Second Honeymoon. Laura Abbot
two of them.
He slung his suit jacket and tie over the kitchen bar stool, grabbed a beer from the fridge and plopped down on the family-room sofa, foraging under the cushions for the TV remote. Tuning into the replay of a golf tournament, he took a swig of beer and rested his head against the sofa back. He felt burdened by challenges on all sides. The Atkisson project had hit a huge snag, John Miller’s sudden resignation had left the firm perilously shorthanded and there was the unsettlingly provocative behavior of his colleague Brenda Sampson. On the home front, he and Meg couldn’t have a simple conversation without its deteriorating into an argument. The subject didn’t matter. Child-rearing practices, social obligations, current events, the household budget. The list of triggers was never-ending.
Hoisting his beer, he watched Phil Mickelson sink a putt, then chugged half the can. As for sex? What was that? Either he was too tired, Meg was too tired or one of them was angry with the other. Would a cruise change that? Or would it just put a further dent in their savings? A romantic getaway was idle speculation, anyway, because he couldn’t afford to take time off from the advertising agency he and his partner, Wes Williams, had built from small capital and big dreams.
Meg needed to get a grip. His eyes swept across their expensive furnishings and decorative accessories. Did she think the good fairy made all of this possible? Just once he’d like a little appreciation.
Over the sound of the golf commentator, he heard a car door slam, followed by the front door opening. “I’m home,” his fifteen-year-old daughter, Hayley, shouted.
“In here,” Scott said.
“Where’s Mom?” Hayley looked around the room.
Who was he? A giant dust bunny?
“She’s at your brother’s school open house.”
“Ha! I can’t wait to hear what the teachers said about dork boy.”
“Is that any way to talk about your brother?”
She flopped in the armchair, her low-rise jeans revealing an expanse of bare flesh that caused him to gnash his teeth. She and all her friends made themselves fair game for every horny punk in the county. How often had he heard, Chill out, Dad, it’s the style?
“He needs to get a clue. Sports are all he’s got going for him. It’s sure not his grades.”
Scott tried to conceal his disappointment, but he had to acknowledge Hayley was right. His son wasn’t much of a student. Still, boys often lagged behind academically, or so he’d been told. “Hey, why don’t you try looking on the bright side for a change?”
Tugging on her thick, dark French braid, she gave a wry grin. “There is one?”
Sibling rivalry. Some things never changed. “Of course. Without Justin, you’d be an only child.”
“I wish!”
Scott decided to ignore that response. “Where have you been?”
“Cheerleading practice, then at Jill’s for supper.”
“Where’s your homework?”
“I finished it at school.”
He didn’t know whether to believe her, but until her grades dropped, he’d have to trust her. Lately she’d become more uncommunicative. Typical teenager behavior? Or something more?
She stood, her navel exposed in all its questionable glory. “Gotta call Jill. See you later.” She took the stairs to her room two at a time.
He shook his head. Why would she have to call Jill? She’d just been with her. A few seconds later, his tranquility was shattered by the reverberations of music—or what passed for it—blasting from Hayley’s CD player.
The half hour chimed on the hallway grandfather clock. Nine-thirty. Meg should be home soon. Would she be accusatory or icily stony?
Did it matter? They’d already discussed the S word. Separation. He didn’t know what had happened to the connection they used to have, the dreams they’d shared. They’d been so good together, once. There’d been a time when he couldn’t wait to get home from work. Now? They were hardly more than a habit to each other. And not a particularly pleasant one, either.
He missed their old closeness, but couldn’t begin to put his finger on when things had started to go south. The kids were the glue that kept them together. But at what cost?
Although he’d never imagined it would come to this, he had to admit the prospect of some time apart held a certain appeal.
But it was a big step. Maybe an irreversible one.
The whir of the garage-door opener soured his stomach. He knew that no apology, regardless of how sincere, would suffice. Meg would come in poised to take the offensive.
SCOTT IGNORED Meg’s withering gaze and went straight to his son, clapping an arm around his shoulders. “Hey, buddy, sorry I couldn’t be there tonight. How’d it go?”
Justin stiffened. “Good.”
Scott winced. Increasingly, Justin limited his responses to monosyllables. “Were you nervous?”
“Come on, Dad, everybody knows the Pledge. It was no big deal.”
Scott wanted to disagree. Justin needed as much affirmation as he could get. The big deal was being selected in the first place. “It was to me. I’m proud of you, son.”
Justin wriggled out of his embrace and grabbed a bag of chips from the pantry. Scott strained to hear his muttered words, which sounded ominously like “If you’re so proud, why weren’t you there?”
Meg shot him a scathing look as if echoing their son’s question, then picked up the phone and turned her back on him. Justin carried the chips into the family room, where he collapsed on the sofa, gangly legs splayed. Scott stood in the middle of the kitchen, abandoned. Persona non grata in his own home. Meg’s falsely cheerful voice rang in his ears as she called a list of soccer parents to inform them of a change of playing field.
Scott’s stomach growled, and he moved to the refrigerator, rummaging for cold cuts. He’d skipped dinner and was suddenly ravenous. He slathered two pieces of bread with honey mustard, unearthed a limp leaf of lettuce and a single slice of Swiss cheese and slapped the sandwich together. Meg glanced up, her brow furrowed, and mouthed, “I could’ve done that.” Wonderful. Now, on top of everything else, he had to feel guilty for making his own dinner.
He grabbed another beer and took his meal into the family room where he settled in his recliner, aware of the jarring sounds of both his son’s action movie and Hayley’s stereo. Chewing the sandwich, he thought about asking whether Justin had any homework, but why add to his troubles? Justin would be resentful and Meg irritated that he didn’t trust her to oversee their son.
Meg carried the phone with her as she paced back and forth in the kitchen, unloading the dishwasher. Between her chirpy voice and the clang of silverware, he longed for his earlier solitude.
He’d just finished his sandwich when Meg entered the room, phone held between her chin and shoulder, and stood behind the sofa. “Justin, did you finish the notes for your oral book report?”
He stared at the TV. “Yeah.”
She gave her son a you-better-be-telling-the-truth glance before strolling back to the kitchen. “I know, I know,” she clucked, “that coach just seems to have it in for our boys.”
Scott rolled his eyes. Women micromanaging sports. It didn’t seem right. Scott faced Justin. “What book did you read?”
“Huh?”
“For your book report.”
“I dunno. Everybody’s reading different books. Mine’s something about a dog.”
Before he could inquire further, Hayley came pounding down the stairs. “Mo-om, you’ve gotta help me.”