I end up sleeping at Izzy’s, not texting Will until eleven, when I know he’ll be in bed and won’t bother to argue with me to come home.
Lost track of time with girls. Sleeping at Izzy’s. Closer to mtg tmrw anyway.
I hit Send before I can overthink it. When I wake up to see that Will hasn’t even replied, my stomach turns. Of course he knows it’s an excuse—who cares if the meeting is closer to Izzy’s? I don’t even have any clothes with me. Izzy’s much tinier than I am, and unless I want to borrow oversized sweats, there’s no chance of raiding her closet. I hurry to throw on yesterday’s clothes and go back to the house, arriving around 7:30. The house smells like a mix of sweet and savory, and my stomach grumbles, belying my rule that I don’t bother with breakfast. Will’s sitting at the bar reading the newspaper, two plates with the remains of whatever they ate in front of him. They ate at the counter, just the two of them, just like before, because I wasn’t there. My stomach clenches, my nerves shot. Did they even miss me?
“Hey,” I say.
“Hey.” He doesn’t look up from the paper.
“Sorry about last night.”
Now he looks. “You want to fill me in on that?”
I don’t answer, trying to figure out how to explain and where to start—how I was feeling, seeing Gillian, not knowing what to think, but I can’t think straight. My heart is pounding so loud it’s throbbing in my ears.
“I just…” I should’ve prepared what I wanted to say.
“You can sleep at your sister’s or wherever else you want, whenever the hell you want, but if that’s the way it’s going to be, just say so because I was under the impression you were staying with us.” I feel like I’m being reprimanded by a parent, not whatever Will is to me. “I guess I didn’t know you were having dinner guests because you didn’t mention it to me either,” I say, crossing my arms over my chest. “How late did Gillian stay?”
He folds the paper and pushes it aside. “I’m not sure. I didn’t check the time when she left.” His voice is even. He doesn’t even flinch. He doesn’t ask how I knew she was at the house. He doesn’t feel caught in the way I want him to feel.
“I saw you,” I say a little too loudly. “The two of you. Here, in the kitchen.”
He watches me, gaze steady.
“So what, you thought I wasn’t coming home for dinner, so you invited her over instead? I thought that whole thing, you know, when you were in my bedroom, after the last time Gillian came over, and you saying we were the ones dating, and you and Gillian were just hanging out, I thought you were saying you choose me.” I drop my arms to my sides. “But I guess I got that all wrong. I guess I really am just someone staying with you—a houseguest, nothing more. That’s why I’m in the guest room, right?”
“Are you finished?”
“Why?”
“Gillian took the girls swimming after school. She was dropping Addie off, it was dinner time, the girls were starving. I was doing what was best for my daughter, because she’s my number one priority.” He’s cold.
“Having her friend and her mom over is what’s best for her? Does that help her eat dinner better? That’s bullshit. You invited Gillian because you wanted Gillian to be here. Don’t pretend it was some sort of selfless Dad act.”
“So what if I did? Gillian and I have been friends forever, and our daughters are best friends. Having dinner together makes it nicer for everyone. It could’ve been you here with us, but it wasn’t because you were out with your friends, at your child-free group, pretending you’re still living a completely child-free life.”
“That has nothing to do with it.”
“It has everything to do with it.”
“I didn’t even go to the group. And you’re just as guilty—don’t tell me you would’ve invited her to stay if I’d been here. You invited her to stay because you like the attention. You know she likes you and is jealous of whatever it is we have going on.”
“That’s exactly the problem, Kit. The ‘whatever we have.’ I’ve told you what I want.”
“No, you haven’t.”
“You’re staying in my house, Kit.”
I shake my head. “In the guest room. You haven’t told Addie. And the signal you just sent me is that if I do anything else, go to dinner with friends, sleep at my sister’s, whatever it is without you, then you’re going to go running to Gillian.”
“You’re being completely irrational. I’m not going to talk about this right now,” he says. “And none of this even really matters right now anyway. You owe Addie an apology. You told her that you would make muffins for the bake sale last night and then you just didn’t show. I told her that you probably forgot to tell her about the dinner, and that you wouldn’t be that late.”
Shit.
“I let her wait up until way past her bedtime. She fell asleep waiting for you, Kit. And this morning she looked for you to make them. I had to tell her that you were at Izzy’s and you wouldn’t be back in time.”
I look up at the square clock on the wall behind Will’s head. Maybe it’s not too late.
“I took care of it. She has to leave for school in twenty minutes.”
I find Addie in her bedroom, lying face down on her bed, reading a book.
“Hey,” I say but she doesn’t look up.
I sit down on the edge of her bed. She shimmies over a bit, to get away from me. My heart sinks. But I don’t budge. I lean in. Literally. “I’m really, really sorry about letting you down.” I run a hand over her hair.
She flips the page.
“I—got completely caught up in myself. And I get that you are mad at me. I would be mad at me.”
She turns and looks at me. “We had so much fun yesterday and then you just forgot all about the bake sale. I waited for you. And then we went to make the chocolate chip cookies this morning and there weren’t enough chocolate chips because you used them in your stupid muffins. So we had to make sugar cookies instead.”
I exhale.
“Don’t you think chocolate chip cookies are kind of—expected?” I joke. “I bet no one else makes sugar cookies.”
She turns and glares at me.
“OK. Not helpful. What can I do? I want to make it up to you.”
“Nothing. If you don’t like us then don’t live here.” She turns away from me.
“What do you mean ‘don’t like you’? Addie, of course I like you.” But of course I know what she means. I still haven’t talked to her about my Instagram. I just hoped she’d forget. But she’s eight, not three. I’m learning there’s a big difference—not that I have much more experience with three-year-olds.
“Whatever.”
She looks like she’s going to get up and I gently reach out to her, my hand grazing her arm.
“Can we talk about Instagram?”
She doesn’t say anything.
“What if—your school implemented a dress code.” I’m not ready for this conversation, but here goes.
“What do you mean?” she asks. “Like, they told us what to wear?”
“Yeah, sort of. Like they told you that you had to wear the white school dress shirt and sweater, but they gave you the option of wearing a gray skirt or gray pants. And all the girls decided to wear the skirts because—”
“That would never happen. We would all choose the pants. They’re way more comfortable.”
“OK, then you all chose the pants. Except for three girls. Name some of your school friends.”
“Chi-chi, Millie and Lauren.”
“OK so Chi-chi, Millie and Lauren decide to wear skirts. Every day.” I pause for dramatic effect. She turns to me, waiting for me to continue. I’ve got her attention. “And everyone teases them. All the time. They don’t let them skip rope with them at recess…”
“No one skips rope at recess! We’re not five. Oh my god, this story is so lame.”
“OK, so…hang out by the…fence.” Surely, they hang out by the fence.
Addie looks at me like I’m killing her slowly. I push on. “They don’t get to sit with anyone at lunch, they don’t even get invited to birthday parties…”
“This is dumb. I doubt Chi-chi would ever choose to wear a skirt but even if she did, we wouldn’t care,” she huffs.
“Right, because she should get to choose whatever she wants to wear and not have to explain why she wants to wear a skirt instead of pants.”
“Well, yeah. Because the school said you could wear either. And she isn’t hurting anyone by wearing a skirt.” She gets up and wanders over to her desk. “Why are we talking about this?” I realize I’m about to lose her.
“I was trying to make a comparison. I promise to get to the point.” She picks up a sketchbook and pencil, then returns to the bed, flipping the pad open to a blank page.
“So, in life,” I say, “some people think that women have to have children. That they have to want to have children, and even if they don’t want them, they should have them anyway, because that’s what you’re supposed to do.”
“But no one makes you have children if you don’t want to,” she says slowly, head down. She’s right, of course, and incredibly wise for her age.
“No, but it’s expected. Like, it’s the default. You get to a certain age, you get married, people think you should have kids.” I take a minute to gauge Addie’s reaction, but she’s focused on the page. So—no clue how this is going. “I don’t think it should be like that. Women have all sorts of reasons for not wanting children.”
“Like what?” Addie says, not looking up.
I take a deep breath. “Well, maybe they don’t want the lifestyle that having kids can sometimes mean, or maybe they love their career and it’s not the kind of career that really works with being a mom, like a pilot or an ER doctor or even a travel writer. Or maybe they just don’t think that they’ll be able to be the kind of mom a child deserves to have.” At this a lump forms in my throat, and I take a moment. “Or,” I clear my throat, “maybe there’s another reason, and it’s private and they don’t want to have to explain to people why they don’t want children…but they feel like they have to. And that’s not fair.”
I touch her knee and she looks up, her eyes meeting mine for a moment. “I guess the thing is, I’ve had this career where I decided to defend these women, and in doing so, I’ve met so many women like this, and I have the opportunity to speak up for them, to show them that it’s OK to not want to have children and to help others see that having kids isn’t the only way.”
I swipe at an unexpected tear. “I really like the role I have had for these women. I like supporting them.” I pull my phone out. “My Instagram isn’t a fair representation of that. It’s the ‘sassy’ side of that, I guess you could say. That message, what I believe in, doesn’t totally come out. And I’m sorry that’s the side you’ve seen.” Addie’s watching me. “Does that make sense?”
“I guess,” Addie says. “It’s just hard not to think that if you don’t like kids then you don’t like me.”
I nod, discouraged that she still thinks I don’t like kids. But right now, all that matters is that she knows how I feel about her. “I really like you,” I say. “Like, more than I’ve liked any kid I’ve ever met.” I wipe another tear from the corner of my eye before it falls.
“Does that mean you want to come help at the bake sale?”
“Absolutely,” I say, having no idea what I’m getting myself into.
When I arrive at Addie’s school, there have to be two dozen women lined up outside the front doors, as though it’s a sample sale, not a bake sale. Do they really need me, too? But I’m not doing this for me, I’m doing it for Addie. Who knows? Maybe it’ll be fun. I spot Gillian near the front of the line, looking at me. I wave, but she turns the other way as the doors open and the women file into the main hallway. I try not to let it get to me—it’s not like I want to hang out with Gillian anyway. And yet, I feel self-conscious and could use a familiar face—even if it’s not friendly. I step inside the building, with its musty smell and tile flooring and I’m transported back to being a kid myself. The smell of pizza wafts toward me and I remember the excitement of Pizza Day. As I follow the women in front of me, I wonder why there are no men helping out. We reach half a dozen tables set up to create one long table stretching half a hallway. As though well trained in this event, women start filing behind the table, grabbing brown paper napkins, paper plates, juice boxes. Someone hands me a wad of papers and Scotch tape and orders me to start hanging the signs. I study them: Cheese, Pepperoni, Apple, Orange, Chocolate Milk, 2% Milk. I’ve just finished taping them to the wall when Gillian rallies us all together for a picture.
“We haven’t met before,” the woman beside me says. She has long brown hair, pulled back in a messy bun, and lots of bangles on her wrist. She’s wearing a black name tag with silver font that reads Preesha Patil (Saavi’s mom).
“Oh, I’m—”
“She’s not a mom,” Gillian interjects and I notice she’s wearing a similar name tag.
“Just a friend,” I say brightly. “Kit.”
“Preesha.” She smiles. “God, you’re a saint. If I didn’t have a kid here I would not be helping out.”
“Oh, come on, Preesha. That’s because you wouldn’t have time. From here it’s dry cleaning drop-off, clean the house, grocery shop, get back here for pickup, after-school activities, make dinner, bedtime, collapse into bed. Until you have kids, you don’t get everything we do. That’s why I’m taking the picture, so I can send it to you later and you can remind yourself how us moms are the reason any of this happens.”
“You’re always thinking of everything,” Preesha says kindly.
“Well, we all know it’s not just about showing up for an hour today.” She gives me a fake smile.
Thankfully, the conversation is cut short as kids start tearing down the hall like it’s the running of the bulls, and another mom turns to me—Daria Kimble (Tatum’s mom)—and tells me to get into position. I secure a spot at the bake sale section, hoping it’ll be less crazy. Kids are dropping pizza on the floor, screaming that they ordered orange juice not apple juice. Most of the moms are expressionless, though, as if they’re soldiers on the front line.
“Hello! Excuse me, hi, yoo-hoo,” Daria is saying, hitting my arm, and I refocus. “You can’t just let them grab the baked goods like that.” She swats at a boy who’s going in for a chocolate chip cookie. “They have to pay me their quarter and then they can point to the item they want and then you hand it to them with a napkin.” She shakes her head at me.
“Oh, OK,” I say, handing the kid the cookie he wants.
“Not that one. The big one.” I look to Daria but she tsk-tsks him.
“You get what you get, and you don’t get upset.”
I shrug and hand the kid the cookie. “You heard her.”
He slinks off.
Addie shows up a few minutes later. I’m so relieved to see her. “Are there any of my cookies left?” she asks, scanning the table. “Ooh, great,” she says, spotting the container. “Can I get one?”
I hand her a cookie and she takes a bite. “They’re really good.” She hands me another quarter. “You have to try one.”
“Thanks,” I say, feeling touched. I choose one of her sugar cookies and take a bite.
“No eating while you’re working!” someone yells and I look to my right to see a few of the other moms glaring at me. I shove the rest of the cookie into my mouth and suppress a laugh to Addie. “Really good,” I mumble with my mouth full. She laughs and waves as she disappears down the hall. I’m watching her walk away, thinking how glad I am that I did this, even if I did have to bail on two events to be here, when someone screams.
I look to where a crowd has gathered. A boy about Addie’s age is lying on the ground. “He’s in anaphylactic shock!” someone says. A woman pops up and yells to call 911.
“He has an epi-pen. Get his epi-pen. In his pant pocket!” There are shouts in every direction and people moving kids out of the way, moving other adults in, the rest of us watching, not sure what to do. Someone announces that an ambulance is on the way.
Just then a tall man walks over, looking large and in charge. The principal, I’m guessing.
“Ben has a peanut allergy,” he says, looking distraught. “Do any of these bake sale items have nuts?” He looks to me and I look down at the table. Nothing is labelled—my guess is as good as anyone’s what’s in any of the items. A second later Gillian is hovering and pointing at a tin of chocolate balls. “These obviously have nuts—look, you can see them.” She glares at me. “Did you give Ben one of these balls?”
I don’t know what Ben ate, though I do remember handing the balls to a few kids. “I—I’m not sure.”
“Did you make these?” Gillian accuses me and I shake my head.
“No, I—I didn’t make anything.”
“Who let you work the bake table? You have to inspect everything. No peanuts are allowed. You would know that if you were actually a parent,” she spits, then turns to the man. “She’s not even a parent.”
He looks preoccupied, but another mom looks over.
“You’re not a parent?”
“Who signed you up?”
“Did you do the police check?”
“Did you sign in at the office?”
“Why would you work the bake table if you’ve never helped out before? Everyone knows you have to be on high alert for nuts.”
I feel overwhelmed and out of my element. What made me think I had any right to swoop in here and be one of the moms? I can’t just decide to get in on a life like this. These women earned their right to be here. They know what to do. I’m not like them. But then, I give my head a shake. This isn’t about me.
“Is the boy—is Ben OK?” I ask the woman beside me.
“He’s going to be fine,” someone else says. “We’ve moved him into the nurse’s room and his parents are already here.”
The principal announces that the bake sale is over, and instructs us to throw all the baked goods out in case they’ve been contaminated. I silently clean up the table, wiping it down with brown paper napkins. No one speaks to me, but that’s OK. Then I grab a garbage bin and haul it outside, tying the bag and tossing it into one of the large dumpsters behind the school. I’m on my way back in when Gillian stops me. “We’ve got more than enough help. You can go.”
I think about fighting her on this, but this is her school, these are her mom friends, not mine. It doesn’t matter what I do, I’ll never be one of them. I disappear through the closest door, out onto the street.
I’m still feeling shaken when Will texts me later in the afternoon and tells me to meet him at the gates to the amphitheater on the water at six, which immediately takes away the apprehension I’d been feeling all day about our fight this morning. A night alone, with him, is exactly what I need after the day I’ve had. This afternoon my landlord called to say it’s going to be another month until I can move home, and I completely forgot about an influencer event I was being paid to attend, in addition to the meeting I had to reschedule because of Pizza Day—but when I see Will standing at the gates, waiting for me, all of it feels meaningless. He has a large canvas bag over one shoulder, and as I get closer, he gives me a sly smile that sends flutters through me. “Hey,” he says, leaning in toward me. “Hey,” I say before my lips are on his. I’m about to ask what we’re doing, when I realize what day it is. “You got tickets to the Meanderers?” I say in disbelief.
He nods.
“How? I tried to get tickets a few weeks ago and it was sold out.” I squeeze him tight and he puts his arm around me, then we make our way into the lineup to get through the gates. Will flashes the tickets to the security guards at the gates but when they ask Will to open his bag, they tell him he can’t bring in any outside food or drink. “Ahh, shit,” he says. “How did I not realize this would be a problem?” “I guess the secret’s out that I haven’t been to a concert in years.”
We move out of the way and for a moment, neither of us says anything. Then I tell him to follow me. We walk down the hill that leads to the parking lot, and along the edge between the walking path and the water, until we come to a cut through a set of trees. I bring him up a hill and across the grass to another area that’s hidden behind another set of trees until there’s a clearing overlooking the water.
“Whoa, this is a great spot,” he says, looking around.
“I know. I discovered it years ago—no one’s ever here when I come.”
Will shrugs off his backpack and then begins pulling out items—a bottle of wine, a Tupperware filled with cheese and grapes and salami. Then he pulls out a baguette.
“I’m glad you didn’t have to throw this out—this is a spread.”
“Yeah well, I like to think I can pull together a good meal.” Will pulls out a blanket and lays it on the grass, then hands me two plastic cups. When he goes to open the bottle of wine, he realizes there’s a cork.
“Amateur move,” he says, then pulls his bike lock key out of his pocket and jams it into the cork and pushes it into the bottle. “Not very classy, but it does the job.” He pours the wine. “Cheers,” he says. We clink our plastic cups together and then take a sip.
“This is really nice,” I say.
“Yeah, well, I’m a really nice guy.” He moves in closer to me. “I’m glad you showed up.”
“I’m sorry about last night,” I say. “I think it’s clear I’m jealous of Gillian. Or maybe I would’ve felt the same way if I’d seen you with any other woman.”
He takes my cup, puts it down and then his lips are on mine. The kiss is soft and tender and everything feels so right. He pulls back and looks into my face. “I feel like we’re fighting about all this because you feel insecure about your place. Kit, you mean so much to me. Maybe you moving in was a crazy idea, but it felt so natural. And when you weren’t there last night, the place felt empty. I want you in my house every day. Morning, night, any time you want.”
I laugh nervously. “Be careful what you wish for.”
“What do you mean?” He tilts his head.
I give him the flood update. “But insurance is covering me for a short-term rental so…” I trail off.
Will’s brow furrows. “So, you’re just going to move out?”
“Well, I was thinking, it could be fun. We could just date. No domestic obligations. We didn’t really have that, and that’s the most fun part.”
“I think it’s all been pretty great. You, being around. I don’t want you to move out. Just keep crashing with us.”
My heart is pounding. Is he asking me to move in—permanently?
I shake my head. “Will—”
“I’m serious. There’s no good reason why you shouldn’t. You’re going to move to one tiny place until you can move back to your tiny place, and be alone again? Don’t be stupid.”
The way he says it rubs me the wrong way. As though I’m not complete if I’m living alone in a shoebox apartment.
“There’s nothing wrong with my apartment, and I like living alone.” As soon as the words are out, I feel bad, but also relief, because it’s the truth. I miss my apartment. I miss having my own space. I miss the quiet, the ability to control when there is quiet.
Will gives me a hard stare.
I try to backtrack. “I don’t mean I don’t appreciate you letting me stay with you. It’s just all a bit quick. The domestic stuff, and I’ve let a lot of my work slide…” This feels unfair to throw in, because frankly, it’s been such a relief to have an excuse to bail on some of the contracts that I couldn’t shoot in my place. But Will throws up his hands, exasperated, interrupting me before I can continue.
“Kit, I’m thirty-eight. I’ve been married, I have a kid. I’m not messing around here. That ‘domestic stuff’ is my life, and it’s part of the whole deal. I thought I’d made it pretty clear that I’m only interested in you—if I wanted to date other people, I wouldn’t want you staying with me. Sure, maybe the way we’ve gone about this isn’t conventional, but what difference does it make if we end up in the same place?”
My heart is pounding, and my breath is caught in my throat. I have to say something. Anything.
“Can we just, have a nice date? You planned this and I don’t want to fight with you.”
“This isn’t fighting, Kit. This is discussing—our future.”
“You know what? You should do this.” I wave my hand at the spread. “Picnics. You prepare it, people order it, you could even do adorable picnic baskets. You could get wine glasses with your logo that they could keep, and reuse, and every time they did, they’d think of you, and re-order. Their friends would ask, ‘What’s this awesome picnic business you’re always going on about?’ ” I pull out my phone and snap a few photos of the spread to show him. But he’s just staring at me. I keep rambling.
“See?” I say, scrolling through the photos. “This one is so good. Just let me start an Instagram account for you. You don’t have to tell anyone about it, it could just be there, and you could add photos when you want. And then, if you change your mind…” I know, as I’m doing this, that I’m being crazy. But I can’t stop.
But he’s shaking his head. “Kit, what the fuck?” He pauses. Exhales. “I don’t want an Instagram account. How many times do I have to tell you that?”
“Right. But you wouldn’t have to do anything, I’m saying. I could manage it for you. I could transition my job into managing other people’s social media. You could be my first client. We could call it ‘Good Will Cooking.’ ” I click on the Instagram icon, but my @BookKit account is open. “What’s that?” Will asks, leaning closer.
“Oh, it’s just…something I’ve been toying with doing.” My heart pounds. Why haven’t I told Will about this? He, of anyone, would be so supportive of me changing paths.
“Kit, it’s me. Tell me.”
He’s leaning over my shoulder.
“Well, it’s this dream I have, I just never make enough time to figure out exactly how to make it happen because…” An alert pops up at the top of the page, saying I’ve been tagged in a photo, on my @KitwithoutKids account. I tap the alert.
“Is that you?” Will says, pointing at the screen.
“Yeah, I guess.” I scroll down to the caption.
We’d be nothing without our volunteers. Another successful pizza lunch and bake sale at Alexander the Great elementary school. #schoollife #lifewithkids
“Shoot,” I say, staring at the picture of us, the large Pizza Stop boxes front and center in the photo.
“What?” Will says, leaning close. “That’s awesome that you did that. Addie was really glad you came.”
“It’s not going to go over well if Napoli Pizzeria sees this. I had a non-compete clause for a month and I just posted for them last week.” Pizza Stop isn’t exactly the same experience as dining in the chic southern Italian pizzeria-and-wine bar that opened on Ossington last month, but I definitely remember there being a non-compete clause. “I’ve got to get them to untag me.”
“Really, Kit? This wasn’t work. It’s your life. Your real life. Surely the clients understand the difference.”
My heart races. I close my eyes for a second, trying to quell my anxiety. “Of course they understand the difference, but it’s in my contract not to post about competitors. And my account is work.”
I stare at the photo, thinking of how ironic it is that Gillian tagged me when she didn’t even want me there. “And my persona, @KitwithoutKids, isn’t supposed to be hanging out with a bunch of kids, either,” I say, “especially not when I bumped a meeting today to be there. It just looks bad. So bad.”
“Wow,” Will says, sounding exasperated, which doesn’t make me feel any better. “You really are caught up in yourself. If anything, I’d say it’s a bit tacky that whoever posted this did so when it sounds like one of the kids could’ve died today, from what Addie told me—but you’re not even thinking of that. You’re so worried what people will think if they see you with kids? News flash. No one cares.”
I pull away and look at him to see if he’s joking. “You don’t understand. My followers will care. It’s called authenticity. Being on brand. They look to me for validation that their child-free life is the right choice. They buy my book and come to my talks. It’s less than two weeks till I’m going to be standing on a stage in front of ten thousand women who choose to be there, listening to me. Wanting me to inspire them to continue doing what they’re doing, being successful in business and in life and in love without children. I can’t have them going on Instagram, and—whoops! There I am, volunteering at a pizza lunch for children, with a bunch of other moms. Like, what a fake.”
I look down at my phone, and notice there are more than fifty comments, and this photo was only posted a few hours ago. I scroll through them, my hands shaking as I read them all.
Why’s the woman who hates kids around our kids?
She doesn’t technically hate kids—she just thinks life is way better without them.
Since when do we allow non-parents to volunteer? Seems a bit risky and unnecessary?
Is this someone we want influencing our children? To let them know that life is better without them?
Who can Photoshop her out and make sure she doesn’t show up again?
Isn’t she the one that almost killed the kid with the nuts?
“I should never have gone.” I hold the phone out to Will so he can read the comments. I drop my head into my hands.
He shrugs. “Yeah, they’re harsh, but you’ve probably seen worse. And I can see where they’re coming from. They don’t know you, they don’t know what you’re like. But I don’t blame them for feeling that way. You know, maybe it’s time you think about changing your Instagram account.”
“To what? Kit with Kids?” I spit, annoyed. “I can’t just change my account.”
“Why not?” He shrugs. “At least it would be more real.” He puts my phone down and moves closer to me.
I push him away. “Because Addie isn’t my kid. And there are five billion mommyfluencers out there already. That’s why I stand out. I’m not one of them. This isn’t just an account, it’s my brand, it’s my business. It’s who I am. This is how I’m known. I can’t stray from this, not one bit, or I lose followers.”
I stare at my phone as another comment appears on the post. I click on the photo and a picture of Addie pops up.
“Is that Addie?” Will says, peering at my phone.
Shit.
It’s not a bad picture, just a typical tween pic: doe-eyed selfie with a filter. But exactly why he doesn’t want her to have an account.
“Does she have an Instagram account?” he asks me.
I look away.
“You knew this? Is this how she knew about your account? Fuck. Give me your phone.” He holds out his hand and I reluctantly pass the phone over. As he taps on her name and scrolls through her account, his eyes narrow. I lean over his shoulder, looking at her pics, then see the one I took of us at Centre Island. I’m touched she posted it, but realize she must not have tagged me. I should feel relief that there isn’t another kid-friendly pic of me out there, but I’m also ashamed. Did she purposely not tag me because she knew I wouldn’t want her to?
“This is because of you,” Will spits. “I told you I didn’t want her exposed to this…did you set the account up for her?”
“No!” I practically yell, then look around and lower my voice even though there’s no one around us. “No. She already had the account long before I even met her.”
“But you knew about it and you didn’t tell me?” He’s shaking my phone at me.
“I told her I wouldn’t. She asked me not to tell you because she knew you’d be angry. I was trying to be a good friend to her.” I grab the phone, slamming it face-down on the blanket.
“You’re not supposed to be a friend. You’re supposed to be a parent.” A vein is bulging in Will’s forehead.
“I’m not a parent. You’re her parent. And if she didn’t want you to know then maybe you need to think about that.” A tear escapes the corner of my eye and I swipe at it, refusing to let myself feel bad about this situation. This is not my fault, this is not my problem.
“Don’t tell me how to be a good father. I have to protect her from growing up too fast. She’s eight, Kit. She’s not a teenager. I told you I didn’t want her exposed to this fake world you live in. You knew that. The whole thing is such…bullshit.”
“Bullshit? Well that bullshit is my career. It’s my entire life.”
“Yeah, where you mislead everyone into believing you’re someone you’re not. Have you even shown your followers that your apartment is flooded? Do they know you had to move out? If your online life is your entire life, then what—whatever you have with me, with Addie and me, it just…doesn’t exist?”
“No. But that’s not my job. Despite what is happening in my life, my job is my job. My life with you is just one part. And this whole setup is temporary.”
“Temporary?” He shakes his head. “That’s the thing. You siphon yourself into these various personas, but why can’t you just be you, all you, one person? It’s weird to have all these different pieces. You go from being so great with Addie, to not bothering to come home without letting me know, to being worried about what people will think…”
“That’s not fair,” I say. “It was one night. And I did come home. I just left, because I was jealous.” I look down. “Of Gillian.”
“Then say that. Tell me you’re jealous. Act like an adult. Sometimes I feel like the second your apartment is fixed you’re going to be out of here, going right back to your single life. Like you never want to move on because that would mean committing to something, to someone. And you’re too afraid to do that.”
“I’m not afraid to commit. I was with Eric for five years.”
“Yeah, and now you’re not. As soon as he wanted something more from you, something serious, something that would bind you forever, you bolted. Just like you’re bolting now.”
His eyes are fixed on me, daring me to challenge him.
“Let me ask you something—what was the last honest thing you wrote on Instagram?” he says.
I bristle at his question. I have enough people approving my posts, having a say in my persona, criticizing who I am—and they’re all involved in my career. Who is Will to question this part of my life, when he’s never once shown any interest in it—let alone ever been supportive of it? “I am not dishonest—I’m aspirational. It’s curated. It’s not inspiring to show people I’m living in a messy house full of marker stains on every surface, dirty dishes in the sink and socks on the couch. Sorry, but it’s true. And I don’t force anyone to follow me on Instagram. I’m not holding a gun to anyone’s head.”
“But you’re leading them to believe that to have a great life they need to be ziplining through the Rockies and at fancy parties every other night. You give the impression that you live in a place with multiple sitting areas, rather than a tiny rented apartment because that’s the stage of life you’re in.” He sounds really angry, and it makes me wonder how long he’s been thinking about this. “And I don’t even know what you post, but I can sure as hell bet it has nothing to do with us. God forbid someone finds out you’re hanging out with some dude and his kid. For all I know you’re rehashing old photos or pretending you’re on vacation while you wait to get back to your place. One foot out the door.” He shakes his head.
His words sting, because they’re true. Because digging up old photos is exactly what I’ve been doing, knowing it’s deceitful and yet, like a child sneaking an extra cookie, I’ve been unable to stop. Easier to find beautiful, curated photos than have to work out how to shoot new stuff in his place. I know I should admit this. Let him win the fight. But I won’t, because I don’t want him thinking he can influence my career. I have spent so many years bringing women up, reminding them they’re enough without anyone else, and I’m not going to sit here and let Will think he has any influence over my life, or my career.
The words are there, on the tip of my tongue, and I let them spill out.
“I wouldn’t be moving back into my apartment for long anyway, even if I were to move back into it. It’s temporary. It always has been. Until I buy my own house. That’s always been the plan.” I say this to make him see that I have a plan. That I’m not the person he’s accusing me of being. “That’s what I was about to tell you about—the business idea I have.”
“You’re going to buy a house?” He’s staring at me.
“Yes. With a garage. And then—” Just starting to tell him about it makes it feel real. Because if I really make the book garage a business, then I won’t have to worry about a pizzeria campaign and whether someone tagged me in a photo or not.
He holds up a hand. “You know what? I don’t actually need to hear this. You’re looking for a house and you’re living with me and I have a house and you won’t just stay with me? I thought this”—he motions to the space between us—“was going somewhere. Everyone said it was a mistake to get involved with you and I didn’t listen. I told them they didn’t understand. But they were right. And I was definitely wrong.”
“Oh, who was right? Gillian? Margot? Yeah, I guess they knew me so well. And yeah, you were wrong about me,” I say, standing up. “So there you go. Don’t worry about wasting your time on me anymore. You’re officially free to go date some other mom who can be the co-parent and perfect little housewife you want her to be. I’m done.” I turn and walk across the grass, through the trees, and down the hill, not looking back.