“Sister girl.” I interrupt Adelaide’s latest floor routine before all of her tumbling results in the reappearance of her dinner all over the floor. “Ready for a bath?”
She spins around and plants her hands on her little hips. “Do we have bubbles?”
“Even better.” We ran out of bubbles right after we moved in, and you would’ve thought I was trying to bathe her in a vat of acid. But I grabbed something extra for her today. “Bath bombs.”
“Yay!” She takes off in a sprint up the stairs, peeling off her leotard as she goes.
“Go potty and I’ll be up to start the bath in a second,” I shout after her. I haven’t really had a chance to be alone with Jude. She’s here when I’m at work, we eat dinner together, but then she’s usually gone by the time I get Adelaide to bed, doing some kind of influencer event.
“Okay, but hurry.” Her little voice bounces off the walls, and not for the first time, I marvel at how fast she’s growing.
“Being a mom is a trip. You just casually tell her to go potty and she listens. I can’t imagine having to remind another human to use the bathroom.” Jude’s arms are covered in bubbles as she rinses off the plates before loading the dishwasher. “Also, I wish I got as excited for anything as she does for bath bombs.”
“Tell me about it. But if I don’t remind her to go before she gets in, she’ll have to go in the middle of the bath, and then I have to clean the water from all over the bathroom . . . it’s a thing.” I realize I’m rambling about the bathroom . . . which could also be the name of the podcast Jude wants me to start. I take a deep breath, trying to figure out a way to broach this subject. Jude is fun and laughs, but it’s hard for her to get serious sometimes. Just another way we balance each other out. “I just wanted to check in with you.”
Her eyebrows scrunch together. “Check in with what? Am I in trouble? Did Addy tell you that I let her sneak pretzels in her room the other day?”
“Well, no, she didn’t. But now that you did, you’re in charge when the rodents break in, looking for all her bedroom crumbs.” I mean, if Jude knows I’m concerned, she’s the master of playing it cool. But she’s not getting me off the subject that easy. “I’ve just been a little worried about you. You’ve just seemed . . . I don’t know? Off or something. If you need to talk, I hope you know I’m here. I feel like I’m always unloading my drama on you, but I want you to know you can still confide in me too. And also, I know living with us is a huge change from what you’re used to. If you need space or anything . . . from me or Adelaide, I wouldn’t be offended. I know we can be a lot.”
Crap.
I’m rambling again. I always ramble.
“No.” She turns off the water and dries her hands with the little dishtowels Adelaide made me at her school for Mother’s Day last year. “It’s not you at all. You know how I went to brunch with my mom?”
I nod my head but stay silent. I have a feeling she needs to get this out without me interrupting.
“Well, it’s just—” she starts, but the doorbell ringing cuts her off. We both look at the door, then back to each other. “Are you expecting anyone?”
I almost laugh at that. “You know you’re literally my only friend. Are you?”
“Nope . . .” She pauses and grabs her phone, probably seeing if anyone texted or called her. “At least not that I remember.”
“I’ll get it. If it’s one of your friends, do you want me to tell them you’re not here?” Considering Jude is in her pajamas and has pizza sauce smeared across her cheek, I’m assuming she won’t want company right now.
“Please!” she whisper-shouts before hiding in the kitchen.
I bite back my smile as I pull open the door, fully expecting to see one of her annoyingly attractive friends.
Instead it’s a man who is attractive, but if he’s one of Jude’s friends, I’ve never met him before.
“Lauren Turner?” the man asks.
“Yes?” My spine stiffens even as my stomach drops.
He nods once before reaching a hand behind his back, and all sorts of terrible, worst-case scenarios run through my mind. If I survive this, I’ll start saving for a camera doorbell immediately.
To my relief, when his hand is back in sight, he’s only holding an envelope, not a deadly weapon.
“Lauren Turner.” He hands me the envelope. “You’ve been served.”
Though in reality the envelope is probably only a few ounces, it feels as though he just placed the weight of the world in my palm. I don’t have to look at the papers to know who they’re from. I don’t have to read them to know they will unequivocally turn my life upside down.
When I played soccer, there was this one time I wasn’t paying attention at all. One of my teammates kicked a ball as hard as she could, and because I was inspecting grass, I didn’t see it before it hit me. I swear, the soccer ball nailed me directly in the lungs and they were collapsing inside of me. I was dying, I was sure of it. I fell to the ground, trying to inhale as the panic started to outweigh the physical pain. The burning in my eyes matched that of the lava flowing down my throat as I gasped for air that just would not come.
And it’s happening again.
Except this time, nobody touched me.
But the world is crushing me.
I’m suffocating.
Dying.
“Lauren!” Jude runs to me, my panic mirrored in her voice. “What’s wrong? Are you hurt?” Her eyes roam my body, no doubt looking for blood.
But I still can’t speak. The razor blades in my throat are preventing the words from coming.
So instead, I hold the envelope up for her to see for herself. She snatches it out of my hand without hesitation and tears it open. She scans the letter for a split second before her face turns bright red and all traces of worry disappear, and all that’s left is the pure fury I’m too scared to feel.
“Custody papers!” she shouts, and confirms what I already knew. “Just say the word. Just fucking say it, Lauren, and I swear to god I’ll kill the motherfucker myself.”
I want to reassure her that I’ll be fine, but for the first time in my entire life, I’m not sure I will be. Rage and fear like I’ve never felt before roar between my ears. Even though Jude is standing beside me, her voice sounds miles away.
I turn to face her, my eyes suddenly feeling too large for my face. The pressure building in my head grows with every failed inhale.
“I . . . I . . .” I try to force the words out, but I can’t.