Page 19 of The Best Men
I wake up a new man. While the sky is still dark, I shower—cold, of course—and get dressed for the flight in a gray polo and khaki shorts.
I dry off my hair, hang up the towel, and then head to my bedroom to zip up my suitcase. The task is complicated by the orange fluff ball in it, staring at me with one eye. I could have named him Orange Beard, but that’s not a thing. So Blackbeard it is for my orange cat. “You can’t come with me, dude. Plus, the belly of a plane is no fun for a mammal,” I say, lugging him out of my carry-on.
He protests with a beleaguered meow, clearly annoyed that I disrupted his travel plans.
“The kitty wants to go to Florida,” Rosie declares from the hall then bounds into the bedroom to scoop up the creature from the floor and pepper him with kisses. “Valencia will take good care of you,” she says, then sets him down.
We head to the tiny kitchen that’s about the size of a broom closet. “Only three more days before I get to go to Florida too,” Rosie says, then yanks open the fridge and grabs a yogurt.
“Lucky you,” I say, as I grab one too, still wishing I didn’t have to head to Miami so early.
But hey, I can do this. My new Zen outlook means I won’t be bedeviled by 6B, or 7C, or 9D, and definitely not sixty-nine.
As Rosie dips a spoon into her yogurt, she says, “Do you know what I like most about yogurt?”
“That it’s not eggs?” I ask drily, lifting one brow.
“Yes! Yolks are so gross, Daddy,” she says, and I offer her a hand to high five.
“That is proof you’re my kid. Forget the numbers stuff. Detesting eggs is evidence of the power of genetics.”
Once we finish, my phone bleats with Bridget’s ringtone. So it begins.
You’ll get through this, Banks. You made it through English lit class, too.
When I answer, Bridget’s weirdly cheerful voice sing-songs, “Hey Mark! I’m here for the little cutie.” As if trading our kid back and forth like a tennis ball is just a super-fun time.
Her upbeat attitude grates on me. Her lifeisa super-fun time, I guess. She has a new man, Morgan, and a new apartment that’s nicer than the one we shared in this building, before I moved to another unit.
Whenever she shows up, I gird my loins and smile, so I don’t poison our child with my bitter attitude.
“We’ll be downstairs in three minutes, Bridge,” I say, as I check the time. God, I hate saying goodbye to my baby girl. Every single time, it sucks.
I end the call, scratch Blackbeard behind the ears, then grab our bags, and hold Rosie’s hand as we head down two flights of stairs. Outside it’s a warm June morning on our tree-lined block. Even though my rent bill here in the Flatiron District makes my eyes bleed despite my decent Wall Street salary, I can’t imagine living anywhere else in the city. I can walk Rosie to school a few blocks away, and that’s one of my favorite things to do.
With a squeeze of her little hand in mine, I remind her that I’ll call her every night.
“You better! Eight forty-five on the dot. That’ll be thirteen hours and fifty-five minutes from now,” she says.
“Show-off,” I say with a laugh, ruffling her hair as we reach my ex-wife.
Bridget tucks her chestnut strands behind her ears. “Hi Mark. Looks like you’re ready to get a suntan and relax on the beach.”
That’snotwhat I’ll be doing, but I don’t bother to correct her.
I’m civil to Bridget. I don’t look forward to seeing her, though. Not because I’m heartbroken. I’m not. Our marriage grew lackluster over the last few years. But I did what was expected of me. I got the highest paying job I could find, and I stuck it out.
She didn’t, though. And I’m angry. I’ll always be angry.
Even if we didn’t marryforlove, Ididlove her. We married because it was the right thing to do once she was pregnant. I stayed with her because loyalty matters. You should do what you say you’re going to do.
Like show up on time.
As Bridget takes Rosie’s hand, a sleek black town car pulls over to the curb. The hair on the back of my neck prickles. Before anyone opens the door, I know, I just know, that it’s Asher. He said he’d grab a Lyft and swing by, but of course he can’t just arrive in a white Nissan from a ride-share app. He has to do everything with style. My jaw ticks while my pulse spikes. Because even though it kind of irritates me, I also kind of like the town car.
Story of my life with him.
The back door swings open, and Asher unfolds himself from the car, and . . .fuck me.
