Unsettled

Brittle

The thing about cutting someone from your life, or trying to, is that everyday things end up associated with them... So even if you succeed in banishing the individual, you are still forced to face the memory of them striking in unexpected moments. In those moments even something as harmless as a tea kettle can bring you to your knees.

You can stop buying strawberry cheesecake yogurt, and throw away the gifts you'd purchased well in advance of Christmas and his future birthdays — advanced planning coming back to bite you in the ass in a big way on that count — but you can't stop everyone in your immediately vicinity from singing certain Golden Oldies that remind you of off-key serenades in the shower on Sunday mornings... Or prevent them from using certain turns of phrase that instantly make his voice echo the words within your head.

Breaking the stoop rule was the start of it. You bent it once and came out of it unscathed — well, relatively. You'll never be able to shake the feeling that something you had done, or hadn't done, had also caused him to stray — even taking into account his reassurances that it was solely him at fault.

If the stoop rule had still been in effect, or if Tom has just been a bit earlier in coming to pick up Max... or your date a bit later... No. Tom had arrived exactly when he meant to. He wanted to size up the man that would be taking you to dinner.

"Doesn't your mum look —"

"Tom." You bite out a word of warning, cutting off his sentence. You can feel the way he has been looking you over since walking in the door and thusly know exactly what he thinks of your appearance without needing to give him the benefit of finishing the sentence.

Tom has his hands full trying to keep his hold on the wiggle-worm you have for a son. He is bent in a near-squat with Max wrangled between his knees, the little boy held in place by Tom's gentle but firm grasp.

Tom is stalling, trying to be present when Hunter arrives. Every moment Tom stays where he is is another in which your three year old can work out some way to be free of his father's grasp and bound around the house again. "Max agrees with me — don't you, mate?"

Max nods and replies with an emphatic, "Mummy!" He flings his arms up in the air, smacking Tom in the face in his over exuberance. The action causes two things to happen: Tom releases Max — freeing the little tornado of a three year old to swirl around the room once more, and a trickle of blood appears and drips from Tom's nose.

Tom blinks away tears as he tries to right himself, his hand immediately lifting to cover his nose and try to prevent the blood from dripping onto his clothes. Stunned from the start he'd received from Max's reaction it takes him a second to do anything but sit on the floor on his backside.

Max, thrilled at his escape and not yet aware of the consequences of his actions, is still on a beeline to his room. He'll have another armload of toys to bring with him for his overnight stay with his father when he reappears.

You leave Max to gather his troops, focusing instead on his wounded father. "Oh! Tom!"

You try to keep your voice low to prevent Max's attention being drawn to the fact that his father is down and bleeding, but to your ears your concerned yelp echoes around the room. You've not yet finished getting ready, still holding a tube of lipstick and some jewelry, but abandon the items on the coffee table in favor of scooping up a washcloth from the kitchen.

Back on his feet, Tom already has something crumpled up within his hand and pressed to his face with his head tilted backward to try to stop the blood flow when you approach. He waves you away, "Watch out or you'll muss that ivory dress. I'm fine. I'm fine."