Chương 13
Leo opened the refrigerator.
Then he said, “But also because I go both places.”
Sarah leaned against the counter.
“Do you feel stuck in the middle?”
He considered it.
“Not as much.”
That answer mattered more than yes or no.
“What made it better?”
“You stopped asking stuff.”
Sarah smiled faintly.
“The family rule.”
“And Dad stopped asking too.”
“Good.”
“And I have chargers in both houses.”
“Very important.”
“And socks.”
“Even more important.”
“And Dad got better cereal.”
Sarah frowned.
“What cereal?”
Leo grinned.
“Not telling.”
“Traitor.”
He laughed and took an apple.
In May, Daniel attended Leo’s soccer tournament with Sarah.
They did not sit together.
Not exactly.
They sat five feet apart because the bleachers were crowded.
When Leo scored, both stood and shouted.
Then they looked at each other and laughed.
After the game Leo ran over sweaty and red-faced.
“Did you see?”
“No,” Daniel said. “We both missed it.”
Leo rolled his eyes.
Sarah handed him water.
Daniel fixed the twisted collar of his jersey without thinking.
They drove away in separate cars.
That still hurt.
It hurt less than before.
The divorce became final in July.
The order arrived electronically on a Tuesday morning.
Sarah opened it at work.
She read the first page twice.
Then she closed the browser and went to a meeting about vendor budgets.
At eleven thirty Daniel texted.
Got it.
She stared at the message.
Typed:
Me too.
He replied:
You okay?
Sarah looked through the conference-room glass at a coworker eating yogurt at her desk.
She wrote:
Not sure.
Daniel:
Same.
That evening they told Leo together.
He sat at Sarah’s kitchen table eating macaroni and cheese.
“It’s final?” he asked.
“Yes,” Sarah said.
“So you’re actually divorced.”
Daniel nodded.
“Yes.”
Leo chewed.
“Do I have to call you exes?”
Sarah blinked.
Daniel laughed.
“No.”
“What do I call you?”
“Mom and Dad?”
“I mean to each other.”
Sarah looked at Daniel.
He shrugged.
“Daniel.”
“Sarah.”
Leo frowned.
“That’s boring.”
“It’s worked for forty years,” Daniel said.
Leo looked at Sarah.
“How long have you been Sarah?”
“All my life.”
“Exactly.”
They laughed.
Leo did too.
Then he became quiet.
“Are you sad?”
Daniel said, “Yeah.”
Sarah nodded.
“Yes.”
“Are you glad?”
Sarah considered.
“Some parts.”
Daniel said, “Me too.”
Leo poked his macaroni.
“I’m still mad.”
Sarah reached across the table and stopped her hand before touching him.
He noticed.
Then he moved his hand under hers.
She closed her fingers around it.
“You get to be,” she said.
Christmas approached again.
The first week of December, the calendar on the refrigerator contained more blue than the previous year.
Green remained dominant by a little.
Yellow appeared three times.
School concert.
Leo’s birthday dinner.
Christmas afternoon.
After months of discussion, they had decided Leo would wake at Daniel’s apartment on Christmas morning this year.
Sarah would have Christmas Eve until eight.
Daniel would have Christmas morning.
At one, Daniel and Leo would come to Sarah’s house for lunch.
Not because Sarah and Daniel believed divorced families needed to perform togetherness.
Because Leo asked for one meal.
They agreed they could handle two hours.
The following year, the morning would reverse.
Sarah hated the arrangement.
She also believed it was fair.
Both things remained true.
On December twenty-third, Daniel called.
“I have a problem.”
Sarah’s stomach dropped.
“What?”
“The telescope.”
She stared at the tree.
The large silver-wrapped box had remained in the hall closet for almost a year.
Leo had never opened it.
“What about it?”
“He asked if he could take it to my apartment Christmas morning.”
Sarah closed her eyes.
“Of course he did.”
“What do you want to do?”
“It’s his.”
“I know.”
“Then he decides.”
A pause.
“You okay?”
“No.”
“Okay.”
She smiled despite herself.
“You’ve gotten better at that answer.”
“I’ve had practice.”
On Christmas Eve Leo carried the telescope box downstairs.
The wrapping paper was torn at one corner.
The original white tag still said LEO.
Sarah had considered rewrapping it.
She was glad she had not.
Leo looked at the box.
“Can I open it now?”
Sarah sat on the sofa.
“You’ve waited a year. I think the rules no longer apply.”
He tore the paper.
Inside was a beginner’s telescope with a black tripod.
Leo stared at it.
Daniel had chosen it because Leo spent the previous summer obsessed with Jupiter.
For months afterward, Leo had barely mentioned space.
Now he ran his hand over the box.
“This is a pretty good one.”
Sarah smiled.
“Your dad researched for approximately nine hundred years.”
“I read reviews,” Daniel said from the doorway.
Sarah looked up.
She had not heard him enter.
He held a canvas overnight bag and wore the same dark winter coat he had worn the day he moved out.
He looked different anyway.
Thinner.
Less tired.
Older in some ways.
Younger in others.
Leo pointed at the telescope.
“Can we see Jupiter tonight?”
Daniel checked his phone.
“Cloud cover.”
Leo groaned.
“Tomorrow?”
“Maybe.”
Sarah stood.
“Take it.”
Leo looked at her.
“To Dad’s?”
“Yes.”
“But then it stays there.”
“It can come back.”
“That’s annoying.”
Sarah laughed.
“Welcome to divorced logistics.”
Daniel gave her a look.
“What?”
“Nothing.”
Leo looked between them.
“You’re being weird.”
“We’re always weird,” Daniel said.
“True.”
At seven forty-five Leo carried his bag to the front hall.
Cooper followed and sat beside his shoes.
Leo knelt.
“You stay.”
The dog licked his chin.
Leo wiped his face.
“Gross.”
Sarah leaned against the wall.
This was the part she had feared for eleven months.
Christmas Eve ending with her son leaving.
She had rehearsed being cheerful.
Rehearsed casual.
Rehearsed not making him feel responsible for her loneliness.
Leo stood.
“Mom?”
“Yeah?”
“You’re making the face.”
“What face?”
“The one where you say you’re okay before anybody asks.”
She laughed softly.
“Apparently I have a face.”
“You do.”
Sarah looked at him.
“I’m sad you’re going.”
Leo nodded.
May you like
“I know.”
“And I’m glad you get Christmas morning with your dad.”
