He changed jobs repeatedly.
Stayed out.
Drank too much for a while.
Nothing dramatic enough for one terrible story.
A thousand small absences.
When Charlie was two, Trent left.
Said he needed to “figure himself out.”
He moved two towns away.
For the first six months, he visited irregularly.
Then less.
Then almost never.
Child support came through payroll when he was employed consistently.
Clare did not chase him emotionally.
She was too tired.
“Why didn't you ask him to come to Donuts with Dad?”
I asked once.
She looked at me.
“Because I wanted Charlie to have a good morning.”
That answer told me enough.
Our first actual date was at a restaurant forty minutes away because Clare did not want half the town reporting our appetizers.
I wore a sweater I had not worn since Rachel.
Clare wore a black dress.
When she came outside, I forgot a sentence.
She noticed.
“What?”
“Nothing.”
“That is a lie.”
“You look nice.”
She smiled.
“So do you.”
“I own six shirts.”
“Still.”
Dinner was awkward.
Wonderful.
Awkward.
We talked about everything except Charlie for the first hour.
Music.
Books.
Travel.
She had never been west of Chicago.
I had never been outside the United States.
She wanted to see Maine.
I wanted to see Montana.
Then she asked:
“Do you still love Rachel?”
I nearly choked.
“Direct.”
“Sorry.”
“No.”
I thought.
“I don't know.”
Clare waited.
“I love parts of the life.”
“I miss who I was before everything became tests and disappointment.”
“I don't want her back.”
“That’s probably the answer.”
She nodded.
Then I asked:
“Do you love Trent?”
“No.”
Immediate.
“I loved who I thought he could become.”
“Different problem.”
We both laughed.
The relationship became real in March.
Sleet outside.
10:04 p.m.
Clare called.
Not text.
Called.
I answered.
“What's wrong?”
“Nothing.”
Her voice said everything was wrong.
“Charlie has strep.”
“Okay.”
“He won't sleep.”
“I haven't slept.”
“My insurance is fighting the antibiotic because the pharmacy changed something.”
“Clare.”
“I’m fine.”
“You called.”
“I know.”
“Why?”
Silence.
“I wanted to hear someone.”
I hung up.
Twenty minutes later, I was at her door with chicken soup from the diner, crackers, children’s electrolyte drinks, and orange popsicles because Charlie once told me orange was the only correct flavor.
Clare opened the door.
She looked destroyed.
Hair everywhere.
Same gray sweatshirt I had seen Tuesday.
No makeup.
Eyes red.
“You came.”
“You called.”
“I didn't ask you to.”
“I know.”
I put the bag down.
She started crying.
Immediately.
Not delicate movie tears.
The ugly exhausted kind where your face stops cooperating.