Johnny considered this. “I don’t think you can use happy horseshit and forbidden fruit together. It’s a mixed metaphor.”

“Of course you can,” I said, “if they’re two separate sentences.”

We looked at each other over the trailer dinette, our faces about two feet away from each other, our army blankets touching. I wanted to keep arguing with him. About mixed metaphors, mangled clichés, dangling participles, misplaced modifiers, the Oxford comma—anything I could come up with that would eventually lead to me kicking him in the shins. Or pulling his hair.

I took the high road. “Have flowers delivered to Kim, along with a beautiful note that says you’d like to meet her for dinner to try to get things right. Because whatever happens, for the rest of your lives, even though they’re practically grown now, you’ll always be the parents of two awesome sons together.”

Johnny was still looking at me. I realized this was essentially the same advice I’d given to Michael when his marriage was on the rocks. Michael’s marriage was back on track, so there was always the chance that I’d get advice-lucky twice.

“And call your kids,” I said. “Even if they act like it’s no big deal at their ages, it is. So keep talking to them and let them know you love them and that you and Kim are trying to work this out.”

He actually nodded.

“And back off from Polly. She’s pregnant, she’s vulnerable, and she doesn’t need any drama.”

“She’s funny,” he said, “and she listens to me. I like being around her.”

“Back off anyway,” I said.

He sighed. “Anything else while you’re running my life?”

“Yeah. When you take Kim out for dinner, don’t wear the hemp hat.”

Chapter Twenty-One

We were sitting cross-legged on our classroom circle. We’d managed to get the kids positioned so they were each facing a partner. Polly and I faced each other so we could demonstrate.

Preschool students love repetition. If they enjoy an activity, or a song, or a book, they’ll do it or sing it or listen to it over and over again, day in and day out.

But even though the kids would have been fine either way, I hoped the extra focus of a new activity would take my mind off things. By the time I’d made it back to the cat room last night, John’s eyes were closed under the amber glow of the borrowed nightlight. His breathing was deep and slow and seamless, like someone who was either a perfect sleeper or pretending to be asleep.

“Goodnight room,” I’d whispered. “Goodnight moon. Goodnight cats and dog and boyfriend acting like a goon.”