And as far as I knew, Myrna wasn’t that.
At least not categorically.
“If he does, wouldn’t it make sense that he’d call the meeting at Remy’s?” I asked, the words coming out of my mouth even as I wondered why in the heck I was explaining family things to Bea in a manner I was actually defending them. “He’d hardly ask Remy and Myrna to my house.”
“Remy has no problem showing up at your house,” she pointed out, but I wasn’t sure why.
Though, it did get me to thinking, because no, he didn’t have a problem with this.
Even if we barely had anything to discuss anymore. All the important decisions had been made, and now our kids were old enough to make their own.
Yves, a senior in high school, was the only one home, but he had a car. He stayed where he wanted when he wanted, and he spent just as much time with Remy as he did with me.
As for Sabre and Manon, they were both down in Tucson at the University of Arizona, but like Yves, they had cars, and when they were home, they stayed where they wanted, when they wanted.
And the truth of that was that Manon was often with me, not only because she wasn’t a fan of Myrna’s, and Sabre stayed with his dad, because he and Remy (along with Yves), were two (three) peas in a pod.
It was just that Yves was at a time in his life where he still needed Mom and Dad.
Manon was sallying forth in this world as a young woman, and therefore, she needed me.
And Sabre was at a time where it appeared he needed to be around his dad.
I found this all entirely natural and had no qualms with it.
Of course, I’d like to see my first son more. But even if he slept at his father’s house, he was like Manon: his life was so busy, sleep was mostly all he did there.
We had our mother/son times. It wasn’t like he ignored me. Just as Manon spent quality time with her dad.
But Remy did often show at my house to “discuss things.”
I didn’t have a chance to get a lock on remembering what those things were in my present moment.
Bea was, as I was just then noting was her usual, on a roll.
“So you have to be around her during a family meeting, which is a slap in the face.”
“I honest to God don’t know why we’re having this conversation. It’s none of your business what Sabre wants or what I decide to do about it.”
Those words came out mostly because I was ticked, and I had the tendency to get ticked at the drop of hat. As such, I didn’t tend to allow myself a second to think on that emotion before I did something about it.
And in that second, I considered how that might have affected a number of things in my life, and…
Damn.
“Did you just say that to me?” she asked, sounding deeply wounded.
“Bea, you phoned and asked me over for wine, pizza and Netflix, and I told you I couldn’t because I had this meeting then I had to get to the warehouse. It’s kickoff night. You know we have a ritual on kickoff night. Then you started in on Remy, and Sabre, and Myrna, and really, I must say that I don’t know where this vitriol comes from. But I’m worried my son is going to tell me he got some girl pregnant, or he’s decided to change his major even though he’s graduating in May, or something like that. And you’re spewing loathing for Remy when our divorce has been final for two years and we’ve both moved on.”
“First, if you remember, he divorced you, and you did not want that,” she retorted. “And second, ask yourself, Wyn, have you moved on? Have you really moved on?”
Okay, now I wasn’t ticked.
I was mad.
I was also freaked at her second point.
And those, for me, were not a good mix.
“I can’t even begin to imagine why you’d remind me Remy was the one who divorced me,” I stated coolly.
“Because it’s like you forgot he ripped your heart out and crushed it under his boot, this after he’d kicked it around for ten years.”
“And as a friend you feel it’s your job to remind me of that?” I asked.
“Well, yeah,” she answered.
“I think we need to stop talking,” I told her.
“I disagree, since you’re driving over to his house because Sabre is growing up to be a chip off the old block.”
Oh no.
Hell no.
“Think about what you just said to me,” I whispered.
But I wasn’t done.
Boy, was I so not done.
“Now, I listened to you verbally abuse my husband for ten years,” I continued. “And I’m going to have to have a think about that. But do not mistake me and do not miss this message, Bea. Listen carefully. Never…ever…speak badly about my son, to me or anyone.”
With that, I hung up and I stared at my dash, fuming.
Bea rang right back.
I refused the call.
Okay.
Okay, okay, okay.
Heck, now my mind was working quadruple-time.
Put this aside, Wyn, I cut into my own raging thoughts to tell myself. Get it together. Get to Remy’s. You’re running late. You always run late. He hates that.
He did.
He’d tease me about it in the beginning. The first three, four, five, ten (okay, fifteen) years of our marriage.
Then, it annoyed him, and he let that show.
Not long later, around about the time he left, it pissed him off, and he let me know.
My response?
I took it as my tall, dark, gorgeous husband still being tall, dark and gorgeous, and I was the mom of three babies. I still carried baby weight even after they were nowhere near being babies. He was no longer doing the appreciative up-and-down that told me the extra fifteen minutes were so worth it, and he was going to show me just how much when we got home.
No, I was no longer his hot wife he couldn’t keep his hands off.
I was the fat mother of his kids he didn’t have any patience for.
I was also the starting-her-own-business woman who suddenly needed ten more hours in the day to continue to fold his laundry, get the grocery shopping done and look decent for his client dinners.
The interior of my Range Rover rang again, and as it was Bea, I didn’t accept the call.
But I made one to someone else in our posse, top spot bestie shared with my other top spot, Bernice.
The call was to Kara.
She picked up on ring three.
“Oh hell, a call before Sabre’s meeting,” she said as greeting. “Are you okay?”
That was Kara.
It would be Bernice too.
Are you okay?
Not, Typical Remy bullshit.
“Do you think I haven’t moved on from Remy?” I blurted.
“Uhhhhh,” she drew that out then asked, “Let me guess, Bea phoned.”
I blinked.
“She’s blowing up mine, by the way,” she said.
“I just told her off,” I shared.
Kara said nothing.
“She was ranting about Remy,” I continued.
“How am I not surprised?” she muttered.
“Right?” I stated. “Is she like, unhealthily committed to bitching about my ex-husband?”
“She is not a card-carrying member of the Remy Gastineau fan club, no.”
I forged ahead, even if it was tentatively, “And has she not been that for a very long time?”
Kara again was silent.