“Well, I filed. Elena will get the papers tomorrow. I’d like to think she’ll sign and send it back, but I know her. This is going to set off a shit storm. I asked for full custody, with reasonable visitation. No alimony. She can keep the house in Los Angeles. And then after I filed, I went to therapy and talked about my feelings and how frustrated I am, and Autumn.”
“Autumn, why? Are you guys serious?”
I shrug and take another drink. “I suppose we could be if I weren’t an idiot. I sort of left her in limbo for a few days and didn’t return any of her calls or texts.”
Noah looks at me and shakes his head. “Peyton is going to whack you upside your head.”
“I know, and I deserve it. Autumn is amazing, and I’ve probably lost her.”
“You think so?”
My shoulder lifts again. “Would you pursue a relationship with a woman who isn’t divorced and raising two kids, who can’t be bothered to call you after you’ve slept . . .” I let my words trail off. I never intended to tell Noah about Autumn and I taking our relationship to the next level.
“Dude, you didn’t?”
The up and down motion of my head is so slight, I’m not sure he notices until he gives me the most exaggerated eye-roll. “You ignored her calls.”
“Let me grab you some salt to pour in my wounds,” I say.
“Peyton isn’t going to slap you. She’s going to flat out beat your ass.”
“Believe me, I’m doing a fine job of that on my own.”
There’s a noise in the hall, causing Noah and me to halt our conversation. Reggie walks into the kitchen, surprised to see Noah sitting there. “Oh, hey, Mr. Westbury,” Reggie says as he pads toward us. As close as Noah and I are, I’m trying to teach my children to respect adults. Noah has told the kids they can call him by his first name, which I appreciate, but I have told the kids they can only do that on game day.
“What’s up, Bud?”
“Nothing. I heard some talking, thought I’d come to investigate.”
“Want some fries?” Noah pushes the bag toward Reggie, who happily takes a few.
“Do we have any ice cream?” my son asks. I shrug and tell him to look in the freezer. He does and pulls out a half-gallon of something. “Can I make a milkshake?”
“Of course. Do you want my help?”
Reggie shakes his head and proceeds to grab the things he needs. Noah nods toward him and says quietly, “How is he taking everything?”
Another lift of my shoulder. “Some days are really good. Others, not so much. He knows his mom is seeing someone, but he also knows I’ve been dating Autumn. He seems to like her, though. He’s hard on Elena; calls her out on her bullshit. He tries to call his mom almost every day and maybe speaks to her every third day.”
“I can’t imagine. After I met my dad and he had to go back to L.A. for work, we talked every day, sometimes multiple times a day. I don’t remember exactly how long it was, but I think he moved back to Beaumont within a month of meeting me. And now, I talk to him and my mom every day. I can’t imagine not speaking to them, especially at Reggie’s age.”
“He talks to my parents more than he talks to his mother. I hate it.” I see Reggie struggling with the ice cream and get up to help him. I don’t take over but put my hand on his and help him scoop the rounds into the blender. I stand back while he measures the milk, and I tell him I think I’m going to make one after him.
“Mr. Westbury, do you want a milkshake?” Reggie asks.
“Yes, I think I do,” he tells my son, who beams back at him. I take the scoop and carve out more rounds of ice cream and then head back to my seat. Reggie gives Noah the first shake and then goes back to make mine.
“This is really good, Reggie. Thank you,” Noah says. “Is there a secret ingredient?”
“Miss Meghan adds a dash of vanilla.”
A dash of vanilla? Who is this boy in my kitchen?
“Well, it’s very good. I’m going to have to tell Miss Peyton to do the same next time.”
Reggie brings my shake over. His smile is so bright he looks like he doesn’t have a care in the world. I hate that this divorce shit has dimmed his light. He should be happy and carefree all the time.
After Reggie makes his milkshake, he puts the ice cream and milk away and then comes to sit down between Noah and me. Instantly, he takes a fry and dips it into his shake. “So good.”
I take my son's lead, as does Noah. Before we know it, the large bag of fries is gone, as are the shakes, and the three of us are sitting back, rubbing our bellies. Reggie lets out a burp—one that rivals anything I could’ve done—and starts laughing as he covers his mouth. I look at him in horror, but Noah follows up with his own, impressive belch.