Page 17

Marty

It’s a busy but somewhat lazy day.

My kids are energetic, but they also like to chill.

We played in the pool for a while, and then they were content to sit at the outdoor table and have a snack. Bradley fell asleep so I took him upstairs, which gave us all a break since he’s the one who requires the most supervision. Martin is happy to splash and play on the steps of the pool by himself, and Emma doesn’t mind floating in her big pink tube, kicking her legs and playing with her doll.

Stevie spent an equal amount of time with each child, making sure not to let Emma dominate her time.

The two of them are adorable, and I love watching them together.

Brenna’s a good mom—she takes care of them—but she doesn’t always seem to like them. I used to sense her impatience, her frustration, and wonder why. It wasn’t like she didn’t have help. I always made sure of that. Somehow, it just wasn’t enough.

Hell, nothing was ever enough.

Apparently, I wasn’t enough either.

When she first left, that grated on my ego.

Now I’m more pragmatic about it—it was her choice to cheat, her choice not to tell me what she needed. I take full responsibility for not noticing how unhappy she was, but I can’t help that she refused to talk to me. I tried.

Didn’t I?

Gazing over at where Stevie is now sprawled on a lounge chair, hat and sunglasses protecting her face and Emma tucked against her side, I vow that I won’t make that mistake again. Not with Stevie.

If she gives me a chance, I hope I can be better at communicating, making sure she’s happy. Putting her needs before my own. That’s just the kind of guy I am. Or the kind of man I thought I was. I probably do better in theory than in practice, but that’s the entire reason I plan to do better in my next relationship.

Maybe I’m a romantic, but I’m not a one-night stand kind of guy, even when I tried. And Stevie has always struck me as the kind of woman who needs love, affection, and someone who’ll take care of her. She doesn’t need money—it’s about time and mindfulness. Now that I know her better, she’s even more fragile than I originally thought, and I’m still reeling a little from the story she told me about her ex.

That son of a bitch better never get out of jail because I’ll end him if I get my hands on him.

I’m generally not a violent person, but hearing what he did makes me want to hurt him.

Why would he throw the woman carrying his child off the second floor of their home? Even if he thought she was leaving him, that’s not the way to convince her to stay. Not in my book anyway.

I’m definitely not a relationship expert, but violence isn’t the answer.

And how do you do that to a woman carrying your child? I couldn’t hit Brenna when I found out she was fucking Philippe, much less when she was pregnant. It’s mind-boggling to me.

“Dinner’s ready,” Mom says, coming out of the kitchen. “Marty, if you go wake Bradley up, I’ll take care of the other two.”

“I’ve got Emma,” Stevie says, sitting up and gently jostling Emma awake.

“Perfect. It’s nice when there’s three of us.” Patty laughs.

That’s for sure. Even when there’s two of us.

It’s much harder when you do it alone. I’ve learned that firsthand.

I go get Bradley out of his crib, and he gives me a sleepy smile. He’s warm and soft as I bring him against my chest, and he sighs happily.

“Da-da.”

Hearing that simple word warms me all over.

I really fucking love my kids and can’t imagine only seeing them every few months. I don’t know what’s going to happen, but I absolutely can’t lose physical custody. I just can’t.

“Did you have a good nap?” I ask as we walk down the stairs.

“Sleepies!” he says enthusiastically.

My mother has everything set up on the table in the breakfast nook, Emma’s in her highchair, Martin in his booster seat, and Stevie is serving the kids while Mom finishes putting together the Caesar salad.

The kids chatter all through the meal, and Stevie seems right at home, ever patient with Martin’s non-stop questions and Emma’s clinginess. Bradley just babbles—usually nonsensically unless he wants something—so we do our best to encourage him to use real words without making him feel bad.

“We’re going to get in the bath after dinner,” I tell the kids. “Then we’ll watch one show, read a book, and bedtime.”

“Are we calling Mommy tonight?” Martin asks, his little face suddenly shrouded.

“Of course.” I nod.

She’d been out last night and hadn’t answered the phone, and my mother told me how disappointed they were.

“When is Mommy coming home?” Emma asks suddenly, her face scrunched in confusion.

I sigh.

This is the hard part.

How do you explain to kids this young about divorce? Moving across the country? Having new partners and such? It’s almost impossible. And though we’ve gone over this before, I try again.

“Remember, honey, Mommy lives in Tennessee now. Daddy lives here in our house in California and Mommy lives in her new house with…Philippe.”

“Philippe is stupid,” Martin mutters.

That makes me want to laugh, but I can’t do anything that might get back to Brenna, so I play it cool. “What makes you say that, buddy?” I ask gently.

“He yells a lot,” Martin says. “And he told Mommy we were his big problem.”

I try not to react even though I’m furious.

Phil was always a dick.

Long before he slept with my wife.

This is one of many reasons I want custody of my kids.

“Sometimes grown-ups yell because they’re tired,” Stevie interjects softly when she sees me struggling to come up with a response. “I’m sure he doesn’t mean to.”

“He yells a lot ,” Emma says, nodding. “Especially when Martin knocks his stuff over or touches his hockey sticks.” She rolls her eyes. “He doesn’t like anyone touching his hockey stuff.”

I grunt, squeezing my fist beneath the table.

It’s been such a good day up until this point.

I love spending time with Stevie, and she doesn’t seem to mind my kids, but this just pisses me off. They rarely talk about their life in Tennessee, but I figured they’re just young and innocent.

Now it seems there’s another reason.

“Does Mommy yell too?” Mom asks nonchalantly, like it’s no big deal.

Martin nods, since his mouth is full. “But not as much,” he says once he swallows.

“Mommy and Phil yell at each other,” Emma adds. “And then Bradley cries.”

“Well, I’ll try not to yell,” I say quietly. “Even if you’re naughty.”

“I’m never naughty.” Emma giggles.

“Yes, you are!” Martin yells.

“Burdle-urps-fucky.” Bradley’s contribution makes us all chuckle, easing the tension.

I’m frustrated, though.

I don’t like the idea that Phil yells at my kids. He and Brenna aren’t married so he’s not even their stepfather. He can step in if one of them does something dangerous or correct a child who’s doing something wrong, but yelling is off the table. And I intend to let Brenna know that.

“Who’s ready for a bath?” my mother asks, abruptly changing the subject.

Bradley gurgles happily and lifts his arms, so she carries him off while Stevie starts clearing the table.

“I can do it,” I tell her. “You’re a guest.”

“Don’t be silly.” She smiles. “Your mom fed me, so the least I can do is help clean up.”

“Can Stevie give me a bath?” Emma asks.

“Stevie is a guest,” I repeat. “I don’t think?—”

“I don’t mind,” she interrupts, smiling. “I’m happy to give Emma a bath.”

“I want Daddy,” Martin grumbles.

“I’ve got you, buddy.” I ruffle his hair and wink at Stevie as we start loading the dishwasher.

“Don’t let it bother you,” she whispers as we work. “Just document everything for your lawyer.”

“Yeah.” I nod gratefully.

I’m not sure how but she’s become important to me in a relatively short time—and we’re not even sleeping together.

A year ago, I never could have imagined that I’d be in my kitchen with a literal supermodel, loading the dishwasher together and splitting up bath duty. To be fair, we didn’t know each other a year ago, but it still feels somewhat surreal.

I knew who Stevie was but she wasn’t a real person to me, just a friend of a friend who’d been in the news a lot—and not for anything good. I knew her by reputation before that, of course, between her magazine covers and commercials, but she was nothing but another celebrity.

Now she’s my friend.

Maybe more than a friend.

Because if she wants me to stay with her tonight, there’s no way I’m saying no.