In Twenty Years: A Novel by Allison Winn Scotch

drinks, and a few of his buddies (both married and single) might try to score for the night because they were celebrating. But those days are far behind him—five years behind him—and now, as far as Owen is concerned, at this exact moment no one should ever not tap what he wants, who he wants, when he wants. Goddamn it! Why shouldn’t we always get exactly what we want?
    When was the last time Owen got exactly what he wanted? Five years ago, maybe, when he quit. Five years is a long time to wait to feel gratified. Not that he doesn’t love the time with the kids. Piano lessons and tennis matches and science projects and all that. Still, it turns out that five years of science projects does not exactly lead to personal fulfillment.
    But Catherine pays the bills, and he’d known this was the deal. He’d wanted this to be the deal. He just didn’t realize how much he’d dislike it. But what’s to be done now? He’s not a hot property in the legal field, and even if he were, he can’t ask Catherine to stay home! It’s not like she can just up and quit the way he did. This notion makes him even less happy: that he was utterly disposable in his own little world, whereas she sits atop hers. No one noticed when he gave his walking papers—well, his assistant brought him a pumpkin muffin on his last day, and a few of his “work friends” pitched in for a decent bottle of wine.
    Owen miscalculates the depth of the bottom two steps leading out of Smoke’s and stumbles out the front door onto the still busy sidewalk, the thick air assaulting his already clammy face. Lindy grasps his elbow, steadying him, as a summer student strolls past and yells, “Bitches, I need a cheesesteak!”
    “Shit, man,” he says, mostly to himself, since Colin is plugging the possible sophomore’s number into his phone, and Lindy is ducking her head so no one else recognizes her. “I really want a cheesesteak. Do you know when the last time I had a cheesesteak was?”
    Lindy doesn’t answer, so he says, “Senior year, man! Senior fucking year!”
    “How important can a cheesesteak be to you?” Lindy asks.
    “Goddamn important!” he yells. “Also, what is with your attitude? I love you, Lindy, I love you!”
    “I don’t have an attitude.”
    “You do ,” he slurs. “You do .”
    She stares at her phone rather than dignify him, as they hover under a street lamp waiting for Colin to close the deal.
    “She’s, like, twelve ,” Lindy says finally.
    “Don’t cock-block,” Owen answers. “Don’t be a bitch and cock-block.” Then, “I didn’t just skip out on my job, FYI. In case you think I’m, like, some pathetic, emasculated househusband.” He stumbles over “emasculated,” and Lindy leans in a little closer, as if proximity will help his enunciation.
    “I didn’t think—”
    “Catherine wanted this,” he interrupts. “Jesus Christ, Colin, can you hurry the fuck up? I’ve never needed a cheesesteak more in my life!”
    Then back to Lindy. “We agreed on it! That it would make everything easier. That someone needed to be home with the kids, and it sure as hell wasn’t going to be her.” He rubs his collarbone, which surely smells like old beer. “I mean, she’s not a bad mom. I didn’t mean that. Shit. I’m drunk. I really need a cheesesteak.”
    “It’s hard, I’m sure.” Lindy tries to fake sympathy.
    “Don’t have kids,” Owen says. “It complicates everything.” Then he slumps against the lamppost. “No, that’s awful. I love my kids. Oh my God, I love them so much.”
    “Mason?” Lindy’s face is hopeful, like maybe she’s gotten the name right, but Owen doesn’t notice.
    “He’s the best, man. And Penelope. She’s gonna be twelve. Oh my God, my baby is almost a teenager.” He drops his chin to his chest. “Being a dad is the best thing I’ve ever done. I like being home with them. Since when has the world decided that’s a terrible thing? Shit. Maybe we could get a babysitter,