How to Be a Grown-up Read Free Page B

that short he’s directing in Rhode Island,” he said groggily. Outside, the late-night traffic made a soft whir, a stop/go in time with our conversation. “Ten-day shoot.”
    “Okay?” I said it like a question. “When?”
    “Tomorrow.”
    “But you haven’t seen the kids in two weeks.”
    “We’ll FaceTime. I’ll catch the train in the morning after we drop them off.” He wasn’t asking; he was telling.
    Ten more days. As a solo parent. I could do it. If this was what he needed.
    “But when you get back, Blake, we’re going to talk.”

Chapter Two
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    “Jesus, are you okay?” Jessica asked the next morning as I knelt on the floor of Maya’s room brushing her hair for her first day of pre-K. Jessica was already at her office at the Time Warner Center, just a few blocks away. I could picture her chewing on a pen to give her nails a break. Now the editor of the parenting vertical of the Huffington Post, she worked hours that should have completely precluded parenting, only her sons, Henry and Gus, were seven and five.
    “I’m bummed for him—for us. This really seemed like it was finally The Thing. Maya, stop wriggling,” I said through teeth clenching a Hello Kitty rubber band. “But at least now Blake can’t fight me on finding a full-time job.”
    “Oh, Rory,” Jessica said, which was shorthand for, Full-time job? Where? Doing what?
    “How’s it going on your end?” I asked.
    “Well, we started the day with Henry down on the living room floor with Minecraft saying, ‘Mom, I’m trying to figure out how to kill the most people.’ And I said, ‘Honey, let’s not call the dweebils or weebils or whatever they are “people,” because it sounds bad.’ And in a way it’s so sweet because he can’t even process why that would be. Death has no cognitive underpinning for him. Kill probably doesn’t even have anything to do with death. So Henry and Gus tried to leap into an explanation of the game, but of course, I was already late for work. I have to try to make it home before they’re asleep so they can teach me.” Jessica had so made the right move when she decided to get back together with Miles after his MFA. He ran a successful graphic design company from their brownstone and did the drop-offs, the pick-ups, the sick days, the grocery runs—everything Blake should also have been in charge of and yet, mysteriously, wasn’t.
    “Ooh, there’s Claire on the other line,” I said. “Let me get this.”
    “Tell her I love her and I want my blouse back. Bye!”
    “How’s my girl doing?” Claire asked, huffing on the Stairmaster. Claire was an abstract painter whose “yes, but” was now working in the planning department of the Museum of Modern Art.
    “She’s getting pigtails for her big day.”
    “Mommy’s making me!”
    “Put me on speaker. Hi, Maya. It’s your Godmama.”
    “Hi, Claire!” Maya adored Claire, who, at forty-one, was convinced she would never have children of her own and lavished her with everything Sanrio could dream up.
    “I’m just calling to say, rock it hard. Keep an eye out for anyone who looks nervous and offer them some Play-Doh. You could have a friend for life. Then call me tonight and let me know how it went.”
    “Okay!”
    “What are you wearing?”
    “The gween dress you gave me with the heart shoes and my pwincess undies.”
    “Princess undies, nice. You’re not worried you’ll anger the Upper West Side progressives?” Claire asked me as I took her off speaker.
    “I have zero objection to the whole princess thing. As far as I’m concerned, it’s the last hurrah of being the center of the story. After Disney, it’s just a fast downhill slope to being Dead Stripper 3 on Special Victims Unit .”
    “Oops, here comes the next incline. She’ll do great. Call me later.” And she was gone. That was quintessential Claire. Remembering it was a big day, calling to pump Maya up, knowing that I was nervous because she is a December