Free All Access (The Fangirl Series Book 1) by Liberty Kontranowski

an animate object, it’d be sitting on the couch next to me right now.
                  “Yeah, well, your girls wanted to talk to their mother, but since she doesn’t answer her phone, that’s proving impossible. I told them I’d try one more time, then they’ll have to wait until we get back to my mom’s. So thanks for finally picking up. Now I don’t have to repair their broken little hearts.”
                  “Gee, Brad, dramatic much?” I sigh. “I’ve had my phone nearby all weekend.”              “Then maybe you should answer it. Check your call records. See how many times we’ve tried. Five, at least. Since Friday night. It’s now Sunday. So, in my book, that’s pretty shitty phone monitoring.”
                  I think back to my calls and, sure, I ignored a few (Katherine Koch’s, for example), but none of them were from Brad’s phone.
                  “I would never not pick up a call from the girls, Brad. Your phone number never once showed up all weekend. So ease up, all right?” My voice rises, despite my best attempts otherwise.
                  “I called from my mom’s phone.”
                  And there it is. That trap where he does something stupid, inexplicable, or otherwise nonsensical, but somehow pins it back on me to make me look like the bad parent. It’s my favorite of his how-dare-you-leave-us, now-I’ll-make-you-pay tactics. Not.
                  I take a deep breath and try to calm down. I hate how riled up I get every time I talk to him these days. It’s so strange to me how we’ve gone from barely talking at all when we lived in the same house to talking often, and rarely in a controlled state.
                  “Okay. That’s why I didn’t pick up. It was a number I didn’t recognize.” I want to tell him to quit being a baby and cut me some slack and use his own damn phone for crying out loud, or at least leave a message, but instead I say, “I’m sorry. I miss the girls terribly and if I knew it was them trying to call, I’d have picked up.”
                  “Yeah. Well, here they are.” He ignores my apology and, of course, offers none of his own.
                  Alana gets on first and The Black Cloud of Brad instantly dissipates. It’s so good to hear my baby girl’s voice. We talk about everything they’ve done in the mountains since Friday and all they hope to accomplish yet today. She tells me she’s turning nice and tan but that Jilly’s sunburned and I curse Brad out in my head for not SPFing them up enough. We talk about how much we miss each other and I tear up thinking we still have eight weeks before we’ll see each other again. I must have been crazy to agree to this setup, but at the time, it seemed like a good idea to let them enjoy a summer without flopping back and forth between Brad’s house and mine. Now I’m not so sure.
    I’ve considered flying down there midsummer for a few days, and now more than ever, I feel like that might be an excellent plan. After I talk to Jillian, I can hardly regroup. What mother allows her children to go away for ten weeks at a time without it being a necessity? I consider telling Brad to bring them back early, but I don’t want to start a fight. I need to create a nice, solid case for why and when before I broach the subject with him, otherwise the battle will be lost before it begins. I hold in my emotions as I tell the girls to have fun, be safe, and call me on Monday night. They agree and we hang up. Free from upsetting their little ears, I let the tears flow.
    I allow myself my second good cry of the last thirty-six hours, then haul my gross self off the couch and into the shower. When I emerge, I hear a knock at my door, which I am tempted to ignore but find way too intriguing not to check out. It’s Sunday, early afternoon. Who could it possibly be?