Nobody’s Perfect

Chapter 21

The screwdriver, as it turned out, was not the orange juice and vodka kind but rather the tool for changing doorknobs. Why change the doorknobs? Because then you could also change the locks. Luck was on my side the next morning. Mitch had a few Saturday-morning appointments, which gave us plenty of time to change the locks on the primary bedroom door, Dylan s bedroom door, and the one that led to the upstairs bonus room.

We also moved Mom s things from Dylan s room to the primary bedroom, then all Mitch s things from the primary bedroom to the guest room.

Basically, we wanted Mitch to have only one option for where to sleep and keep his clothing.

For reasons.

We thought about putting shrimp in the curtain rod but decided that was too clich . Besides, I had a bag of potatoes that had just started to turn. We put that bag in the closet of the guest room-on top of an unfolded trash bag because I didn t want rotten potato juice to seep into the carpet and be there forever.

I wasn t a complete monster.

But I did change the Wi-Fi password.

Okay, so I was at least partially a monster.

Let s see, Mom said. What else?

A jigsaw puzzle spread out on each table? I suggested.

Can t be one you actually like, because you know the cat s going to bat the pieces around.

Sure, sure. Oh, and I ve been thinking about taking up the trumpet again.

Mom shuddered. All sixth grade, it sounded like a dying cow lived in your room.

Exactly! Oh, hey! Do you remember that recipe for sauerkraut?

Yes, but I didn t think you liked it, Mom said.

I don t, but Mitch hates the smell of cooked cabbage.

Done. I know what we re having for supper each night this week.

Not bad for a couple of hours work on a Saturday morning, if I did say so myself.

But I felt restless. I think I m going for a run.

Better you than me, Mom said. I ll go to the store and get plenty of cabbage, maybe some sketchy potatoes in case the ones we have don t want to rot in a timely manner.

Thanks, Mom. An odd response to any sentence that included the phrase sketchy potatoes, but such was my new life.

Out the door I went. I ran through the subdivision and down the road, past familiar landmarks. Then my knee almost gave way, so I walked home, shivering a little from the cooler air hitting the sweat I d worked up.

I made it as far as the clubhouse, but I didn t want to go home. Mitch would be arriving there any minute-assuming that he didn t go for a fling with Tabitha first-and I wasn t ready. Between the clubhouse and the pool was a little bower with a swing. That seemed like the perfect place to be, especially since the pool had already closed for the winter. I could sit there by myself and gather my thoughts.

Only, Parker had apparently had the same thought. He sat on one end of the bench, checking his phone. He wore running gear, too. I started to back away, but the movement caught his eye. Don t leave on my account.

What could I do then? The polite thing would be to have a seat beside my neighbor. My very hot-both literally and figuratively-neighbor.

Er, nice running weather today, huh? I couldn t think of what to say, so I fell back on that classic conversation topic: the weather.

Pretty crisp. I m hoping for snow this year.

I snorted, then covered my mouth as if that could turn back time and remove the less-than-ladylike sound. But . . . snow? Here? With the exception of Clusterflake 2014, Georgia wasn t known for snow.

Hey, a man can dream.

The sparkle in his eyes told me he was amused by my snort. I cleared my throat. How s Cassidy doing?

He smiled. Well, thanks to you. She swam a new personal best in the butterfly at swim practice this morning.

Oh, good. I had been hoping she would be able to implement the tampon instructions without any help on my part.

How are you doing? he asked.

I forced a smile. I m fine.

He studied me. I was finally cleaning up the flower beds yesterday. I could hear the yelling.

His admission should ve embarrassed me more than it did. I m sure you ve already figured it out, but my husband is leaving me.

His eyes widened in shock and confusion before he could school his features. Leaving you?

I chuckled, but the sound lacked any true mirth. Yes, and apparently I m just jealous because he can get a younger woman.

He s an idiot.

You re sweet to say that.

He ran a hand through his hair and sat back against the bench. And here I thought you were kicking him out.

Oh, I m trying to now, but he was the one who came up with the idea and served me with papers.

I lost my wife to a car accident, and I don t get these men. Hardly a day goes by . . . His voice trailed off.

Cassidy had said her mother died; she didn t mention how. My stomach clenched in sympathy at the pain that still undergirded his simple statement. Truth be told, I felt a twinge of relief. Surely he couldn t see my attraction to him if he was still thinking about his wife.

I m sorry for your loss, I said.

He smiled. Thank you. It s been six years. The pain has finally dulled around the edges, but it s still there.

We sat in silence for a few minutes because . . . what did one say to that?

There are times when I get mad at her for leaving me, like yesterday, he eventually said. Thank you for stepping in. I know a better father would ve been able to handle the situation without help.

Good parents know when to ask for help.

Our eyes met then, and I could feel a pull of attraction. No, it had to be that he was so handsome, and I so desperately wanted to feel wanted. But it also felt as though he might be able to see all the way to my soul. Of course, he d probably shy away if he knew about the evil machinations behind Operation Get Mitch Out of My House.

Or maybe not. My snort hadn t bothered him.

Vivian, you are still married.

I put my hands on my thighs, willing my sore legs to rise. They didn t. Well, I guess I d better get back to my rat killing.

What?

You know, get back to work. It s an expression.

He laughed. You really are southern!

Don t make me bless your heart again.

You wouldn t dare.

Oh, bless your heart, Parker Ford. You don t know me at all.

His smile faded into a more contemplative expression. No, I don t.

I could feel an unspoken but I would like to , and it warmed me from the inside out. I wanted to know more about this easygoing widower, especially now that I d had a glimpse of some depth beneath those still waters.

Vivian, do you think . . . ?

I waited for the rest of his question, but he shook it off. Instead, he brushed back a tendril of hair that had escaped from my ponytail, his knuckles grazing my cheek.

Well, I really had better go. I jumped up, ignoring the soreness of my legs.

He lightly clasped my hand to keep me from going. I looked down to where our hands met even as electricity ran up my arm. He let my hand go with a mumbled, Sorry about that.

Was he blushing? Had instinct caused him to grab my hand because he didn t want me to go? Even while my husband couldn t get rid of me soon enough?

Once again confusion mixed with attraction. Was I attracted to Parker the man or the idea of being wanted? On a scale of peccadillo to unforgivable, where did I rank if I wanted to sit in this bower with him forever and tell him all the country sayings I d picked up from my grandmother?

Don t be sorry. My lips had apparently decided we were in peccadillo territory, but when Parker looked up, his eyes held grim resolution.

Mind if I walk you back?

Not at all. Walking would give me a chance to think about his blush. Had he been embarrassed about grabbing me, or had he felt the same tingles? Was this divorce driving me out of my mind, or was it perimenopause? Perhaps the answer to the last question was a simple yes.

We made small talk all the way down Oregon Trail and relaxed back into our neighborly relations of before.

When I saw the driveway, I had reason to be excited: Dylan s trusty Altima was parked behind Mom s Lexus.

After saying goodbye to Parker, I picked up my pace and walked into the house to my mother saying, Grandson of mine, it s high time you learned how to wash your own clothes.

I watched, stunned, as she led him to the laundry room and explained the mysteries of separating lights from darks and warned of the folly of ever buying hand wash only.

Oh, hey, Mom, he said as they returned from the laundry room.

Hey, Buddy Bear, I said, opening my arms.

He not only hugged me but also picked me up and spun me around.

Put me down before you hurt your back!

Mom, you re not that heavy.

I m heavy enough, and your back will thank you when you re forty.

He put me down but booped my nose on his way out the door. Gotta get my bag if I m gonna wash these clothes.

Mom stood in the dining room with her arms crossed, entirely too satisfied with herself.

You think I should ve already taught him how to do laundry, don t you.

Sure, she said. But I know why you didn t.

Something about her tone of voice irritated me. Oh? Enlighten me.

Because you like to feel needed, she said.

A jolt of realization hit me: she was right. But so what if I did my son s laundry? It felt good to be needed. And maybe I would ve liked it if she d done my laundry every once in a while. Realistically, I knew she d been working to put a roof over our heads and that laundry was the least I could do, but-

Vivian, he needs to learn not to need you. So let him grow up.

Mom-

An insistent car horn outside interrupted me.

What the heck?

Someone laid on the horn again, so I went back outside to see an older-model red Corvette. How Mitch had driven it with the bow on top, I d never know. Surely that violated several traffic laws.

My son stood frozen by the passenger side of his Altima, the door open and his laundry bag on the driveway beside him.

Before I could ask my husband if he thought his midlife crisis was getting even more out of hand, he said, Dylan! Just the kid I wanted to see.

Is this why you asked me to come home? my son asked, his eyes wary.

I exhaled in disappointment. Part of me had hoped that Dylan had come home because I d asked him to, but now I could see Mitch had summoned him.

This is your new car! Mitch said proudly. You ve been doing so well in school and-

My hands clenched at my sides. A new car? What was that idiot thinking? And where had he gotten the money?

It s my first semester of college, and I currently have a C in English, Dad.

What?

I ll bring up the grade, but I don t know why you re giving me a car.

Son looked down on father with piercing blue eyes, forcing his father to admit he was trying to bribe his way to forgiveness. Mitch chose to go on the defensive. So I get you a new car, and this is the thanks I get?

Dad, you didn t even ask me what I d like. I d have to fold myself like an accordion to get into that car.

You ungrateful-

And I can t help but think you bought it only because you feel guilty for the fact you and Mom are splitting.

Now, Dylan-

And you re hoping I won t be mad at you if you buy me a new car. Well, I m still mad. You can take it back.

Hot shame crawled up the back of my neck. There was a time when I should ve said something similar.

I didn t deserve my son. That much I knew.

Fine. I know someone who will appreciate it, Mitch spat. If that s the thanks I get for spending my Saturday afternoon buying a new car for you.

I think that might be best, Dylan said. His voice was soft, which meant he was truly angry. That was a trait he had inherited from my mother.

Mitch snatched up the bow and crammed it into the passenger seat, slamming the driver s side door before peeling out of the driveway.

Dylan, thank you for that, I said.

He held out a hand. Don t.

That left me in the front yard with my mother. I forced myself to meet her gaze, which was a mistake because those eyes held a lot of sadness.

She broke eye contact first and walked into the house. I followed her and headed straight to the shower, as much to wash away a certain painful memory as to wash away the sweat from my earlier workout.

Try as I might, I couldn t wash away my shame.

The night after my high school play, I d gotten up for a drink of water. Mom was talking on the phone. Best I could tell, she was chewing Daddy a new one for not showing up to see me perform. At one point, Mom said, Stop giving me your damn excuses. You re a selfish man with a surplus of pride, that s what you are. You can hate me all you want, but you need to stop taking it out on your daughter . . . Oh, you re going to make it up to her, are you? How? . . . That s a crazy idea. You can t just throw money at the problem . . . You know what? Fuck you.

Mom slammed down the receiver of the old rotary phone and stalked into the kitchen, her face blanching at the sight of me. I suppose you heard that conversation?

Yeah.

Mom muttered an assortment of curse words, including a repeat of the f-word, which I had never once heard her utter before. She ran a hand through her short hair and then turned to me. I m sorry, Vivian. I m really sorry.

Sorry for what? Sorry for the divorce? For Daddy never being around? For being you ?

She opened her arms. I leaned toward her for a second, but my teenage bravado won out. Instead of stepping into her hug, I headed for the stairs with a bitter, Yeah, Mom. I m sorry, too.

The next day, my father sent me a brand-new cherry-red convertible Mustang as a belated birthday gift. Mom pitched a hissy fit because she would be stuck paying for the insurance. Also, it was a stick shift, and I was still learning to drive on her automatic. Mom wouldn t let me drive my own car for three months until she was sure I d be able to do so without stripping the gears.

I loved that car almost as much as she hated it. I sure as heck hadn t looked my father in the eye-it would ve been difficult to do since he d sent the car rather than delivered it personally-and told him to take it back.

I banged my head against the shower wall.

Why hadn t I at least hugged my mother that night? Now I could see she had been doing her best to protect me, walking that tightrope of trying to get my father to do right without running him down within my earshot.

All these years I ve thought she was on my case, but she was trying to protect me. How did I pay her back? By shamelessly loving the car he bought me and then by rubbing my supposedly perfect marriage in her face.

Shame burned down my throat and pooled in my belly.

How did one even apologize for that? Could one?

My betrayal stood out stark against my son s loyalty.

The cold water of the shower finally forced me out of my thoughts and back into reality.