Page 143 of The Best Men
I click through November. “Thanksgiving is no good because there’s an awards ceremony I’m supposed to attend. I could cancel? But Veteran’s Day is a real possibility.”
When I look up, Mark seems more hesitant than I’d hoped he would. “Wow, November...” He sighs.
“I know.”
He drops his gaze to his phone again. “Maybe I could come just for an ordinary weekend? The risk is getting delayed, though, and not showing up for work on Monday.”
“Well, a five-thirty flight after work on Friday gets you to Paris early in the morning on Saturday. So you’d get all of Saturday and most of Sunday.”
“Right,” he says.
But the paucity of that timing sits heavily between us. A transatlantic flight for a day and a half of togetherness. Fuck.
“Okay.” He reaches a hand across the sofa cushion and squeezes my thigh muscle. “November for sure. And hopefully another weekend before then.”
That’s when the door buzzer rings. “That will be Rosie.” Mark lets go of me and heads to the vestibule.
A moment later, his kiddo comes tearing through the apartment, followed slowly by Bridget. “Hi,” she says to Mark, her tone curt. Then she spots me and does an actual double take. She notes my weekend bag at my feet, and her mouth forms a straight line.
An awkward silence hangs between Mark and Bridget.
But Rosie doesn’t notice. “Asher! Hi! You’re here.”
“Hey, girl.” I hold up a palm for a high five as her parents head to the kitchen. “How was your weekend?”
“Fine,” she says, slapping my hand. “We went to the zoo in Central Park, but the line was too long for the penguins.”
“Bummer. Who did you see instead?”
“There are these super-creepy bats, like a foot long . . .” She holds her hands twice that far apart. “They hang upside down from the ceiling of the tropical room! And sometimes they fold and unfold their wings in their sleep.”
She mimes a gesture like Dracula opening and closing his cape, and I crack up. “Wow. But how do they poop if they’re upside down?”
She frowns deeply. “I don’t know. They don’t poop onthemselves, right? Gross.”
“Gross,” I agree.
We both get distracted, though, by the muffled arguing coming from the kitchen.
“That is not what happened,” Mark’s voice says. “If you want to stay mad at me for something you did because you wanted to go to a baby shower, that’s on you.”
I look away from the kitchen door, as if I could silence them by ignoring them.
“Mommy is mad at Daddy,” Rosie says in a low voice. “I don’t like it when they yell.”
“All parents yell sometimes,” I point out. “Then they stop.”
She doesn’t seem convinced.
“You want to see a video on my phone? It shows a bunch of times that animals ran onto football fields in the middle of a game, and none of the players knew what to do.”
She perks up. “What kind of animals?”
“All kinds.” I open YouTube. “The bull is my favorite. I was there for that one. But the dogs are pretty funny too.”
She moves closer to me on the sofa until her little body is tucked right up next to mine. So I pressplayand then put an arm around her so we can both see the screen. We watch a bunch of athletes run around like nutters after various panting dogs. And the silly music drowns out the sound of her parents arguing in the next room about schedules.
But better schedules than . . . lifestyle choices.
