Page 14 of Lost in Love

Nope. Children under ten are incapable of not asking a million questions. “Can I tell Daddy?” was her first question.

“Daddy knows. But let’s not tell everyone I’m on my period,” I told her, knowing my child and her talkativeness. She can pretty much strike up a conversation with anyone and does so by making eye contact with them. One look at her pretty blue eyes and they are sucked into talking to her. That’s when she spills her secrets. Including telling everyone that day I was ministering. Yes, she meant menstruating, but it totally came out as ministering.

Charlee leans in. “So you didn’t say divorce?”

“No, I said separation.”

Ashlynn’s brow furrows. And there are absolutely no wrinkles. I bet she gets Botox. “Isn’t that the same thing?”

“No, I don’t think so.” I look over at Kate. “Is it?”

She shrugs. “Don’t ask me. I got a divorce thinking my husband would move out and he still lives with me. Clearly, I don’t understand a goddamn thing.”

“So why did you say that then?” Charlee attempts to get me to clarify my jumbled mess of thoughts. “And what did he say?”

I could potentially say so many things here. I could tell them about Mara, and my mother… why we moved, our everyday struggles. Or the fact that I don’t know if our marriage can survive who we’ve become after the death of our daughter. I don’t say any of that and instead, I go with, “We haven’t had sex in a month,” I admit, ashamed and feeling like I’m neglecting my wife duties. Surely, they’d judge me over this, wouldn’t they? It’s not like I ever talked to my friends in Texas about this kind of thing. They’d make me pray if I did.

Charlee giggles, her cheeks red. “Maybe he’s watching porn?”

Ashlynn looks over at me, whispering, “Ninety-eight percent of men have or do watch porn on a regular basis. Sixty-five percent watch daily.”

Kate smiles at Ashlynn. “Says the porn star.”

“Says Google.” Ashlynn blinks rapidly, her lashes getting tangled together and causing her to have to physically separate them. She definitely has lash extensions.

“Yes, because everything on Google is a fact. I’m curious…” Kate reaches out and touches Ashlynn’s eyelashes. “Are those real?”

In the process of trying to touch Ashlynn’s eyelashes, Kate jabs Ashlynn in the eye. She jerks her head back. “They’re extensions.”

Kate waves at us. “It’s been fun, ladies, but I must tend to my fucked-up life and pretend I’m okay with it turning to shit.”

Her comment catches me off guard. You know when you’re feeling sad about your own life, you think to yourself nobody else in the world feels this way? It’s a lie. Everyone is unhappy at one time or another.

We’ve circled back around to Kate’s house where she grabs her empty bottle of wine and tries to get her dog to leave Ashlynn. It’s a battle. I have to physically restrain Sevi, who’s now screaming because the dog left. That wakes up Fin, and then Hazel starts whining about her feet hurting and saying we’ve walked for like, ever.

After a few minutes of struggle, I have Sevi strapped into the stroller again, Fin occupied with my phone, and Hazel on my shoulders. Seriously though, moms should be labeled as superheroes because look at me wrangling three kids without a sweat. Lies. All lies. There’s sweat pooling between my breasts and I’m thinking, by the smell of me, I might have forgotten to put on deodorant.

Charlee disappears into her house, as does Ashlynn, and I’m left with Gretchen. She notices me staring at the garage where my husband is laughing at something Jason just said.

“Just give the poor guy some.” Gretchen nudges me.

“Who?”

I’m met with an eye roll. “Yourhusband.” Just then, Hazel kicks her in the face. “It might help you out too.” She glares at my daughter. “That hurt.”

“Whoopsie” is all Hazel says, then goes back to kicking her legs and basically kicking my tits every time she does it. Instead of telling her to stop, I keep walking. “Hold still. I braid your hair, Mama. It’ll be pretty.”

While I get tit-kicked every two seconds and my hair pulled, I think about what Gretchen meant by that. Might do me some good? Obviously, I’m transparent and they can see I’m really struggling.

“Are you happy?” she finally asks.

“Ish.”

“What?”

“I’m happy-ish. I want to… you know… but after everything I have to do in a day, I’m so tired.” I draw in a deep breath remembering I still have dishes to do and lunches to prepare for tomorrow. And a baby to give a bath to. “I doubt anything will happen tonight anyway.” I motion toward the garage we’re slowly approaching. “He’s drunk.”

“You know… a bad sleep is a sign of a bad relationship,” Gretchen notes.

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