“I don’t eat chicken, Mom,” she says, sitting down now that she knows we’re not leaving right away.
I look from her to Ryan, who shrugs at this news. “Since when?” Audrey recently stopped eating red meat and pork, but so far we’ve managed to keep chicken, turkey and fish on the menu.
She taps on her phone, somehow texting and talking with me simultaneously. “I can just make a sandwich.”
“No, it’s fine. Your dad and I can have the chicken another night.” I rummage around the freezer a bit more. “What about turkey?” She shakes her head. I sigh. “Fish tacos?”
“Sounds good,” she says. Clearly fish haven’t made it to her “animals not to eat” list yet. “As long as they don’t have to numb my mouth.”
I stare at her, bag of fish tacos in hand, a memory niggling at my brain.
“I have a dentist appointment after school? I sent you the calendar reminder last week,” Audrey says.
“Right. Dentist.” I shoot her an apologetic look, and quickly scroll through my calendar. Shit. There it is. I mentally run through my day to figure out how I can be in two places at once—at my last showing and in the school pickup queue. “I didn’t forget. See?” I hold out my phone to show her, but she doesn’t look fooled. “It’s fine. We’ll make it work.” I sneeze again, but don’t get to the tissue box in time.
“Gross, Mom,” she says, disdain on her face. “What’s wrong with you?”
“Allergies,” I reply, blowing my nose.
Audrey shrugs at my response, then leans into Ryan when he bends down to hug her. “Bye, Dad.”
“Bye, pumpkin,” Ryan says. “Have a great day.”
But her attention is already back to her phone, her fingers flying furiously over the keys.
Ryan rubs a ruby-red apple against his thigh, holding the door to the garage slightly open with his other hand. “Meg, why don’t you at least reschedule the dentist? She’s fifteen. Her teeth are perfect.”
“I’ve already rescheduled once, and I’m scared of Dr. Snowden’s receptionist. She’s not kind to serial reschedulers.” I sneeze again. “Guess there’s no chance you could pick her up and take her?”
“Nope.” He shakes his head. “The conference goes until four-thirty, and then I have to do some paperwork.”
“You said the conference was pointless,” I say. “What’s the big deal if you miss the last hour?”
“I’m already missing the last hour,” he says, his tone shifting to one of impatience. “I have a meeting about the clinic, and it was a miracle we could all get our schedules lined up.”
“Another one?” I say, trying to quell my irritation. “Can’t you guys do a conference call or something?” Ryan has been meeting with a few coworkers about starting their own clinic for the past eight months, though there’s been little action on it aside from these get-togethers that seem to take place at inconvenient times. Like when I’ve double booked our daughter’s dentist appointment and a house showing.
“No, we can’t do a conference call. It’s important we’re face-to-face. There’s a lot at stake here, Meg.”
“So you’ve said,” I reply.
He lets his hand holding the apple drop, swallows the last bite, and as he does I see his face change. Harden, like it does when he’s had enough of discussing a particular topic.
“Just reschedule the damn appointment if you can’t get her there. Why are you making me feel like the bad guy here?”
“You’re not the only one with work shit going on,” I say, lowering my voice so Audrey doesn’t hear. “I’ve got a lot happening, too.”
“Then maybe you shouldn’t have booked her dentist appointment for this week.”
We stare at one another, both of us waiting for the other one to give in first, which I do. “Don’t worry about it. I’ll figure it out.” I always do, I want to add.
I walk back through the door and let it slam without waiting for his response, and a moment later hear the garage door open and him pull his car out. This has been happening more often, Ryan and I starting, or ending, our days with an argument. I hate how unsettled I feel when we’re not jibing, and I know we need to talk about it. But lately it seems like we’re both running on hamster wheels—him with work and this new clinic start-up, and me with more clients and responsibilities outside the house—rarely jumping off to spend time together not focused on the logistics of our lives.
“You only have five minutes left,” Audrey says, not looking up from her phone when I walk back into the kitchen.
“I know.” I’m mentally picking out my outfit as I race up the stairs, still frustrated with Ryan and having no clue that later I will forever regret not taking to my sick bed this day.
Ten minutes later I find Audrey sitting in the front seat of my car, seat belt on and eyes cast down on her phone. She’s likely texting her boyfriend, Sam Beckett, or Kendall—Julie’s daughter and one of Audrey’s best friends—probably complaining that her snot-filled mom is going to make her late for class.
“Who are you talking to?” I ask, and I don’t have to look at her to know she’s rolling her eyes at my question.
“I’m not talking to anyone, I’m texting,” she replies. She certainly plays the sullen teenager when she wants to, but most days I know it’s more an act than anything else. As if reading my mind, she adds, “Just Sam.” I steal a glance at her while I back out of our garage and catch the small smile that plays on her lips when her phone buzzes again. Sam is Audrey’s first real boyfriend, and while they’ve only been dating six months she’s clearly smitten. I’m equal parts delighted for her to be experiencing the blush of first love, and terrified about what other firsts come with it. “He’s sick and his dad is making him stay home.”
“Oh? That’s too bad. There must be something going around.” I clear my throat, which now feels like it’s filled with razor blades, hoping I have ibuprofen in my purse.
Audrey asks if I’ve booked the parental driver’s education class Ryan and I need to attend before Audrey can start driving. She’s been asking about it daily for the past week now that her sixteenth birthday (and the day she can get her learner’s permit) is less than a month away. I tell her I have, even though I’ve only left one voice mail, yesterday, and am not officially registered. Satisfied with my answer, she then tells me about Human Pudding—a band she and her friends love whose songs give me a headache—releasing a new album, and about how one of her teachers, who apparently no one likes much, wore white pants that showcased her black-and-pink polka-dotted underwear. Hearing this makes me grateful I never became a high school teacher. Teenagers, at least the ones I know, are fairly ruthless in their judgment of grown-ups—as though your time to make mistakes ends the moment you turn twenty-one and are labeled as an adult. Though I try to listen and respond appropriately, my mind is already past the car ride and school drop-off and on to my work to-do list and what dish I’m going to make for the cookbook club night I’m hosting on the weekend. Soon Audrey is back to her buzzing phone, and I’m lulled into the soft sounds of the car’s interior, and I jump when she speaks again.
“So you’ll pick me up after school, right?”
“Can’t you just walk home?” I turn to her, confusion on my face.
“Mom, seriously—”
I lean toward her and kiss her cheek,