroom. Ever since they were babies, you can’t separate them at night. They have to be in the same room, and even if they are separated, they find each other in the middle of the night like two lost souls. It’s adorable.

Just as we get to the front door, their friends see them and yell for them to follow them. And just like that, with a quick hug, an “I love you, mom” yelled over their shoulders, they’re gone with their friends. No kisses even.

While it sucks I didn’t get the same needy please-don’t-let-me-go hug I did last year, I get why they took off so quickly. Hello, they’re second graders now!

Do you notice the way they didn’t say anything to Austin? Or Brie?

Ha. Take that wannabe mommy!

You know, it probably isn’t that she wants to be their mom. Brie never wanted kids. She wanted my husband.

Austin nudges my arm with his. “I have their bags in my Jeep.” And then he starts walking away while I stand there staring at the boys until the door closes behind them. Then and only then, will I walk away from them at school.

I don’t make eye contact with Brie as I walk to the Jeep. Not once. As far as I’m concerned, she doesn’t exist. I’m reaching for the bags in the back when her cell phone rings.

She answers and Austin hands me the boys’ pillows. We don’t make eye contact either. I’d rather not ever make eye contact with him again.

You’re probably wondering why they don’t have pillows where Austin’s staying, aren’t you? Well, they’re particular about their pillows. That’s a conversation for another day.

I take the pillows to my van, then go back for their bags about the time Brie is all angry-faced and pink-cheeked. “What do you mean someone took a bat to my car?”

I grab the rest of their stuff and twist around quickly, trying to contain my knowing smirk I can’t seem to hide.

Before I can get away, Austin clears his throat. “I have them in two weeks then?”

He never remembers the parenting agreement. He’s supposed to have them every other weekend and once during the week. Half the time on his weekday, he forgets or says he’s working late. I don’t buy it. He forgets I can still track his phone throughFind My Friends.

Stupid idiot never turned it off.

“What about Wednesday? You’re supposed to have them. . .” I give him the resting bitch face. “Or did you forget. . . like you forgot you were married?”

Like how I added the last part? I’m resentful. Remember that girl I said I was this morning? The refreshed and recharged one? Apparently, she’s long gone.

Austin draws in a deep breath. “Christ, do we have to do this every time we see each other?”

Brie’s watching us, well, Austin, and it’s kind of fun for me because I know what she’s doing. She wants to see if there’s any emotion left. She’s analyzing every look he gives me because while she had the upper hand when we were married, now that we’re separated, she’s constantly worried he might want me back.

Guess what? I kicked him out. He wanted to stay married after I found out he was cheating on me. Said we should work it out for the kids. This isn’tSister Wives. And here’s something else. I’m a mother of boys and if I “work it out” for the kids, what is that telling them? That I stayed with a man who treated their mother like shit? That cheating on your wife is okay?

I don’t think so. Though I never wanted them growing up in a “broken home,” the idea of them seeing me as a weak mother was far more demeaning to me.

Now take a look at my face as I stand before Austin. Do you notice the way my cheeks are tinted pink and my lips are flat? Do you think I’m pleased with his question?

If you answered no, you’re right. I’m actually pissed off because how dare he? I don’t argue with him every time. Last Wednesday I didn’t say a damn word to him, and I can easily turn this around on him. But I don’t. Instead, I fake smile and tell him, “I’m late.”

That certainly seems to be my answer for everything today.

I’m not late. I don’t have a job, but I’m late for my Monday morning grocery shopping.

“Yeah, right. Late for grocery shopping,” he mumbles. “God forbid you get off schedule.”

I point my finger right in his face and drop Grady’s football in the process. “Don’t start with me. Just because I like to have a schedule doesn’t mean I have to explain it to you anymore. We’re getting a divorce, remember?”

I may have said that a little louder than necessary because do you notice all the questioning stares coming my way from the moms in the parking lot?

I do. I can feel their judgmental eyes wanting to pop out of their sockets because I yelled at Austin Jacob, their dream guy. Believe me, I don’t think Brie is the first one to test out my husband. Eh, sorry, almost ex-husband. If I asked any one of these wine-drinking Zumba-CrossFit-soy-latte moms if they thought I should stay with Austin, they’d tell me I was crazy for letting him go.

Yeah, well, they willingly toss themselves on the ground to do burpees for fun, so what the hell do they know?

And I’ll admit it, this schedule thing may be a fault of mine. I like schedules. Most mothers do. I stick to them because they work for me. And if something gets in the way, like actually anything, I get upset if my schedule or the boys is altered in any way. Obsessive compulsive? Maybe a little.

Austin leans in, and I’m tempted to grab his tie too. Maybe choke him. “How can I forget we’re getting a divorce, Alyson?”

“Well.” I pause and snicker because I think I’m funny. “Your cock couldn’t remember you were married, so I’m assuming you’re a little forgetful at times.”

And this my friends causes him to spin on his heel and leave. At least I accomplished something good this morning. Pissing Austin off.

I wave to Brie, who’s staring at me. “Hope there wasn’t too much damage to your car, yalying whore.”

Mother of the year right here. Mother of the fucking year.