Happily Ever After? by Debra Kent

clothes?) His pale blond hair was cropped so closely it looked as if someone had spray-painted his skull. He wore
     a tiny gold hoop in his right ear. He seemed to be growing a beard.
    He slid his sunglasses down his nose. “Nice hair,” he said, smirking. He put his hand on the storm door handle. “I want to
     see Pete.”
    “Pete’s sleeping,” I told him. I had no intention of telling him that Pete was sleeping at Drew’s. I didn’t want him harassing
     the Steubens.
    “I want to see him now.” He jiggled the handle impatiently. I looked toward his SUV and noticed Surfer Girl in the passenger
     seat. The mirror was flippeddown. She was slicking her lips with gloss. She must have sensed that I was watching her because she swiveled her head toward
     me and smiled.
    “You can’t see him now, Roger. He’s sleeping.”
    Roger glanced at his watch. “Wake him up. He’s had enough sleep. I want to see him.” He jiggled the door again. “Open the
     damn door. I have a right to see my son.” He stepped back off the porch and looked up toward Pete’s window. “Petey Boy! Pete!
     Peeetttterrrr!” He was bellowing now. “Wake up, Pete! It’s Daddy! Wake up, honey!”
    “Give it up, Roger. He’s not coming down.”
    Roger shot me a malignant glare. “I have the right to see my son.”
    “No you don’t. Right now I’ve got full custody. You know that.”
    “I don’t care what the papers say. Pete is my son and I want to see him.”
    I glanced toward the SUV. Surfer Girl was pulling a comb through her flowing blond hair. “Go away, Roger,” I told him. “Go
     take your girlfriend to Chuck E. Cheese’s.” I closed the door slowly, deliberately. I locked it and watched through the window
     as Roger stood there, staring up at Pete’s window. Finally, he gave up. At least for the moment.
    ’Til next time,
    V
July 3
    Michael hasn’t called, but Lynette has. She left a message on my machine. She wants to meet for lunch. I haven’t called her
     back.
    ’Til next time,
    V
July 4
    I saw Lynette at the bus stop this morning. Her hair was pulled back in a neat ponytail and she was wearing pale lipstick,
     a hint of blush, no mascara. I, on the other hand, was wearing the same sweats I’d slept in, a pajama top without a bra, and
     slippers. Whatever makeup I’d had on my face was left over from last night.
    “You didn’t return my call,” she said as the bus heaved and rattled down the street. I pretended to wave at Pete. In fact,
     the windows were tinted and I couldn’t make out anyone’s face, let alone Pete’s.
    “I’m sorry, Lynette. I’ve been so busy.”
    “Oh, I understand.” She began to turn away.
    “Wait. Lynette. I’m lying.”
    She turned toward me and waited.
    “It’s just that, I feel so, I don’t know …”
    “Weird?”
    “Weird’s a good word,” I said.
    “I feel weird too,” she said. “It was a weird night. ButI never thought you’d stop talking to me because of it. I guess I thought you’d be more understanding.” She looked down at
     the ground and paused for a moment. “It’s not like you’ve never veered off the straight and narrow. No offense.”
    She was right, of course. But I couldn’t expunge the image of Lynette and Curtis and Wade and Melanie contorting themselves
     on Lynette’s queen-size bed, atop the blue and yellow Amish quilt that Lynette’s mother had given them for their tenth wedding
     anniversary. Why couldn’t I just ease up and be her friend again? “No offense taken,” I said, trying to stoke the remaining
     embers of goodwill. “How’s Hunter?” I asked.
    “Oh, he’s fine,” she chirped, clearly thrilled that I was willing to talk to her. “He’s lobbying for that new Play Station”
     She rolled her eyes. “I told him that Santa’s still waiting for a thank-you note for the Nintendo.” She looked at me. “And
     he really misses Pete.”
    “Maybe we can get them together over the weekend,” I suggested.
    “Oh,