Shit. I was failing at everything.
CHAPTER 4
LILLIAN
My husband cut his meat with the slow speed and precision of a surgeon. Placing his fork, prongs down, on his plate, he picked up his napkin and smoothed it across his lap, then reached for his glass of red wine. “Jacob? How was school?”
“Fine.” Our son slouched in his seat, his purple prep school polo crooked on his large frame. He poked at the small breast on his plate with suspicion.
Mike glanced at me. I tried to see if there was a hint of unhappiness in his dark brown eyes. He gave me a kind smile and I sighed, useless at reading him.
“What about French class?” I tried to at least help lift the load.
“Fine. Whatisthis?” Jacob used his fingers to pinch off a piece of the meat.
“It’s chicken,” I lied. Jacob’s increasing pickiness was rejecting everything as of late. “The other kids in French, they’re good?” I pressed, and tried not to think about Heather’s mention of Santa Barbara and what orwhomy husband was doing there for three days. Three days. Someone could fall in love during that time. Plan a divorce. Impregnate a woman. Interview for jobs.
“Yeah, Mom. They’re fine. And we aren’t kids. Some of them are already eighteen.” He put the piece of duck in his mouth and tentatively chewed. “This doesn’t taste like chicken.”
“Eat it,” Mike ordered.
“I just want to make sure,” I said quickly, “because we can’t change your schedule again. Not with the semester—”
“I’m not going to have any issues with anyone in French,” Jacob said dryly. “No one will come near me, so you don’t have to worry about it.”
Mike’s and my gazes connected again, and I was reassured by the protective look that passed between us. He might be distant, but Jacob would always be our priority, and Mike wouldn’t disrupt his family. I believed that—I had to believe that.
Mike picked up his fork and pierced a wedge of potato. “That’ll pass, Jacob. It just takes time.”
“Whatever.” He pushed his plate away. “This is lamb, isn’t it?”
“It’s duck,” I said, annoyed. “You’ve liked it before.”
“Well, I don’t now.”
I forced myself to take a deep breath and waited for Mike to interject, but his attention was on his phone, which had buzzed with a notification.
“I’m going to my room.” Jacob pushed away from the table and grabbed his plate and dirty silverware. “Thanks for cooking, Mom.”
I watched as he carried the items into the kitchen and dropped them with a loud clatter beside the sink. A few years ago, we could have ordered him to stay at the table, but now, the chances of being ignored outweighed the chances of being obeyed. As a parent, you could lose only so many arguments before you lost them all.
The school had learned that lesson with Jacob the hard way, with him and another kid ending up in the principal’s office with blood and bruises. If it hadn’t been for a sizable donation in his name, Jacob would have been expelled. If the kids were ignoring him in French, maybe thatwas a good thing. In high school, being ignored was a thousand times better than being focused on—at least it had been for me, an acne-ridden girl with a stutter.
Jacob’s steps pounded up the stairs and I sighed, pushing my own plate away. “I don’t know how to handle him.”
Mike finished chewing, then wiped his mouth with one of the blue linen napkins we used for everyday meals. “He’s seventeen. He’s dealing with hormones and high school. When I was that age, I was either trying to screw or fight anyone that spoke to me.”
Normally I would have smiled at the comment, so I did my best, my lips stretching painfully as I picked up a wineglass and hid behind it. “You did not. You probably made a pros-and-cons list first.”
He shrugged. “Maybe in my head.”
I folded my napkin in half, then in half again. Underneath the table, my socked foot jiggled against the wood floor. I was itching to get into the office, to finish the outstanding obituaries on my docket. This afternoon, two new orders had come in, both with tight turnarounds.
But jumping straight into work would break one of my husband’s unwritten rules. Postdinner, he expected the dishes to be washed immediately, then loaded into the dishwasher for an extra sanitary cycle. The leftovers would be transferred into the Pyrex cubes that neatly stacked our fridge. Scraps would go into the food disposal, recycling into the bag, trash into the compactor. It would be an hour before I could escape to the more exciting life of someone else. Someone whose spouse had probably been loyal.
“Dinner was delicious.” Mike took a long sip, finishing off his glass. He would restrict himself to one, while I ... I would quietly finish off the bottle during the cleanup. “Thanks for cooking.”
I could see the next line coming, like a closed-captioned reel that was ahead on its timing.