Coin-flipping had long been a tradition for Regan—leaving all kinds of decisions of varying levels of importance to the random toss of a coin made all kinds of sense to her. And why not? If you boiled it down to the basics, there were always two opposing answers to any question. Whether you agonized over the pros and cons of each, or just flipped a coin, you’d eventually choose one answer over the other. Why not flip, and eliminate all the turmoil?
This time, it wasn’t a groundbreaking decision. She knew she had to talk to Rick, her ex (more recently known as the scumbag). The question was, should she go in person to his apartment and face the possibility of Monique being there, or take the chicken way out and telephone? Regan found her purse and dug a nickel out of it. She rubbed it thoughtfully, knowing which answer she wanted. But Fate had it in for her today—once she’d given it a healthy flip, and it made a couple graceful twirls in the air, the coin lay on heads—go to the apartment in person. She heaved a big sigh and for a moment, debated a new tactic—best two out of three. But, a little uneasy at changing the rules mid-game, she pitched that idea. She’d never had a gripe with her coin-tossing method before. Better to keep it pure.
She glanced at the tiny digital clock on her coffeemaker—it was just after eight AM. She had a good two hours before Luke’s normal Saturday emergence time. With any luck, she’d be to Rick’s and back by then. And, if she happened to arrive early enough to annoy him—well, that was just an added bonus.
She jotted a quick note to Luke, taped it to the refrigerator and headed out, grabbing a book on the way out. No rest for the weary; she read constantly.
As a book reviewer for the Chicago Tribune, her reading list was enormous. However, since she took public transportation everywhere she went, she hammered out an impressive number of pages on quick thirty-minute rides.
A little later, she exited the elevated train on Hermitage and walked three blocks north to the sandstone townhouse that housed her ex-husband. Approaching it, she wasn’t prepared for the quick stab that attacked her heart. Surprised, she recognized it as regret. Sadness. Where had they gone wrong? Why had they let it get so far gone?
She scoffed at the welling in her eyes, and swiped at the unreleased tears with the back of her hand, damming the whoosh of emotions before they had ample time to hatch. Standing on the pavement, she pulled herself together. No use crying—what was done, was done. She could analyze to death why Rick had decided to stray—what she could have done better, what he should have done instead—but the fact was, it wouldn’t change a thing.
Straightening her shoulders, she trotted up the half dozen or so steps, and rapped on the big wooden door.
Nothing. She glanced at her watch—8:40. Not the crack of dawn, but still probably sleepy time for party animals like Rick had become, once he’d connected at the hip to Monique the super-sleaze.
Smirking determinedly, she rapped again—harder. And was rewarded, eventually, with some swishy noises on the other side of the door, and then the clanky sound of the locks pulling, sliding and disconnecting. The big door swung open—not much, but enough to see a little rectangular view of messed up hair, a half-closed eye and striped cotton. Enough to recognize her ex-husband.
“Rick, it’s me. Let me in.”
He groaned and rubbed his hand over his prickly chin. She heard the scrape-scrape-scrape sound and tried not to think of how many times she’d rubbed her head over that same chin while she shifted next to him in bed, trying to find a comfortable position to slumber the night away, feeling safe within his arms.
What a fool she’d been.
“Regan, for pete’s sake. It’s too early for a social call.”
“Maybe so, but it’s positively morning. And we have to talk. Open up.”
He slammed the door tellingly and then opened it again. “Ever hear of the telephone?” He stood with one hand on each side of the doorframe, refusing her entrance.
“Yes, but it wasn’t in the coins.” She caught his eye-rolling and found just the slightest bit of amusement that he understood that cryptic comment. So he thought he could stop her from coming in, did he? He should know better than that. She ducked under his left arm and popped into the townhouse before he registered any movement.
He looked chagrined, grumbled, “Coins,” and closed the storm door, leaving the big door standing open—a message to her that her visit wouldn’t be long. As if needing to prove himself boss in his own home, he cleared his throat and replied gruffly, “All right, I’ll give you ten minutes. Then you’re out of here. I mean it, Regan.”
Regan smirked. His pinstriped pajamas and ruffled mop of hair contradicted his authoritarian air. Her gaze lingered on his head—he needed a haircut—it must be coming up on five weeks now, and he always needed a cut every … Stop it, Regan! He’s not your responsibility anymore!
“It’s Luke.”
A shimmer of concern crossed his grumpy expression. “Is he okay?”
“Yes. I mean, he’s healthy. And safe.” She glanced around, feeling a little awkward standing in the foyer, but he didn’t look like he was going to offer her a seat, a cup of coffee. “But unhappy, Rick.”
Whatever diminutive measure of unease he’d shown a moment ago swept away. He dismissed this comment as pure tripe. “The divorce is still fresh, Regan. Children always take the brunt of the, uh, adjustment, don’t they?”
“Adjustment?” She meant to keep it casual, but it came out as a spit. “That’s a nice, neutral word. Kind of like when they say mothers experience ‘discomfort’ in childbirth.”
He rolled his eyes and started to turn away but her next words, not to mention her hand gripping his arm, held him where he was.
“Try pain, Rick. Downright slicing, hemorrhaging pain. Okay, he’s not visibly bleeding anywhere, but inside he’s in a world of hurt.” She released her physical hold on him and he stayed put—she must have grabbed his attention, too. “He’s not a kid anymore, but he’s not an adult yet. His family has been torn apart in front of his eyes. He tries hard to be cool and unaffected, but you know what? Our son is wounded inside and he doesn’t have the tools to handle it. Now, what are we going to do to help him?”
He locked eyes with her for a moment and her heart caught with the hope that they’d work together—that the little boy who had meant so much to him, who was now veering down the wrong path, would become a priority in his life. In his new, carefree life.
But then he scoffed and said, “So dramatic, Regan.”
She sighed and let her hands drop to her sides. “You don’t believe me? Try talking to your son.”
“I do—every other weekend, and every Wednesday night.” He started to drift away, his flighty attention being distracted now by the sight of the morning paper resting on his step. He opened the storm door and stooped to retrieve it, and she had to fight the urge to knee him in the stomach.
“I mean really talk to him, Rick. Beyond the superficial. Beyond game scores and the names of girls he has crushes on. Ask him how he feels about the divorce, and how he’s handling it all. I think you may be surprised by his answers.”
He flipped open the heavy bulk and scanned the front page. “Nah, that’s not what we do. That’s what you do.”
A flame of anger stoked in her chest. “Oh, so it’s my job to communicate with our son? It’s my job to make sure he’s not dying inside? Just like it’s my job to feed him and clothe him. Make sure he gets to school in the morning, and does his homework at night. Make sure he hangs out with the right friends, and isn’t involved in anything terrible like drugs or alcohol or premarital sex.”
She was on a roll and she knew it. She was well aware that she should stop because he was shutting down on her—always had when she began lecturing. She was speaking with such passion now that when she stopped, she panted with exertion. But she had to know. Had to push him right over the edge. “Just what exactly is your job now, Rick?”
He halted his nonchalant scan of the paper and narrowed his eyes at her, a sneer playing at his lips. “Oh, I get it now. That’s what this is all about, eh?”
His expression caused an unbidden shiver in her shoulders. “What?”
He stepped closer to her and let the paper drop behind him, forgotten. “You come here after more child support? Is that it? Well, you already get the lion’s share, lady. You’re not squeezing any more out of me.”
Boy, could she let him have it on that one. Did he think she was stupid? She was well aware of what his monthly salary was, having helped him for fifteen years achieve it. She could also do the math—she knew what a pathetically small percentage she was receiving from him as child support. But no, it wasn’t about that. Money, and asking for more of it, was the furthest thing from her mind when she came here today. Pride was about the only thing she had right now. That, and a determination to make it on her own, with as little supplementation from him as possible. She’d show him just how well she could support herself and Luke. It would just take her a little while to get on her feet.
She took a deep breath, an attempt to calm her racing pulse, and pushed away the bangs that had fallen into her eyes. She had let her anger get the better of her. Her intent was derailing. She needed to get the conversation back on track. “Look Rick, let’s calm down. I’m not here asking for more money. I’m here to discuss a conversation Luke and I had last night. He’s not happy with our living situation. Living with me part of the time, you part of the time. I don’t think he’s adjusting well to the divorce at all.”
If he had looked relieved a minute ago, now he looked like a rabbit being chased out of a bush by a hound. “So that’s it! You want me to take on more custody.”
It was moments like this she wondered how she’d actually survived with him for fifteen years without wrapping her hands around his neck and squeezing for all she was worth. She started to argue, to assure him that she approved of the custody arrangements, that she loved having Luke as much as she did. But he went on.
“I just can’t do it right now, Regan. You can’t agree to primary custody, and three months later pull the rug out from under me. It’s just not right.” He tossed a panicked hand through his hair, intensifying his already mussed look.
“Rick, hold on …,” but she couldn’t get another word out before he continued, pacing back and forth across the small foyer.
“I’ve got this new relationship now. I owe it to myself to see if I can make this work. What I need with Monique is time.”
A vision, sort of like mercury barreling to the top of a thermometer and bursting through the glass barrier, filled her senses. “Why—- you—- !” She stopped, trying to grab control again before she spit out the first angry thing that came to her head—and it wouldn’t have been pretty. And in that moment of clutching for the quickly departing sanity in the situation, it became crystal clear to her.
She shouldn’t be grieving over this man. She shouldn’t waste the smallest bit of heartache on him. Despite the fact that they had shared fifteen years together, and had created the miracle of Luke, he wasn’t the same man she’d fallen in love with. He’d turned into something else, and she hadn’t followed him. Thank God.
With a renewed calmness, she turned to him. “Rick, calm down. I didn’t come here for more money, and I didn’t come here to ask you to take more custody. I just need a little help …”
But he was on a rant, and Regan was sure, because she knew him so well, that he would have his say. “You better watch yourself, Regan. I don’t need to remind you that you’re walking a thin tightrope. One mis-step, and you’re going to fall.”
His tone caused a sinister shiver to flit down her spine. A ball of unease rested in her stomach. She would’ve loved to take the high road. She would’ve loved to walk away, head high, confident in herself.
But she knew he was right. “Rick, come on now.”
But he sensed victory and forged ahead, brandishing a sword when a table knife would’ve worked. “You don’t want to go back to custody court. I managed to keep any word of your, uh, indiscretion out of court the first time. But I can’t make any promises about Round Two.”
Regan felt her hands begin to shake and her breath came in little blasts now. “Rick, please.” It was a whisper.
“So, my advice to you is to turn around, go back home, and forget any thoughts you had of putting the screws to me for more money or more time to yourself.” He skulked closer to her and hissed his last words just a few inches from her face, “Your little skeleton in the closet would be my ace in the hole.”
Regan’s head was pounding, and it seemed as if a swarm of flies were buzzing around in her ears. She had to get out of there. She turned and stumbled to the front door. She gathered what dignity she could as she held tightly onto the doorknob and faced him again, her voice low and controlled, “You can’t drag me down to your level. I came here to have a civil conversation about some concerns our son shared with me. But you immediately jump to conclusions, terrified that your new lifestyle is in jeopardy. Little do you know, the last thing I want is more from you. But you have reached the lowest of low—to throw that whole situation in my face—when you know how long and how hard I’ve tried to get past it—to threaten to use it against me. That’s beyond reprehensible. I wouldn’t believe that you could sink so low.”
He opened his mouth as if to reply, but she didn’t want to hear what he had to say. She turned the doorknob and flung open the door. She flipped around, and avoiding his face, her gaze rested on a framed portrait hanging on a wall in the foyer—Rick and Monique. But instead of initiating a feeling of regret or sadness, it caused an unexpected glimmer of humor. He looked old enough to be her father.
And with that last refreshing thought, she slammed the door and left.