Flying

Jeff looked pained. “Stella.”

“You kept track of how much you spent on gifts. For your son.” Her lip curled.

They’d hammered out a lot of details in the divorce settlement. Argued over who got to keep the china and how long Stella would remain on his account with Pegasus Airlines so she could get free travel. She’d fought hard for that one. But they hadn’t set up anything specific regarding child support for Tristan, mostly because the original plan had been that each of them would be responsible for whatever expenses arose while he was with each of them, and they’d share major expenses. Stella simply tried to take care of whatever Tristan needed, only going to Jeff for stuff like the braces that had come off last year. Like the ski club trip Tristan had wanted to take last Christmas break that had turned out to be twice as expensive as she’d planned for.

Jeff gave her a look. “Of course. I just wanted to show you...”

Stella crumpled the paper in her hands, then thought better of it. She smoothed it. Folded it. Handed it back to him. “What’s your point, Jeff?”

“I just dropped a couple hundred bucks on him for gear. New shoes. He needed clothes too.” Jeff paused. “Cynthia made sure he had everything he needed.”

Cynthia, who matched her shoes to her belts to her purses. Who got her nails done every week. Hair too.

“Please tell Cynthia I said thanks.”

Jeff blinked. “I estimated your expenses too.”

Stella set her jaw at that, willing herself not to totally lose her shit all over him, but already knowing she was about to blow. “And?”

“Just wanted to share with you, that’s all.”

“Because you want to show me up.”

Jeff frowned. “That’s not what I want.”

“No?” Stella waved a dismissive hand. “Really? Then what’s this spreadsheet about, Jeff?”

But she knew what it was about, without him even having to respond. Jeff was trying to prove to her in his underhanded way that he was as much a parent to Tristan as she was. That just because she did the majority of the day-to-day stuff didn’t mean he didn’t do his share too—the money he’d spent evidence of his parenting. Typical Jeff.

Before he could answer, and she could see his desire to reply in every line of his face, Tristan, wrapped in a towel, hair wet, expression stormy, came into the kitchen. Stella’s eyebrows rose.

“There’s no hot water.”

“Shit,” she said with a sigh. “I’d hoped it was just temporary.”

“Something wrong with your hot water heater?” Jeff asked.

“Maybe.” To Tristan, she said, “Just do a pits and privates until I can take a look at it, okay?”

Jeff was already getting up. Never mind that he hadn’t lived here in eight years, and that when he had, he’d been gone so often on business that Stella had been the one to take care of everything around the house anyway. “I’ll take a look at it.”

“You don’t have to—”

But he was already heading into the basement while Tristan stomped back upstairs. Stella gritted her teeth and followed her ex-husband down the stairs to the small utility room that enclosed the furnace and hot water heater. As soon as he opened the door, Jeff recoiled, lifting his feet as though he’d stepped in dog shit. But it was water. Stella heard the squish of it from where she stood, and she almost laughed at the look on Jeff’s face when he turned to look at her.

“You have a leak,” he said as though it were a personal affront.

“That would explain why we didn’t have any hot water.”

Jeff squished his way to the hot water heater and bent to study it. “Grab me a flashlight, would you?”

“I said I could take care of it.”

He looked over his shoulder at her. “Obviously you can’t.”

There was a time when he’d been able to read her. When he’d known her. Stella couldn’t recall exactly when that had changed, but it was never more obvious than in this moment when she was almost ready to punch him in the junk, and all he could do was give her a condescending sneer.

“Get out,” she said. “I’ll call a plumber. I have a wet vac. I will handle this.”

“I’m trying to help you.”

“I don’t need your help.” Stella crossed her arms and stepped back to let him pass. “I can handle it, whether you think so or not.”

“Don’t get all bent out of shape. I’m just trying to help you—”

“We’re not married anymore, Jeff.” Stella could no longer keep her voice steady and even, and she knew it was only going to give him more ammunition to accuse her of being overemotional—something he’d done a whole hell of a lot of during their last days. “This isn’t your responsibility, and I wouldn’t want you to throw it in my face later. Really, I can handle it.”

“Fine.” Jeff dusted off his hands and pushed past her, muttering something that sounded suspiciously like “stubborn bitch” under his breath.

She’d been called worse.

Stella followed him up the stairs and into the kitchen, leaving him in there and not bothering to look back when he called after her. Halfway up the stairs she heard the front door open and close. She knocked lightly on Tristan’s door, waiting until he answered before she opened it. She had to shove the door against a pile of dirty laundry, but ignored it for now.

“Hey.”

Tristan’s desk overflowed with miscellaneous junk, but he sat at it anyway. Bent over a sketch pad he closed when she came in, he shoved it under a pile of other things and twisted to look at her. He resembled Jeff more than ever when he scowled.

“I can take all the stuff back,” he said. “Cynthia’s the one who wanted to buy it all.”

“I figured.” Stella looked around the room, then leaned against the bedpost. “You don’t have to. Your dad can afford it.”

Tristan nodded, his mouth still turned down. “Okay.”

She wasn’t making it much better. “I’m sorry you heard us fighting about it. It’s not about you, Tristan. You know that, right?”

“Yeah. Whatever.” He turned back to his desk, but didn’t pull out the sketchbook or anything else. He just sat. Dismissing her.

“Tristan.”

He didn’t turn. Stella sighed. She moved closer to put her hand on his unyielding shoulder. She squeezed gently but said nothing else. Tristan sighed heavily.

A few years ago, their dog, Mr. Chips, had died of old age, at home with his head on Tristan’s lap. That had been the last time she could remember her son crying or allowing her to hug him close—he’d grown taller than her in the interim years. And distant. He was becoming more of a stranger to her every day, and she didn’t quite know how to stop it.

“No matter what happens between me and your dad, you know both of us still love you.”

“Yeah.”

Stella let go of him. “I could use your help in the basement, buddy. Can you come down, please?”