Page 21 of Mean Moms
“What are you thinking about?” asked Sofia. The music, plus the copious amount of vodka she’d ingested, was lulling Frost to sleep.
“I’m thinking about how pissed Tim is going to be when I stumble into bed,” said Frost. It wasn’t what she’d been considering at that moment, but it was true.
“It’s not so bad being divorced,” Sofia said now. They were crossing town on Fourteenth Street. The city was still fully awake, with groups of young people roaming the sidewalk, congregating outside of bars. Frost never loved New York more than after midnight. She’d spent so many years in the cover of Manhattan’s darkness, cabbing from club to club, from a penthouse party to a VIPback room. She missed it more than anything, but that was life. Her boys got up at 6:00 a.m.
“Who do you talk to at night?” asked Frost, curious about this aspect of Sofia’s life. She barely ever mentioned her ex, and Frost suspected there was more to the story than a friendly parting. That was the part of divorce that scared Frost the most: loneliness.
“I don’t talk to anyone. It’s perfection,” said Sofia. “I put on the TV, pour a glass of wine, and enjoy the entire couch,” she said.
“That sounds amazing, but I think I’d get sick of it,” said Frost.
“Do you know anyone who’s in a bad marriage?” asked Sofia, digging. “What about Morgan and Art?”
“They’re fine, I think,” said Frost carefully. Why had Sofia led with them?
“Something seems broken about it to me,” said Sofia. Frost shrugged. “Or maybe it’s just that Morgan is so… I don’t know. Fake?”
“I don’t think Morgan is fake,” said Frost. “I’ve known her forever. She’s always been the same. But I do think Belle is kind of sick of Jeff,” she said, offering it up to avoid talking about Art. “But that seems pretty standard for our age.” Neither Morgan nor Belle had answered Frost’s text from earlier in the night, which had been a relief. She hadn’t really wanted to see either.
They’d gone up to Twenty-Third Street and were crossing over Park Avenue, just a couple blocks from Frost’s house. “Is it okay if Jesus drops me off first?” asked Frost. “I’m beat.” Sofia nodded. Frost was starting to sober up; her head was now aching, and she was in desperate need of a large glass of ice water.
“How about you and Tim?” said Sofia gently, placing her hand on Frost’s shoulder. Frost felt her eyes start to water. She tried to think about something else to stop the tears—Ethel’s call, her artwork, her sons—but it was impossible. She’d had just the right amount of alcohol and was with just the right person (a new friend whom she trusted, who’d been through something similar). Frost then collapsed into sobs, burying her head in her own lap, the seat belt pushing into her chest uncomfortably.
“No llores,” said Sofia, rubbing Frost’s back soothingly. They’d pulled in front of Frost’s house, which looked both alluring and foreboding at this hour, with its brick exterior and large, paned windows. Frost finally sat up, wiping the tears and snot that now covered her face.
“Tim and I are great!” she said, and both she and Sofia burst out laughing. “Except for that I’m pretty sure he hates me, and I have no idea what to do about it.”
“I know the feeling,” said Sofia. “I’ll say it again—being divorced is fine. You are strong, you can do it if you must. The boys would be okay. But also, if you love Tim at all, give it a chance. I must tell you, from experience, the grass is not always greener. But love is important.” Frost felt this deeply in her bones.
She hadn’t had an evening like this in forever—drunken, dancing, crying. It felt invigorating. It felt fantastic. Frost gave Sofia a quick hug. “Thank you for paying for everything! Sorry I forgot my card again. Next time’s on me,” Sofia said as Frost jumped out of the car, raced up her steps, into her foyer, and all the way up to her bedroom, looking for Tim. She’d speak to him right now. This very instant. Tell him that if nothing changed, it would be over between them. She didn’t know what she was going to do about Art, but that could come later.
She opened the bedroom door, expecting to find Tim asleep, but instead she saw him sitting up on the bed, his head in his hands. The bedside lamp was on, its soft glow illuminating the room.
“What are you doing awake? What’s going on?” said Frost, instantly completely sober. “Is it one of the boys?” Her voice cracked on “boys.”
Tim shook his head. He reached over to the nightstand for his glasses, placing them on his face and pushing them up his nose. It was a motion that, when they first were dating, Frost had found irresistibly sexy.
“Frost… I”—Tim paused, taking a deep breath—“I’m so sorry for how I’ve been acting recently. I’ve been under such stress about this project, which is going nowhere. I’ve been terrible to you. I love you, Frost. This family is everything to me. I’ll make this right.” He took her hand, and her heart seized. This is what she’d been wanting him to say for months, for nearly a year, but now it felt like it might be too late. Was it too late?
She sat down next to him on the bed. Tim leaned into her, touching the same place on Frost’s neck that Ryan had been caressing just hours ago. Frost felt nauseated, the guilt and vodka rising into her mouth, nearly choking her.
“Oh, Tim,” she said, stroking Tim’s hair, still as thick as it was fifteen years ago, but now with gray creeping up the sides. He pulled her closer to him. She was, against her will, turned on.
“What were you doing out so late?” he said. She didn’t answer. She didn’t know what to say.
“Never mind, it doesn’t matter. I’m going to stop being so controlling. If you want to be with me, you can. If you don’t, I understand.” And then he was crying, even harder than Frost had been crying in the car with Sofia.
He lay down on the bed, facing away from her, and she rubbed his back for what felt like hours, until he took her hand and slipped it over his penis, warm and hard. Then they had sex, Frost enjoying the comfort of her husband’s shape and weight.
Afterward, Tim fell asleep, but Frost, feeling wired, couldn’t. She wanted to tell him about the guy with the hat, to see if the private detective had turned anything up, but she let him rest instead.
By then, the sun was just coming up. Frost crept into the bathroom with her phone and shut and locked the door. She stared at herself in the mirror—her hair was knotted and frizzy, her makeup smudged under her eyes—then sat down on the toilet. She signed into her Gmail using the account she’d created for the purposes of communicating with Art.
I can’t do this, she wrote.Something has changed. I’ll explain later. But it’s over between us. I’m so sorry.
She felt a flood of freedom; a huge weight off her shoulders. She sent a text to her live-in nanny, Flora, who was sleeping downstairs in her room on the basement level.
Can you get the boys to school today? I was out late and need to sleep. Thanks.
