The beer is cold. The sky is muted in pinks and oranges from where the sun has set over the mountains, and the sound of Jagger’s and Bristol’s laughter floats up to me from the grass down below.
They’re playing some benign game of tag. He runs. She pretends to chase. Then she lets him sneak up on her and tackle her down. Tickling ensues. Then laughter. And the scenario repeats itself over and over.
“It’s company policy, Vince.”
“What is? To be your errand girl and be at the talent’s beck and call? To use her for a past connection she had with the talent—me—but then fire her for having that past? We knew each other before I became your client. C’mon, Xavier. You’re grasping at fucking straws here. If Bristol wanted to, she could sue you seven ways from Sunday for unlawful termination.” Fucking McMann.
“It’s not that cut and dried.”
“Then make it cut and dried.” I take a pull on my beer, knowing Bristol would be livid with me for this conversation but needing to have it, nonetheless. “Your reputation is preceding you and not in a good way.”
“Are you threatening me, Jennings?”
“I don’t have to resort to threats for you to make things right. Her work speaks for itself. She doesn’t need someone like me going to bat for her.”
“And yet you are.”
I nod, even though he can’t see it. I most definitely am.
I’m just hoping that maybe when Xavier calls Bristol and offers her her job back, that she tells him to shove it where the sun doesn’t shine.
It’s about time someone does.
More giggles pull me from the conversation replaying through my head. They make me lean forward a little more and look out the second-story window from my recording studio.
It’s still a shock to see him. Still a jolt to my head and heart to realize he’s part mine, made from me, and that he’s incredibly perfect.
It’s impossible to hear that belly laugh and not smile myself. Is that normal? Is it just because this is still all so new?
This feels right.
Isn’t that what I told Bristol? And it fucking does. I can’t explain it, but it’s almost like we’ve spent all these years apart, going through the shit we’ve gone through, and maybe for once we’re going to get it right.
Do I still resent her for some of the decisions she made? Of course I do. Do I still resent me for some of them? Damn straight.
But the question I keep asking myself is, if they went home tomorrow, would it be a relief that they’re gone? Would I revel in the silence and the lack of kid shit all over the house? Would my cold beer on the back patio be more enjoyable without Nickelodeon on in the background somewhere?
Or would I sit in the studio all night because I no longer had something to look forward to afterward? Would I go into Jagger’s room and sit on his bed and miss him? Would I walk into the great room and miss the sight of Bristol sitting at the kitchen table, head down just like Jagger’s as she helps him with his remote schoolwork?
It’s so fucked how you can love your life one way and within a few short weeks, realize it wasn’t as fucking perfect as you thought it was.
Another laugh. A screech by Bristol as she’s play-tackled again no doubt. A “Momma” expressed through belly giggles.
It’s like this is a new normal I want. A new normal I can accept.
It’s just like Bristol to blow my world up and then hold my hand as the pieces fall around me . . . only to make the most beautiful fucking mosaic from them.
The jagged edges are cushioned with mortar. The broken is now a masterpiece.
But there are a few pieces of that mosaic still missing. Either that or they’re too big, too overwhelming, that I need to chip away at their edges so they fit in the picture I want left.
How do I chip at them? How do I get rid of the ugly edges to fit them in?
That’s what I need to figure out.
That’s the only way I can move forward.
