Page 22 of Good Days Bad Days
As I remove them, my phone buzzes on the bathroom counter. In my gut I know who it is before I even look. The name Ian McFadden stares up at me, confirming my suspicions.
It’s been weeks since I’ve responded to his pleading texts other than essential confirmations of safety. When I found those Instagram messages, when I confronted him and he tearfully confessed, he swore it was a mistake, that it was an isolated incident, that he never, repeat, never met the woman in person, or any others for that matter. I tried to believe him. I wanted to give him some space to be human, to make a mistake, but then the questions started to build in my mind.
What if he’s lying? What if he’s making a fool of me? What if he’s telling another woman he loves her? What if he’s pretending to love me because of the show, the image, the fame? What if ...
Damn it. Today was already hard enough with Mom’s supposed “good day” that turned my day into a depressing fog. I finish lining my lips and applying a nude gloss with flecks of gold that match my eyeshadow. Then, I shove all my makeup back into the large zippered travel bag. There are so many what-ifs, and I’m too exhausted to dig into every single one. When I asked for a separation to think it all through, Ian reluctantly agreed, saying he’d do anything necessary. And then I left for the airport.
I think he thought I’d be gone for a weekend, possibly a week, but I’m not ready to go home and face the unsolved questions.Second Chance Renovationis on a filming break, Olivia is thriving at Stanford, and the boys are in school and well taken care of by Ian and Layla, their regular babysitter, and they spend every other week at their mom’s house.
I’m “only” the stepmom, but I love the twins like they’re my own. When I travel, we try to FaceTime as often as possible. Some days, the ten-year-olds are bubbling with stories, questions, or requests, and other days they want me to sit on the phone while they play a video game and narrate. But no matter what, our calls help us stay connected.
Some people might call me a bad parent or wife for not always being at home with after-school snacks. They did when Olivia was little; God, even her father accused me of being too career focused—but no one says a CEO dad is neglectful or selfish for spending two weeks in Japan to work out a merger. I work, then I’m home, then I work again, and then I come home. I always come home, and when I’m home—I’m home. I’m really home—I’m “read to the boys in bed” home. I’m “let’s go to the pool” home. I’m “I love you no matter what” home.
So now I’m gone for not-work. I’m gone for family reasons, personal reasons, broken-heart reasons. And I don’t know when I’ll be ready to go back. The inspector gave us a month to show some progress. “It doesn’t have to be perfect, but we need to see some good faith effort,” said the man with the clipboard, wearing a neatly tucked polo shirt and the hard hat I’d longed for when I first walked through the house.
I don’t need his report to know my parents’ house is potentially irreparable. And I don’t need a social worker to tell me my relationship with my parents is perhaps in even worse condition. But I’d rather work on these nearly hopeless situations than even consider what’s next with Ian. That being said, I can’t avoid him forever. My parents’ house is a perfect example of what happens when avoidance is taken to the extreme.
As I wipe down the counter and retrieve the cheap pair of snow boots from the box on the bed, the phone buzzes again, reminding me of Ian’s text. I could’ve turned off Ian’s notifications a long time ago, but I didn’t. I think I need them. I need to know he cares enough to continue to reach out. I take a deep breath, pick up the phone, and read his long message.
Ian:I hope you had a productive day. You’ve been on my mind tons. Let me know if I can help you with anything out there. I don’t want to drive you crazy with my calls but please know I’d love to hear your voice. I love you.
Tears rise in my eyes and I reread his message three or four times. An unexpected urge to call him swells inside of me. I check my watch. I’m supposed to meet Lacey at Thumbs Up in fifteen minutes. It’s freezing outside, but I’ve decided to walk, hoping the steps will clear out some of my pent-up emotions so I can actually have fun.
I could call Ian on the way. We could talk, and now that we’re at a safe distance, I could let him in. He could build up trust, and maybe I could remember what it was like when we first started dating in secret after meeting on set, both single parents trying to figure out the modern world of dating.
My finger trembles as it hovers over his name, his smiling contact picture tempting me to hit the call button.
I can’t.
Not yet. Letting Ian in so soon after taking my big stand and asking for time away would make me a pushover, like I’m telling him he can mess around behind my back. I’d be one of those wives who looks the other way to preserve the marriage. But I miss my husband. I miss the security of our relationship, the stability of our family life, and the comfort of the safe space I thought we’d created together.
A long time ago, on the frozen lake behind the house on Lake Shore Drive, I learned not to trust cracked ice. You don’t walk on the broken surface expecting it’ll be fine. Death lies only a few inches beneath you—cold, heart-stopping death. It requires inspection, it demands caution one step at a time, and I’m not going to rush out onto cracked ice and fall through when I know better.
The first step is not a call—it’s a text. I type a simple response.
Charlie:Long day. Meeting friends for drinks. Tell the boys I love them.
I hit send, and bubbles representing Ian’s typing almost immediately appear on the screen. I watch, a tickling excitement matching the pace of the gyrating bubbles.
Ian:Hey! That’s great. Anyone I know?
Ian doesn’t know any of my childhood friends. Gosh, I barely know them. I don’t answer, but I don’t put my phone away. Pulling on my boots and coat, I watch as one more message comes through.
Ian:And the boys say I love you, too.
I heart his last response and then mute my phone, slipping it in my purse. I’m not ready for a back-and-forth. I took one step, one dangerous, frightening step. That’s all I can afford for tonight.
Before pulling on my gloves, I stare at the ring and the hairs caught in the loose prong. Then, I slip it off and place it on the marble kitchen countertop just across from the photograph of my mother in her wedding dress held to the door of the refrigerator with a magnet. Young Betty in her gorgeous lacy gown and cathedral-length veil stares at it judgmentally, but I don’t put the ring back on. I won’t let her shame me. It’s not like her nearly fifty-year marriage is without flaws. I turn my back, slip on my gloves, and walk out the door. I need to spend one night away from all ... this.
The short walk to Thumbs Up, or Thumbs, as the locals always call it, is a cold and uneventful mile. As I hoped, the fresh air pinching my cheeks and cooling my lungs is invigorating. I’m early when I turn on Broad Street, the thump of bass leaking into the street from the glass bar door. The facade of the bar is styled like an Old West saloon, including the carved wooden sign that reads “Thumbs Up” in large saloon typeface and below it in smaller lettering—“A Drinking and Dancing Establishment.”
Thumbs has been here since I can remember, a few blocks away from Dad’s shop. I’ve been inside only once—when my friend Stacey Sherman crashed her bike outside and skinned her knee so badly she couldn’t walk home and I ran inside to ask for help.
I remember that cigarette smoke hung in the air and I recognized a few vaguely familiar faces sitting at a spot along the bar. One of them kindly called Stacey’s mom to come get us.
Stepping inside Thumbs today, it looks both different and the same. No more cigarette smoke, though the air still seems cloudy. The originalwooden bar is there, but the rest of the room has been renovated, with video games, gambling, and a pool table. But the biggest change is the patrons. Instead of older men with mustaches drinking steins of Miller Light, the place is packed with kids—well, not kids, but young people closer to Olivia’s age than mine.
The men are in loungewear and silk smoking jackets or bathrobes, and the women are dressed in tight corsets, bunny ears, tights, and heels like the Playboy Bunnies in the grainy photographs on the wall.
