41 - The Ex Factor

“Boys!  Take it upstairs!” Dorothea ordered, flicking yet another Nerf dart off of the mammoth kitchen island and from the midst of her holiday baking.  It was the third one since she’d told her youngest sons to take their foam-shooting weaponry out of the kitchen.  Baking wasn’t one of her favorite things, so she was already irritable, and the two rambunctious boys weren’t helping.  It was one of those days that she prayed desperately for a “mommy minute”.

“Or month,” she muttered to herself, setting aside her mother’s traditional rum ball recipe.  Bourbon balls would be better.  Straight bourbon would be even better than that.

“When will Daddy be here?” Romeo whined, flinging his gun onto the counter and sending her entire recipe box flying.  Just before she scrunched her face at the clatter of it hit hitting the floor, she saw him wince at another of Jake’s foam darts hitting him in the side of the head.  “Ow!  Stoppit, Jake!  I called TIME.”

Deep breath.  These are your children.  You love them more than life itself.

Their father, though, she’d like to kill.  Her five hours in the kitchen definitely played a part in her foul mood, but a good portion of it was directed at her ex-husband. 

She hated it when he changed his schedule on the kids.  H-A-T-E-D it.  He knew how excited the boys got when it was time to go stay with Dad.  Holidays put that excitement into overdrive.  With Christmas looming ahead, and the promise of Christmas shopping on the table, they’d been raring to go. 

Since yesterday.

But, no…  Instead of fetching his overly-enthusiastic children and their more sedate older siblings, he was strolling Santa Monica Pier with one of his bimbos.  When Dorothea should have been gearing up for a blissfully quiet house in which to do the much-dreaded Christmas baking, she got a concerned call from her oldest sister, followed by a picture message of the ‘happy couple’.

The woman was undeniably beautiful, and younger.  It was hard to tell by exactly how much, but she was unquestionably younger.  At least she had her tits and ass covered in modest shorts and a t-shirt.  Dorothea was grateful for that much.

This wasn’t supposed to bother her.  They were divorced now.  She’d held her breath for the twenty-plus years of her marriage, waiting for photos like this to surface.  To be embarrassed by some random groupie or, God forbid, a secret mistress that he toyed with while she was at home raising his children and keeping up the appearance of the perfect rock and roll couple.

It hadn’t happened – he said he would never put either of them in a position to be humiliated – but the anticipation had been enough to drive her crazy and instill a deep-seated bitterness.  His immediate plunge into the dating pool hadn’t done a thing to sweeten the bitterness.  She was still home raising his – her – children while he went out and did exactly what he wanted to do when he wanted to do it. 

She was more bitter that she couldn’t make herself content with his limited participation in home life and imaginings of an extra-marital free-for-all.  Even though he repeatedly swore to her that she was letting her imagination get away from her.

She knew she held her own share of the blame for their divorce, and she would eventually get over it.  Why? 

Because, dammit all, I actually like him most of the time.

And he was a good father.  He might not always be there in person, but he always stayed involved in everything the kids were doing, and was in the loop on most of their mundane daily activities by text or phone.  He was a dominant presence in his children’s lives.

He was also ten minutes late and counting.

“Daddy will be here by the time you pick up all these recipe cards.”

“But Mo-oom…”

“Don’t you ‘but Mom’ me, mister.”  A forceful finger pointed at the mess he’d made and she had no trouble instilling the necessary steel in her voice to get the job done.  “You know the rule – do the crime, do the time.  Now pick them up and put them on the counter.  The box too.”

Jake had vanished out the dining room door like an impish apparition as soon as the box had gone toppling over the edge.  Dorothea figured it was to escape any residual blame and ensuing slave labor.  That was fine.  They caused less trouble when they were apart.  Lack of one-upmanship, she supposed.

Ducking her head in the refrigerator, she gathered the cold baking staples she would need:  eggs, milk and butter.  She backed out with the intent of moving clear and allowing the stainless steel door to close on its own, but when she put her right foot behind her it landed on another, bigger foot.

Sucking in a quick breath of surprise, she firmed her grip on the carton of eggs that threatened to dive overboard and hit the tile floor.  Whipping her head around, she found her oldest boy with a sheepish grin on his face. 

“Sorry, Mom.  I just wanted to see if there was any of that pizza leftover from last night.”

The boy was always eating.  The hazards of housing a growing sixteen-year-old.  Shooting him with a sharp look of reproach, she informed him, “Your father should be here any minute.  You know he always likes to take you all out to eat.”

“But, Mom, I’m starving.”  He wormed his way around her, desperately scanning the contents of the big refrigerator.  “There’s gotta be something in here.”

“Ah, ah, ah.  Get your nose out of there.  Fruit is on the sideboard.”  She gestured with her chin toward the chunky piece of furniture as she safely placed the eggs on the island.  In the next instant they nearly were roughly shoved to the center of the island with the wooden recipe box he had rescued.  “Watch what you’re doing, Romeo.”

“Dad’s here!”  Jake’s excited screech found them all the way in the kitchen, and Dot glanced at the clock.

Fifteen minutes late.

“I finished pickin’ the stuff up,” Romeo called over his shoulder as he flew out of the room.  “Bye, Mom!”

“Jess.”  He looked up at her with the apple clenched between his teeth like a roasted pig, both hands wrapped around his phone, texting.  “Go make sure Romeo doesn’t take his entire bedroom with him.  Please.  And ask your Dad to come in here.   I want to speak to him privately, so occupy your brothers for a few minutes.”

He mumbled something unintelligible around the apple and ambled away, eyes and hands still fully entrenched in his text conversation.

Blindly scooping all the loose index cards with a soft snort of resignation, she used her thumbs to flick them around until they were uniform enough to go back in the box.  Sorting and alphabetizing them could be saved for later.  Right now, she was valiantly fighting the urge to be a heinous, petty bitch, so her alphabet pretty much consisted of about two letters:  F and U.

Don’t go off on him first thing.  You’re cranky and looking for somebody to take it out on.  And your feelings are hurt.  And he’s late.  And…

“Hey, Dottie.”

He strolled in looking cheerfully sunned and relaxed, sunglasses tucked into the collar of that damn “Keep Calm and Carry On” t-shirt of his.  Taunting her with its inscription, which was probably a barb pointed directly at her.  After the snarky phone call yesterday, he knew she was going to be pissed.

If I wasn’t before, I am now.

“You’re late,” she snapped, slapping the lid on the recipe box closed.  The thin wood gave a satisfying ‘crack’, not unlike the sound of a whip snapping an errant animal to attention.

Errant animal.  Wonder if I could get that on a shirt?

“No, I’m not,” he denied, pushing back his coat sleeve and referring to the ever-present watch strapped to his wrist.  Then he frowned.  “Well, only a few minutes.  Sorry about that.”

She grumbled to herself, trying to let it go, first by counting to ten, and then telling herself she was being childish.  Maybe she was, but she had a lot of repressed anger going on right now, and he was a far better outlet for it than the kids.

“No, you’re a full day late, because the Pecker Express had a LAY-over in Santa Monica with some hot little number.   Little head trumps big head and your commitments to your children.  Nice.”

His jaw went slack and his eyes rolled to the ceiling.  “Really?  We’re really going to do this, Dorothea?  We’re fucking divorced!  That entitles me to have a girlfriend.   As a general rule, people expect that kind of shit, and God knows you need a guy to fuck the bitch out of you.”

Strangely enough, it wasn’t the bitch comment that hurt.  That really didn’t faze her, because she tended to agree.  She’d be a lot less tense. 

What caused a damnable pain somewhere in the vicinity of her chest was the word girlfriend.  Up until now he’d referred to them all as ‘dates’, or ‘women’, or even ‘girls’.  That meant this one was different.  The blonde bimbo with the big boobs was his first girlfriend since the divorce.

“I don’t have the luxury of getting the bitch fucked out of me, Jon!  That’s because I’m busy raising my children so their father can gallivant off with the bimbo du jour and fuck the bitch out of her,” Dorothea snarked, to cover up the hurt she wasn’t entitled to.  She knew she’d crossed a line – stomped over it, in fact – but she felt much, much better for having done so.

Jon dropped his chin to his chest, sighing before shaking his head and moving to the refrigerator.  Pulling open the heavy door like he still lived here, he emerged with a bottle of water, saying in a much more tempered voice, “I don’t wanna do this with you.  We used to be best friends.  I had hoped we could be at least friends again.”

Bastard.

The voice of reason could prick her self-righteous, making it flag like a deflated balloon every time.  Hadn’t she admitted to herself a few minutes ago that she liked him?  Besides, the fact of the matter was that they should be friends if for no other reason than for their kids. 

Some of the stiffness seeped out of her shoulders, but she didn’t trust herself to be nice yet.  Dorothea just docilely nodded her agreement.

He leaned his shoulder against the side of the fridge and crossed ankles.  Studying her ungiving features, Jon appeared to be trying to make some type of decision.  Whatever the outcome, he manned up enough to say,  “I’m sorry I got held up, but Sheridan wasn’t the reason.”

Wonderful.  Now the ‘girlfriend’ had a name.  Sheridan looks more like a Bambi.  Or a Barbie.   

“Daddy?  Is it time to go yet?”  Romeo appeared behind his father, circling Jon’s waist from with his childish arms.

“You’re supposed to be with your brothers,” Dorothea scolded him.  “Daddy and I are talking.  It will be a few minutes.  Now scoot.” 

She waved her hands toward the doorway, but Romeo didn’t budge.  He merely looked up at Jon with soulful chocolate puppy-dog eyes, hoping for a different answer.  Jon wasn’t exactly known for being a strict disciplinarian, and Romeo had no trouble exploiting that fact when it suited him. 

“G’wan,” Jon seconded, gesturing with a tip of his head and reinforcing Dorothea’s directive.  “Gimme just a couple seconds with Mom and we’ll be all set.  Okay, buddy?”

Their littlest flopped his arms dejectedly down to his sides, muttering, “Ooo-kay,” as he scuffed his toes on the tile and snagged his Nerf gun from where it still lay on the island.  He looked forlorn as dragged heavy limbs around the corner, out of the kitchen and into the dining room.

“Richie’s the reason I got held up,” Jon picked up the conversation as though they hadn’t been interrupted. 

“I didn’t see Richie in those pictures.” 

“Dottie, let it go, would ya?” he asked quietly, infamous blue eyes troubled in a way that very few every saw.  “Richie’s drinking has gotten out of control again.”

The remaining bitch boiling in her blood dissipated. 

Now she understood the troubled eyes.  Richie was her ex-husband’s biggest weak spot, aside from the kids.  Dorothea couldn’t say they were close now, but the guitarist had been in her life and house enough so that she considered him as much as a brother as Jon’s biological ones.

Her heart broke, as Jon’s did, every time Richie started to slide down that slope.  Her heart broke for him, for Joan and Ava, and even Jon.

“How do you know?”

A bark of humorless laughter accompanied the answer to her softly spoken inquiry.  “He fell off a fucking stool in his kitchen and screwed up his back.  Poor bastard just can’t seem to get back on his feet after the divorce.”

“Yeah, well divorce is enough to drive you to drink.”

The exchanged a silent look, and she almost felt like they were married again.  On the same page.  Thinking the same thing. 

As quickly as it came, it was gone.  That thread of commonality was broken, and Jon moved on without sharing in her sentiment.

“Divorce definitely drove him to drink, and it might be driving him into rehab.  Again.”

“And when her Daddy’s gone, who’s going to take care of Ava?”

He shook his head sadly, understanding that Heather couldn’t always be counted on either.  “I don’t know.  Swear to God, I don’t know.”