Fitz lifts his arms, wraps them around her waist, and lifts her off his shoulders. “That tickles! Don’t drop me, Fitzy,” she says to him as he sets her down gently.
He tickles her waist. “Never. I’d never tickle you while you were on my shoulders. Only the ground, and then you’ll beg for mercy from the tickle monster.”
With a boisterous laugh, she wiggles away. “Stop, tickle monster, stop!” She rushes to me, hugging me. “Your home run was my favorite part of the game.” She taps her lip. “Except Calvin and Hobbes was a little better.”
“What?” I act indignant.
“Fitz was reading to me the whole time he wasn’t playing, and we read Calvin and Hobbes,” she says.
I ruffle her hair. “You can never go wrong with one of America’s best comics,” I say, grateful that my friends take turns keeping Amelia occupied.
“Amelia,” Fitz chides. “Tell your dad the truth. You read a lot of it to me too.”
My kid smiles at me, big and bright. “It’s true, Daddy. I read to Fitzy. And he was super impressed because I am an awesome reader, thanks to you.” She pats my forearm and tells Fitz, “He reads to me every night.”
“I taught him how to read,” he deadpans.
I roll my eyes, but then meet my friend’s blue-eyed gaze, clapping him on the shoulder. “Thanks for hanging with her during the game.”
He tousles her hair. “One of my favorite things to do.” He looks at the crew—Summer, Oliver, and me. “You guys up for some chow before the show? I’m hungry just from watching Logan expend all that energy on a grand slam.”
Summer gestures uptown. “I’ve got to stop by the fitness center. I want to see how the kickboxing class went tonight, but I can join you guys in a bit.”
Oliver slips an arm around her waist. “I bet it went perfectly. What could go wrong with kickboxing for seniors?”
“Gee. I don’t know,” Summer says. “That’s why I need to go. But we’ll meet up with you guys at the Lucky Spot, right? Check out the new band.”
“See you there,” I say, grateful to hang with my crew tonight, since I don’t actually know when I’ll hear from Bryn again on the do you want to disclose and date question. But I’ll give her time.
Oliver and Summer grab their softball gear and head off.
“I want to go out with you and your friends tonight,” Amelia says, frowning as she bats puppy-dog, take-me-with-you eyes. They work in most circumstances. Except tonight, since my time with her is unwinding.
I drop a kiss to her cheek. “I know you do, sweetie. But mommy is here to pick you up, and I’m sure she has something fun planned with you this weekend.”
I sling the softball gear onto my shoulder, and we leave with Fitz to meet Stacey at the Seventy-Second Street entrance to the park.
Her voice hits my ears as we near the exit. “And would you believe, David, then she said there was no way she was going to bring nut-free treats for the class. And I said, ‘Yes way, you have to.’”
I roll my eyes. Stacey has never let go of the need to be the classroom nut police. Admirable goal, to be sure. But it never warranted so much . . . conversation.
And I’m damn grateful I no longer have to listen to it.
“Mommy!”
Amelia takes off running, flinging herself at her mom. Seeing my girl like this, loving both her parents, keeps me focused on getting along with my ex. I’d do anything for Amelia—anything to make her life in two homes as easy as possible.
Still, I mutter under my breath to my friend, “Why does she always have to bring him?”
Fitz claps my shoulder. “You got this, bro.”
And he’s right. I do have this. It’s been two years, and it doesn’t hurt like it used to, seeing her with the guy she left me for.
The guy she cheated with.
He’s some jerkwad at an investment firm I did business with. An office manager type who worked fewer hours than me.
That was her criteria, it seemed.
She met David at a business dinner for my firm. And what did she do then? Took up with him while I was at the office. When I found out, she begged me to take her back.
Said she was sorry.
Said it was a mistake.
That it would never happen again.
When I said no fucking way were we staying together, she changed her tune.
“I was lonely. All you do is work. You were working all the time,” she said, like it was my fault she’d strayed.
Also, she was wrong.
I was home every night by seven. Home nearly every weekend. I rarely missed storytime or bedtime or bath time. I made breakfast with Amelia every morning and took her to preschool most days.
But when our marriage cracked, Stacey flung my work in my face. “I want someone who can give me more attention. You spend all your time on business. David’s not like that. He’s focused on me. He’s off at five every night.”
I hardly think two hours a night made much difference.
