VI

This is Thirty—Following Mrs. Johnson—A Party of Six—Some Until-Death-Do-Us-Part Shit

On December 21st, the budget for the thirty-seventh highest grossing Talbots in America was just south of forty thousand, which was obtainable, Mrs. Williams assured the staff in a pre-opening meeting with a box of stale glazed doughnuts from Sam’s Club because of three things: 1) the extended Christmas hours; 2) the incredible array of product they had both merchandized and back-stocked; 3) the dedicated and talented group of ladies on the front lines of the sale’s floor. She spoke to her charges like they were going into battle, which they were, according to Mrs. Williams, the battle of the Christmas Crunch, a time which separated the ladies from the girls; a time where the cream of the crop rose; a time when the going gets tough…

The women ate up the clichéd pep talk. Bloated Carolyn rolled her head, and then arched her back, causing two vertebrae to pop. Jan kept fussing with the hem of her slacks, obviously not realizing the tightness was due to kankles rather than static cling. Elliot wanted an accomplice in the sarcastic comments she held on her tongue, but all the women were serious, excited, called-upon. Mrs. Williams made them put their hands in the middle. The smell was Powder Fresh Sure and Obsession and stale coffee.

“And one more thing,” Mrs. Williams said. “It’s our baby’s birthday. Elliot joins the thirties today. So let’s welcome her to the first decade of womanhood!”

The ladies sang “Happy Birthday,” and it was uncomfortable because of the proximity and touching hands, and what had started as a touch of stale coffee breath was now a church reception parlor, strong enough to force Elliot to breathe through her mouth. She told herself this was thirty.

“Talbots on three,” Mrs. Williams said.

One, two, three, TALBOTS.

The ladies were assigned sections of the store where they were to help customers and ensure Hanger Integrity and fluff and smile—smile today, ladies; many of you have already broken into commission territory for the month, and today is literally money in your pocket—and of course Elliot was paired with Carolyn because life had a way of putting the emphasis on the un in unbearable. It didn’t take long before Carolyn floated over to the row of cashmere cardigans Elliot was size-running. Carolyn placed her fingers between the hangers. She smiled, saying, “We’ll get you spacing these hangers perfectly if it’s the last thing we do.”

“Who’s we?”

Carolyn ignored the comment. She made a big show of looking over both of her shoulders (a considerable effort considering the girth of her cheeks in her peripheral). She said, “So how’s your boy?”

“Jacob’s good.”

“So, how is it you two even met?”

“Jacob is my son.”

“That’s not who I was talking about.”

“No, really?”

“People don’t say that anymore,” Carolyn said.

“No, they don’t say no duh, but I’m pretty sure no really is still in circulation.”

Elliot turned her back on Carolyn, walking to the far white wall, bending down to straighten a stack of white organic cotton long-sleeved T-shirts. It didn’t take but three seconds for the clomping of Carolyn’s heels to make their way over. “It’s just a little…weird,” Carolyn said.

Elliot didn’t respond, didn’t turn around.

“That you think it’s normal to sleep with a high school boy. But hey, more power to you. Guess you’ve still got it, even if you’re starting your fourth decade.”

Elliot wouldn’t take the bait. She wouldn’t turn around and poke Carolyn’s chest and tell her she was a pathetic and insecure woman, a girl having long-since peaked, a rule Nazi for a bullshit job, that she was fat—your face, Carolyn, what the fuck is going on? Is it like from some medication, the water retention? Tell me, because I can’t for the life of me figure out how the hell this happens—but she wouldn’t give the satisfaction of a reaction, the validation of caring about Talbots or other people’s opinions.

Carolyn inched closer. Elliot could feel the heat from her coworker’s legs or maybe crotch. “Is it legal, though, I mean, him being so young?”

“Thirty seconds till opening, ladies, get your smiles on!” Mrs. Williams yelled.

“I went down there, to Zumiez, because Randal loves those sweatshirts because they’re a little longer, and he’s all torso, and I met him, your Maddie. We got to talking about styles and ages and everything, and he told me he was in high school.”

Elliot quit rearranging shirts. She had no doubt Carolyn would be just the kind of cunt to go investigate her life.

“I’m not one to pry into other people’s business,” Carolyn said, leaning forward, practically breathing into Elliot’s ear, “but is that even legal?”

Elliot stood up with a jolt, bumping into Carolyn’s hovering chin, which caused a clacking sound of her teeth clamping, but Elliot didn’t give a fuck, not when Carolyn had crossed all sorts of lines—hell, lines weren’t even an issue, weren’t on Carolyn’s radar, and this was…was something like slitting the screens to her bedroom window and staring at her while she slept, an invasion of privacy of her life, a threat—and Elliot wasn’t about to take it.

“Open sesame!” Mrs. Williams yelled, unlatching the French doors.

Carolyn rubbed her jaw. Elliot said, “You need to stay the fuck out of my life. Period. Whatever you think you know, I promise, you don’t. So back. The fuck. Off.”

Those were the last words spoken between the two women for the rest of the day. The purposeful ignoring was mutual. Elliot figured it was an act of grace by the world or God or maybe it was Carolyn’s fear, and really, Elliot didn’t care about the reason, only that it was over with (both the criticism of her lack of Hanger Integrity and the bitchy meddling in her love life). Anyway, she didn’t have time to be thinking about Carolyn, nor about her cheating father at twenty years old, nor Devon’s white-knuckled pussy eating and their ominous conversation at Perkins two days prior, because it was madness, sheer madness inside the store. Women and more women. Women buying outfits for Christmas parties. Women buying sisters sweaters. Thirty-somethings purchasing merino-poly blended scarves for Minnesota moms. It was all Elliot could do to greet the women who ventured into her section, let alone find them sizes in the stacks or in the back. Hanger Integrity be damned; there simply wasn’t time. Her feet felt like the worst flare-up of gout; her lower back felt like she may be coming down with a case of spinal meningitis.

But the day passed.

Elliot kept a mental tally of items sold, or rather, a running total of dollars coming in, and she hit her monthly goals after two hours, and then kept adding—$89.99 for a pair of double-pleat khakis, $174.99 for a floral print silk blouse, $159.99 for a hideous lambswool full-zip cardigan—and she wasn’t great at math, couldn’t figure out her commission of each purchase, but it was looking good, very good. She’d buy Jacob presents. Yes, this needed to happen after work, and she’d get him enough plastic toys to melt a glacier, enough to make him forget about his wish to Santa. The fake silver tree next to her parents’ fireplace would overflow with wrapped gifts of every size, and Jacob would squeal on Christmas morning (might even drop his penis for a second), running to the gifts, to the shrine for Jesus and Santa and parental bribes, tear into paper they’d stuff into more plastic bags, all of it for him.

On her way to the break room for lunch, Mrs. Williams stopped Elliot. Her face was a landslide of sweating makeup. She said something about it being busy, really busy, would you mind taking a ten-minute lunch? Elliot minded. But she understood the not-so-quiet desperation on Mrs. Williams’s mess of a face, how this day meant everything to her, and maybe it was all Mrs. Williams had, the store, its reputation, it being so close to becoming the thirty-sixth highest grossing Talbots in America. Elliot told her she’d grab a few bites and head back to the floor. Mrs. Williams grinned (an unfortunate choice because it cracked what little foundation was still holding on to her left cheek). She said, “That’s real Part-Time mentality.”

Elliot ate an apple and then an orange. She checked her phone. She’d received a call from Maddie, and he was sweet in his message, saying he’d always wanted to have sex with an old lady, that he loved her, couldn’t wait for dinner that night. And then there was a message from Jacob singing happy birthday. And then one from Devon. He said, “Elle, happy birthday. Crazy how much you’ve grown up. I enjoyed seeing you the other night, even considering the circumstances. Welcome to your thirties. Love you.”

Women and more women.

They never let up.

Christmas music and fake cheer and running to and from the inventory room and you look amazing in that blouse, really slimming, and then Elliot rang up a lady for black leggings (Talbots’ one attempt at appealing to a younger demographic) and while taking the women’s credit card, she noticed the last name Johnson, and although it was anything but a unique last name, especially in a state as homogenous with Viking bloodlines as Minnesota, it gave Elliot pause. She looked at the lady for the first time. She was an attractive shade of mid-forty, all jaw and cheekbone as if her face was a hurried marble statue. Elliot tried to place a protruding Adam’s apple on this woman, and kind of could see it, Maddie in this woman’s reflection, and then the woman grinned, saying something about the mall being an absolute circus, and there was no mistaking in Elliot’s mind that the woman in front of her was Maddie’s mother.

Elliot couldn’t think of anything to say, or do, or even if she’d run the credit card or not. She fumbled through an awkward attempt at gift-wrapping—oh, honey, they’re for me, don’t bother—and then the woman grinned again, and it was so Maddie with the dimples and teeth and she was pretty if not beautiful, and watching her walk out of the store, Elliot felt it of utmost importance to follow this woman, if only to see her navigate the crowds.

Elliot found Mrs. Williams standing by the front door, her mascara having now succumbed to the combined effects of perspiration and gravity. Elliot said, “Mrs. Williams, is it okay if I take a quick break?”

“Elliot.”

“To use the lady’s room?”

“Don’t have to ask me that. Just hop in back.”

“It’s…”

“What?”

“Kind of an emergency.”

“Yeah, yeah, steal a minute.”

“I’d feel more comfortable using the public restrooms.”

“Why?”

“Number three,” Elliot whispered.

“Huh?”

“Diarrhea.”

“Gross. God, I don’t want to hear about…number three. Christ, child. Go.”

“Thank you, thank you.”

“Wash your hands.”

Elliot found the maraschino cherry red of Maddie’s mother’s down coat, and started walking through the crowds, the smells, the heat of gathered bodies. What the hell am I doing? Mrs. Johnson veered into GameStop. Elliot pressed her body against the wall, finding a little eddy in the current of foot traffic. She watched this woman walk to the counter and start speaking to some fat kid about a game, and then he smiled, turning around to grab a copy of an Xbox game with a solider on its front. Elliot imagined Maddie at home sitting in his room on a beanbag or something (she’d never stepped foot in his room) with a controller in his hand and a headset wrapped around his ear, him orchestrating missions and talking trash. There’d be band posters on the wall, rappers with gold mouths and tattoos on their necks. And semen-crusted socks growing colonies of bacteria underneath a bed—no, futon—and empty cans of Mountain Dew, for sure there would be those. It would be a room from a movie, one about a beautiful teenage boy growing up in a divorced household and isolation and an illicit love affair with an old bitch with a kid. Was it really illegal? She thought about jail and lawsuits and the entering of her name on a national database of sex offenders.

He’s eighteen, Elliot told herself. A summer birthday. Eighteen and legal and he’s about to be done with school and age is a stupid measurement of maturity anyway. Look at Devon. He’s twice Maddie’s age and look at him—lusting after every girl still young enough to never have had an abortion, writing about zombies and sex-addicted men—and Maddie was wise beyond his years, sweet, gentle, beautiful, and was good with Jacob…

Mrs. Johnson was on the move again. She navigated the crowded walkways like she knew her way around the mall, and when she merged from left lane to right by the coin-filled fountain, Elliot realized she really was Maddie’s mother, heading to see her son at Zumiez.

Elliot was correct.

There was a hug (Maddie was confident enough in himself to give affection to his mother in front of his boys, a trait Elliot loved), and then there were introductions and smiles, Maddie proud of his mother. Elliot couldn’t help but imagine her own life in fifteen years, her going to see Jacob at his first job, him giving her this kind of attention and love among his peers. She told herself it would happen, but she didn’t believe it, not even a little bit. No, instead she saw her son shunning her, his cheeks Alabamian Crimson Tide red, his energy turning both frantic and inward. And this image of her grown son kept escalating, kept getting worse—Jacob at thirteen declaring that he wanted to live with his father in Denver, Elliot having no say, Jacob becoming a stranger she saw once a month for weekends spent at Holiday Inns, resentment festering like the acne on his pubescent shoulder blades. She heard future confrontations, screams about her ruining the family, keeping father and son apart because of petty jealousies.

And on and on.

Her mind was a semi they’d seen descending Independence Pass, nothing but the flashing of dirty white siding and the blaring of its air horn, breaks failed, terror all around, the semi veering to the right and literally leaving the ground going over the first bump on the run-away-truck embankment.

Jacob losing faith in Santa, then God, then her.

Jacob becoming mute.

Jacob discovering online forums with other devastated boys searching for reasons for their misery.

Jacob’s entire worldview hardening with hurt and isolation and blame (righteous blame) and fuck, Elliot thought, what if he becomes one of those kids stalking the high school hallway dressed in a black trench coat with a gun only partially shielded?

“Hey, you’re Maddie’s girl, right? Elliot or something?”

Elliot snapped to her left, to a boy she’d met, she was pretty sure, when smoking a joint in the parking lot. He wore the Zumiez unofficial uniform of skinny black jeans and a T-Shirt with hi-tops.

“Umm.”

“He’s right there. Come on.”

Elliot now stood a few feet from the black doors of the shop (she’d evidently been drifting while locked inside nightmares of Jacob’s future), and the boy motioned with his head, and all Elliot could do is mutter no. No to Jacob blaming her. No to knowing there was actually blame on her side. No to being Maddie’s girl. No to Maddie’s mom with her identical grin. And no, God no, to Maddie’s friend motioning back to where she stood, Maddie’s gaze searching for Elliot, his mother’s too. She didn’t want to do this. Couldn’t do this. Couldn’t be introduced to his mother. Couldn’t pretend she wasn’t fucking her son. Couldn’t pretend this was normal. So she turned and took a series of five quick steps, merging back into the foot traffic of the Christmas Crunch, back into anonymity.

***

Growing up, the Svendsons subscribed to the binary notions of their daughter’s birthday being a tremendous occasion and that they wanted as little part of the preparation/cleanup as possible. The result was every birthday being hosted by Chuck-E-Cheese, a staple of the fabric of ’90s suburban life, what with its arcade games and grotesque life-sized puppets singing happy birthday, not to mention grease-soaked cheese pizza and staff ready to clean up spilled pitchers of Orange Sunkist. Elliot had often complained about the lack of variance in her parties, maybe they could do a princess-themed party at Jumpers like Missy Davis had done? “Sure,” her mom had said. “I’ll get some Little Mermaid paper plates. To be used at Chuck-E-Cheese.”

Fast-forward thirty years, and a Chuck-E-Cheese birthday party became a ball of irony and nostalgia, one Elliot couldn’t help but enjoy. Her mother purchased princess-themed paper hats with strangling cords, matching plates, even napkins. She’d reserved the party room (eight o’clock on a Thursday night was evidently not peak hours), so that’s where they sat, Elliot and her parents, Jacob and Maddie, at a too-big table in a room painted in off-yellows and reds (pizza themed). The four-person band of monsters had already sung an uninspired rendition of The Beatles’ “You Say It’s Your Birthday,” during which Jacob stood and danced, doing his best Michael Jackson impersonation, crotch grab and all. They ate two pizzas, which were ten varieties of delicious, grease slicking their lips and chins.

And things felt okay.

Maddie hadn’t asked about possibly seeing her standing outside of Zumiez like a moron. Hadn’t even brought it up. And he was being sweet to Jacob, helping him re-sod the layers of cheese that slid off his pizza. Elliot’s feet hurt, and her head, and her back, and her entire damn body from nine hours spent slinging sweatshop-stitched clothes in modest three-inch heels, but something felt good or at least okay. Her mother was telling the story of her birth. She thought it had been some indigestion, maybe a kidney stone. Her father chimed in about being all the way out in Plymouth trying to snake a drain of the hairiest woman in the world, bar none. It’d been before cell phones, and then her water broke (I honestly thought I’d peed myself!), and there wasn’t even time to leave a note, her mom hopping in the car and driving herself to St. Joe’s. Her father said Elliot’s birth was like throwing a hotdog down a hallway. Maddie laughed. Her mom told the table that Ed showed up just as Elliot was crowning. She reached out and took her husband’s hand. She said, “At that moment, I knew everything was going to be okay.”

“Mom, do me, do me,” Jacob said.

“It’s not your birthday, monster.”

“Do it. Please.”

The four of them looked at Elliot, who dabbed at her chin with a scratchy napkin. She explained how she was home alone trying to finish up the nursery. How she was struggling with leveling and hanging pictures of zoo animals. “What kind?” Jacob asked.

“Lions. Bears. A monkey.”

“A monkey!”

“Like you,” Elliot said. Jacob beamed. Elliot said, “My back hurt so bad. And then it was like…”

Elliot’s mom nodded.

“I called…” Elliot paused, looking down at her son. He was all smiles and then she could see his little mind work, could see him fill in the blank of whom she called, Devon, his father, and just like that, his smile was a shaken Etch-a-Sketch, everything erased. She put her hand on his back and rubbed the little diamonds of his vertebrae. “You took almost a full day to come out.”

“From where?”

“My belly.”

“Was Dad there?”

Elliot nodded, still looking down at her son. She knew her parents were staring at her, Maddie too, knew that they were thinking about it being sad having a broken family, a boy needing his father, and Elliot thought about Maddie’s mom being beautiful and her blaming herself for the divorce like Maddie had said and then about Maddie being Jacob and him stuck with the opposing feelings of extreme protection and resentment toward the woman who was supposed to insist everything was going to work out.

Jacob looked up at her. He wasn’t smiling, but serious, his little eyebrows weighted on their outside edges. He said, “Don’t be sad.”

“I’m not, honey.”

“Yes, you are.”

“Love you.”

“I want to play games.”

Her father laughed, and then Maddie, then all of them except Jacob, who stuck out his two cupped hands like a beggar off the highway.

“Want me to play with you?” Elliot asked.

“No.”

“What about me, little man?” Maddie said.

“I’m not little.”

“My bad.”

“Okay.”

“Okay I can come?”

Jacob shrugged.

“And your mom? It’s her birthday, after all.”

“Fine,” Jacob said.

The three of them walked out of the party room. The rest of Chuck-E-Cheese was more empty than not, small pockets of preteens playing first-person shooters. Elliot remembered the video game Maddie’s mother had purchased. She cashed a few dollars for tokens. She found Maddie and Jacob around the corner at the whack-a-mole game and Jacob was all beaming smiles and they each held a club clothed in thick padding. “Put in the money, Mom.”

Elliot laughed, slipping in two tokens. The machine lit up and then started with an asthmatic carnival tune. Jacob stood on his tiptoes, mallet cocked, and when the first mole poked its head up, he screamed, smashing down his club, which caused the lights circling the game’s scoreboard to erupt in an epileptic flash. The next one came and he smashed it down. Then the moles started to come a little quicker, and Jacob’s squeals faded, his face a mix of anxiety and apprehension, and before long, the moles were coming too quickly, Jacob’s whole body now panicked. Maddie seemed to sense this and swooped in at the exact moment Jacob was about to give up with a flood of tears. Maddie whacked the moles, and seeing the help, Jacob became reinvigorated, his giggles returning as he realized he had support and it was a game and it was supposed to be fun, and soon, they weren’t even hitting the rubber moles anymore, but everything—the scoreboard, one another—and it was beautiful, Maddie and her son, beautiful and maybe real.

The game ended. Jacob reached up to Maddie for a pound. Then they turned around, Maddie with his grin, her son his smile, them a team (Elliot could see it, knew she wasn’t crazy, there was something there, a bond).

“What’s next?”

“The balls,” Jacob said.

“Okay.”

They made their way over to the pit of plastic balls. Jacob asked Maddie to come play, to which Maddie replied that he was too big but would be right there watching. Jacob processed this information, the fact he’d have to go in alone (scary) versus the fifty-foot tub of balls (fun), and then crawled through the black mesh. He took a tentative step in like he was testing lake water, then jumped forward, landing on his stomach, writhing around and laughing.

“Thank you,” Elliot said. She slid her arm around Maddie’s skinny waist.

“For what?”

“Being you.”

“Kind of cheesy,” Maddie said.

“Getting sentimental in my old age.”

“My sugar mama.”

“Right, sugar mama making minimum wage with the chance of commission.”

“But you make the store look so good.”

“You don’t have to lay it on so thick. Going to get laid regardless.”

“Is that a promise?”

“A fact.”

Jacob was doing a version of the breaststroke through the primary colored balls. Every so often, he’d look back, maybe more toward Maddie than Elliot. Elliot thought about him wanting independence and him wanting protection and how these were two opposing desires every person possessed. “He’s so fucking great,” Maddie said.

“Yeah.”

“A good mom taking him here on your birthday.”

“Don’t know what you’re talking about, did this shit for me.”

“Serious,” Maddie said.

Elliot fought the urge to tell him otherwise, the fact she was messing Jacob up in more ways than she could count, that this fear/knowledge was the humming constant of her life. She wondered if Maddie’s mom took him places like this. Probably. Probably places like this, gifts and parties on tap. It was this train of thought that made Elliot realize she had to say something, so she did: “I saw your mom today.”

“Was wondering if we were going to talk about that.”

“You saw me, huh?”

“Your back outside of the store, yeah.”

“Sorry.”

“Nothing to be sorry about.”

“I just…I don’t know. Like what would I have said? Hey, Mrs. Johnson, I’m sleeping with your boy.”

“Don’t always have to minimize it.”

“That’s not what I mean,” Elliot said.

“Really?”

“Yeah, really.”

“If you say so,” Maddie said.

Jacob was throwing balls against the mesh wall. He threw like a girl or maybe like a three-year-old.

“It’s fine,” Maddie said.

“You know I love you.”

“I mean about not saying hi to my moms.”

“Yeah?”

“She’s…protective, I guess you could say.”

“Protective against all girls or from somebody like me?”

“Protective. You know how it is.”

Elliot thought she knew how it was—a single mother’s bond with her son, fortified through hardships and betrayal—but she couldn’t help but take offense at what Maddie was saying, and told him she wasn’t sure what he was talking about.

“Just with the age and everything.”

“Because I’m a predator?”

“Alien vs. Predator,” Maddie said.

“No, serious, is that what you’re saying? That I’m a predator?”

“You know that’s not what I mean.”

“Then what?”

Maddie studied her face to see if she was serious, if this was really the germination of a fight, and Elliot stared back, not sure herself. She had the notion of being childish, of being needy in her desire for pardon in the form of affirmations and placating comments about nothing ever being her fault, yet she couldn’t help it.

Maddie said, “Okay, let me ask you why you didn’t come say hello.”

“Because I had to get back to work.”

“Because you love your job so much?”

“Because it was busy as fuck.”

“And that’s your final answer?” Maddie’s lips slid into their grin, obviously realizing he had her backed into a corner.

“I don’t know,” Elliot said.

“Because you felt like she might not understand, might be weird about the age difference or whatever.”

“Maybe.”

“Because she’s protective, just like you are over Jacob.”

“Because I’m robbing the cradle.”

“Please,” Maddie said. “I pursued you.”

“Whatever you need to tell yourself, stud.”

“Can’t resist this,” Maddie said.

Jacob had evidently grown bored jumping and throwing, and now was stuffing the plastic balls down his pants.

“Listen,” Maddie said. “I love you. Know you love me. And I’ve dated my fair share of girls—”

“Hashtag humble brag.”

“Hear me out. I’ve been in relationships and all of that, and never, never once have I felt like this.”

“Like what?”

“Like this could be some till-death-do-us-part shit.”

And then their lips pressed and Elliot thought about her fantasy of second chances and colligate careers being within grasp and it being better this time, a choice instead of a pregnancy, mutual feelings of that heady intoxication of another’s smell, perfectly timed comments straight from the truest of romantic comedies, and as they kissed, she heard Jacob yelling, Daddy, which caused the emotional cousins of euphoria and guilt to ripple through her brain, Elliot thinking her son’s mind equated a kiss to fatherhood. But Jacob kept yelling it, and Elliot stopped kissing Maddie, seeing her son struggle through the pit of balls, running his hardest to the mesh opening, arms outstretched. Elliot turned around. Devon stood there in his stupid wool beanie, his face revealing the same disdain as when he received a bad review for his writing.

Jacob crawled through the mesh divider, red and blue balls spilling to the linoleum floor. Devon scooped him up, cupping the back of his son’s head. Jacob’s little Sorel boots fought for traction against Devon’s stupid pea coat. Elliot couldn’t think of anything to say, only to drop Maddie’s hand and take a step away, distance herself from infidelity that wasn’t infidelity, no way it was, not after what Devon had done, not when they were separated. But she couldn’t deny a sense of guilt, of embarrassment, a defensive heat setting her cheeks aflame, and before she could utter a what the fuck are you doing here? she realized this defensive posturing was born from Maddie’s age, or lack thereof.

Devon looked over Jacob’s head straight at Elliot. He said, “Happy birthday.”

“What? How are you even— What the hell are you doing here?”

“You’d always told me about your Chuck-E-Cheese parties. Wasn’t very difficult to know this was where you’d be.”

Elliot knew he was right about her blabbering about past birthdays, but this knowledge didn’t make her feel any less violated. Maddie’s Adam’s apple chugged up and down as he swallowed.

“You need to leave,” Elliot said.

“No!” Jacob yelled. He whirled his head around and stuck out his tongue.

“Yes, your father needs to leave. Now. This is unacceptable.”

“No!” Jacob yelled again.

“Swear to God if my dad sees you…”

“I’m Maddie, I don’t think we’ve been introduced.”

Devon looked at Maddie’s extended hand and let it hang there for an awkward second before smiling, adjusting the weight of Jacob to his left arm, and then shaking Maddie’s hand.

“Of course you are,” Devon said.

“And you’re…”

“Devon. Elliot’s husband.”

“Ex,” Elliot said.

“And Jacob’s father.”

“Daddy, a bitch is a bitch is a bitch.”

“What’s that, buddy?”

“A ho is a ho is a ho.”

“Is that right?” Devon said.

“Yup. Grandpa’s show said so.”

“That’s great, buddy.”

“Leave, now,” Elliot said.

“Thirty years old, wow. Crazy.”

“I’m not joking. This is…is…”

“Don’t look a day over twenty-one,” Devon said.

“You’d know,” Elliot said.

“Honestly, I was thinking that the other night over coffee. You haven’t aged a day, or no, you’ve aged, matured, but grown more beautiful.”

Elliot stole a glance at Maddie, who’d evidently heard what Devon had said, and was trying to put it together—coffee, the other day—and in his mind this probably meant a hidden date and continued contact and his grin was gone, his energy pulled inward, him retreating, and fuck, Devon wouldn’t do this, come in like a motherfucking hero to Jacob, make Elliot’s birthday about himself, trample the fragile grass of the life Elliot was tending to.

“Coffee?” Maddie said.

Devon smiled. “What, she didn’t tell you, bud? We met up for some dessert the other night. It was—”

“Shut the fuck up,” Elliot said.

“Bad word!” Jacob screamed.

“Leave us alone,” Elliot said.

Devon looked at Maddie, who’d taken a step back from Elliot. Devon laughed. He gave Jacob an Eskimo kiss. He wrapped his hand around Jacob’s head, shielding his ears under the guise of an embrace. “That’s the thing with this one, pal: she’s not always forthcoming with information.”

“Stop,” Elliot said. She reached to take Jacob, who kicked at her hands with his winter boots. Elliot felt a jolt of pain not unlike a sliver and knew instantly her son had just kicked and broken the nail of her index finger. Elliot cussed, squeezing her nail. The injury seemed to diffuse the situation, at least the insults and insinuated threats, and the three boys stared at Elliot, who stared at her finger and then her son and then back at her nail, which had a fault line running through it in a southeast diagonal zigzag. Blood grew around her cuticle.

“Why don’t I get out of here,” Devon said, “and take Jacob with me. Would you like that, bud? Come hang out at Daddy’s hotel?”

Jacob quit looking at his mother’s bleeding finger, smiled, nodded, and started jiggling around. He started saying yep, yep, yep. Elliot realized she had no power. At least not the kind of power she’d thought she possessed, the kind she wanted, the kind which offered independence and protection, the kind she could wield like the most wronged of victims. She said, “Fuck you,” but it came out more defeated than angry.

“Think you should leave,” Maddie said.

“I am, champ. With my son.” Jacob pushed his father’s wool beanie off his head exposing a hairline on Jenny Craig, the sides speckled like dirty snow. Devon said, “I like the tenacity, kid, but honestly, if you think you’re anything other than a revenge fuck, I feel sorry for you.”

“Grow the fuck up,” Elliot said.

Devon still covered Jacob’s ears. He started with a comment, but stopped, shaking his head, letting a hint of a smile creep across his lips. “Elle, happy birthday. Kid, nice to meet you. I wish you luck on finding your own family when you hit puberty. I’ll bring my son back around dinner tomorrow.”

“Fuck you, man,” Maddie said.

“Bad word, Maddie!” Jacob yelled.

“If you’d refrain from cursing around my son, that’d be greatly appreciated,” Devon said. He winked at Maddie.

Elliot was shaking her head and there were tears and hot spits and she was thinking about Devon always getting his way and her having no choice or power and walking into an office and seeing another girl’s hands running through Devon’s slightly curled hair. Jacob wiggled out of his covered ears. He was repeating Daddy Daddy Daddy with increasing volume. Elliot knew letting her son spend the night with his father was the right thing to do (she hadn’t seen him this excited in over two months), but letting Devon carry him away felt like a failure she’d vowed never to experience again.

“I’m at the Marriott, if you need me for any reason.” Devon hoisted a squealing Jacob over his head. “Ready to have some fun? Go swimming? Watch cartoons? Eat Milk Duds?”

Daddy Daddy Daddy.

And then Devon walked away, Jacob slung over his shoulder, Jacob kicking and laughing uncontrollably, his laughs being swallowed by the electronic beeps of arcade games. Elliot turned back to Maddie, who stood with his arms crossed. He seemed young at that moment, wounded, immature. She put her fingers through his belt loops. She could tell he was hurt, which was stupid as hell considering Elliot’s situation. The placating kiss she gave his cheek felt like a consolation she shouldn’t have to be making. She wrapped her arms around his shoulders and she asked if he was okay and he gave a sullen head nod and she thought about taking whatever she wanted, as Devon did to her—as everyone did, all day, every day, take and take, other people be damned—and about getting older and about being trapped as both a stay-at-home mother and as a thirty-year-old retail employee. She pressed her mouth to Maddie’s. She told herself if it was met by tongue, things would work out, with him and with Devon, with her thirties, with her life, finally.

Maddie’s mouth was motionless.

Kids screamed and games blared.

Then his tongue found hers, and she wasn’t filled with a sense that things were going to be okay, but rather power, her finally figuring out how the fuck to exercise it.