The reflection of the sun off the lake causes prisms to dance all over the kitchen.
Sun kisses.
Isn’t that what Jagger called them yesterday when he sat here and tried to count them before erupting into a fit of giggles when I shifted and one landed squarely on my face?
Memories.
We’re making memories here. The kind of memories that come when you’re removed from your everyday norm and have the chance to be mindful of every minute of your time. Memories that Jagger is no worse for wear from but that feel so very bittersweet to me since I’m on the outside looking in.
It’s been three days since we left my house, hopped on a private plane, and arrived here at Lake Chelan in Washington.
Vince’s house here is overwhelming in size. A huge great room is the main focal point and from it, halls branch out on either side with every room a wall of windows so as not to miss the lake’s crystal-blue water. It’s a mixture of modern and minimalist that somehow fits together.
Then there’s the property itself with its massive lawn, a sizeable pool, and a deck out over the water.
Add to that it’s completely private with a gated entrance and state-of-the-art security system . . . and so far, no paparazzi sitting in trees with telephoto lenses.
The privacy and space have given me nothing but time to think. It doesn’t help that Simone’s texts are still coming fast and furious. About me holding out on her when it came to Vince. About what utter bullshit it is that McMann fired me. About everything I kept secret from her.
But at least I can now confide in her, even if it’s just to know that someone else is there for me in this time of absolute chaos.
I’m out of a job. Isn’t that what I feared happening all along? And now that it really has, there’s not much I can do from where I’m sitting, hiding out in the Washington wilderness.
So I’ve had to put my job hunt on the backburner—the worry, the anger, the confusion—because all that matters right now is making sure that Jagger is okay. That he thinks this little vacation is simply that—a trip with Mommy’s new friend, instead of an escape from all the crazy people who were at our house.
And I’ve yet to even be able to explain that to him. But I need to figure it out because no doubt the question will come again.
In the meantime, Jagger is having the time of his life. He’s never had a yard this large to roam free around, to stage imaginary battles on, and a pool to swim in whenever he wants.
For him this is heaven. He gets me without work or school. He gets the outdoors and some freedom. And he gets to play with his newfound friend.
And that newfound friend of Jagger’s, Vince, has caused nothing but complete and utter misery for me.
Not because of what he has done, but more because of what he hasn’t—which is essentially disregard me unless he has to interact with me.
Three days is a long time to live with the silent treatment. To try and act like everything is normal for your six-year-old, while hoping your next interaction with Vince will be the catalyst to finally open the lines of communication.
Because we do need to talk. Correction, I need to talk. To explain. To justify my reasons and everything else in between. This waiting is killing me, and the few times I’ve caught Vince looking at me, hurt radiates like an aura around him.
The studio on the second floor is where he goes when he’s not spending time with Jagger. When he’s there, avoiding me, a mixture of sounds will escape the open windows and float down to us where we sit in the yard. But it’s the lyrics I can’t make out, and they are what I want to hear the most. I have a feeling they might be my only window into what Vince is feeling inside.
A sun kiss hits my face again, much like yesterday, and snaps me from my thoughts and back to the matter at hand—getting the snacks Jagger requested for our picnic.
With hands full, I head back outside to where he’s building a Lego set at an outdoor table. But when I turn the corner, my feet stop working and my heart flips in my chest. Vince and Jagger are sitting side by side on the outdoor wicker couch with matching acoustic guitars resting across their laps.
Vince is patiently explaining hand positioning and helping put Jagger’s little hands in the right place.
“Like this,” Vince says and plays a few chords. Jagger looks down and tries the same, then makes a sound when he can’t get it right. “Don’t get frustrated. There are a lot of moving parts. I’m here to help you.”
Jagger looks up at Vince, at his dad, and the absolute trust in his eyes, his unjaded innocence, has tears welling in my eyes.
“Come here. Let me show you.” Vince sets down his guitar, and then picks up Jagger and moves him onto his lap. From there, he wraps his arms around Jagger’s arms and hands so he can help him.
Even from here, I can see that Vince is doing all the work as a few chords are played, but the gasped shock and grin of pride on Jagger’s face owns every part of my soul.
And if that didn’t get me in the feels, after they’re done, when Vince sets Jagger back beside him and asks him to play with him—and they both hold their heads at the same angle and purse their lips in the same way—that would have.
What I’d do to have a photo of this. To be able to capture this moment and put it in a frame to place among all the others I have at home.
But I don’t want to move and chance ruining the moment. Nor do I think I’d be able to walk away and risk seeing it with my own eyes.
As they play, as Jagger looks down, concentrating like I’ve never seen him concentrate before, Vince happens to look up and meet my stare.
There are a host of emotions in his eyes—all of which would be conjecture for me to guess. But one thing is clear, my decisions have robbed much from both the men in my life that I love.
Time.
Memories.
Moments.
Mentorship.
Love.
The question is, if I had to do it all over again, would I have done it differently knowing what I know now?
I don’t know.
I just don’t know.
