Coldflash, Weekend Custody Exchange
“Papa!”
Len catches the hyperactive bundle of brown hair and long, bony limbs as it flings itself with an overenthusiastic leap into his arms. Len groans as he bears the weight and hoists his daughter up to rest on his hip.
“Whoa, hey, easy there, Nora,” Len says, the corners of his eyes pinched, almost imperceptibly, in genuine pain despite his teasing tone. “You gotta watch Pops’ back. We’re not all as young and limber as we used to be.”
Len glances over at Barry and offers him a wry smile. Barry stands awkwardly, holding Nora’s overnight bag in one hand and barely meeting Len’s eyes. His smile is disingenuous, forced in place to keep their six-year-old’s carefree innocence in tact when something is obviously wrong.
Sighing, Len lowers Nora gently to the ground, reaches into his pocket, and pulls out a twenty. “Listen, Snowflake,” he says, passing over the cash. “Michael’s waiting in the car. Why don’t you get him to take you for some ice cream while I talk with Dad for a minute?”
“Really,” Nora shrieks, nearly vibrating with excitement. “Thank you, thank you, thank you!”
She hugs Len around the waist, then takes off running for the grey sedan parked a few feet away.
“One scoop,” Barry calls after her. “Or you’ll be sick.”
“Okay, Daddy,” Nora calls back, but she doesn’t sound overly sincere. She yanks open the front passenger side door and all but drags Michael from the car, grabbing onto his arm and tugging before he’s even got his seatbelt off.
They may not share any blood relation, but Len’s son is good with Nora, treats her like a sister, even if they only spent three years living together full time. Nora takes Micheal by the hand, and the fifteen-year-old allows himself to be lead without complaint, barely stopping to offer a cursory, “hey, Barry,” thrown over his shoulder.
Nora chatters to Michael a mile a minute as they head toward the ice cream parlour at the far end of the park, about what kind of ice cream she wants to get, about her week at school, about the macaroni wreath her stepmom helped her make for show and tell.
Barry watches her go with a wistful smile. Len can’t say he feels much differently.
“She’s getting so big,” Len says.
Barry scoffs. “You just saw her last week.”
“Kids that age,” Len defends. “They grow like weeds.”
“Michael’s getting big, too,” Barry offers.
A bittersweet smile tugs at the corner of Len’s lips. “He’s been bugging me to sign him up for defensive driving classes.”
Barry says nothing at that. He doesn’t make to get back in his car, either, just keeps his thousand yard stare on the spot where Nora and Michael have disappeared around a curve in the path.
“Remember when you promised we’d always be together?” Barry asks, finally breaking the silence before Len has a chance to decide whether he wants to know what’s going on in Barry’s head or not. “Because I remember when I thought you meant it.”
Len eyes Barry, notices the way his foot bounces, the way he spins his wedding band with the meat of his pinky. “Trouble in paradise?”
Barry flinches, then goes shock still. “I think we’re getting a divorce,” he admits.
“So you’re coming to me with your sob story?” Len asks. “What? You think you’ll leave your wife, and we’ll get back together, and everything will be just fine and dandy for the rest of our picturesque little lives?”
Barry shrugs, noncommittal.
Len levels him with the most derisive scoff he can muster. “You make an awful lot of beds, Barry,” he says. “Just once, maybe you ought to try lying in one.”
Barry bristles. “What are you saying?” he asks.
“I’m saying,” Len replies. “That you’re a runner. It’s what you do. But you made a commitment, and maybe, for once in your life, you should try seeing it through. Go home. To your wife. Tell her how you’re feeling. Hell, go to counselling if you have to. But don’t just give up the first time it starts looking like things might get hard.”
“Do you think that would have helped?” Barry wonders. Something in his voice sounds regretful, resigned. “If we’d gone to therapy, I mean. Do you think we’d still be here?”
“No sense in what-ifs, Barry,” Len tells him. “Besides, I wouldn’t have gone. I’m too closed off, remember? I don’t tell anyone how I really feel. Sure as hell not when it matters
“But you do,” Len insists. “That’s your whole brand. Oversensitive, oversharing. So talk to your wife. Or you’ll always end up right back here.”
Barry nods. He says nothing, passing along Nora’s overnight bag and heading back to his car, quiet and pensive.
When Barry gets the door open, a sudden burst of something hits Len square in the chest, and he finds himself calling out. “Barry!”
Barry stops, gives Len a curious look.
“For what it’s worth,” Len says, working around the uncomfortable lump in his throat. “I did mean it. I always did.”
Barry is still for a moment, eyes wide. Then, he nods, gets in his car, and drives away.