Chapter 2: Midwest Mayhem and Dad Resolutions

“Waa waa wuwuwu… You scold me? Bounce back! Everything bounces back!”

The living room of the suburban house echoed with two kids’ shouts, loud enough to shake the roof.

It was the kind of late-afternoon chaos you’d find anywhere in the Midwest—Legos underfoot, a rerun of Paw Patrol blaring in the background, and the faint scent of Goldfish crackers and laundry detergent in the air. I winced as one of the boys missed the rug and skidded across the hardwood, screeching like a fire alarm.

I got knocked over by one of them, juice flying everywhere and soaking me through. The ice cubes made me shiver.

There was orange juice in my socks, and the sticky cold was enough to wake the dead—or at least, snap me right into the present. Somewhere in the distance, a dog barked, probably judging me too.

Then—bam!—a flood of memories crashed into my mind.

It was a migraine mixed with the world’s worst movie marathon: every regret, every cringeworthy decision, all on instant replay. I gripped the side of the couch and tried not to hurl.

Turns out I’d landed in a novel, becoming the villainous dad, secretly married to the female lead, Hollywood Queen Natalie Drew, for a whole year.

This was not the kind of plot twist I’d signed up for. My mind raced through every possible way to wake up—pinch, blink, maybe even dump that icy juice over my own head. Nope. Still stuck in this weird, alternate-universe sitcom.

Natalie had twin sons; each of us took care of one.

Some kind of co-parenting arrangement straight out of a TV drama—only with way more screaming and a lot less glam. My phone vibrated with a reminder: "Smile for the cameras."

To avoid getting divorced, I bent over backwards trying to please Natalie and her bratty son, Tyler. I sucked up so hard even Benjamin Franklin would’ve given up his seat for me.

I’d been a doormat with a smile. The kind of dad who’d trade his last slice of pizza just for a fake gold star from a kid who called me "the other one." Even the dog pitied me. If I bent any further, I’d have been a human pretzel.

But the male lead, Jason Miller, was a competent, level-headed career guy, childhood sweetheart of Natalie, and the main ship with millions of fans.

He was the kind of guy who wore a suit to PTA meetings and somehow never had food on his tie. His Instagram was all motivational quotes and flawless family photos.

After dumping me, Natalie quickly married him, and the twins got along great with their new dad.

Family Christmas cards, matching pajamas, the whole nine yards. People on the internet cried tears of joy for their love story. I was the plot device—like the disposable villain in a Hallmark movie.

From there, I turned jealous and bitter, sabotaged their happy family, and finally died miserably while trying to kidnap Jason Miller.

I mean, who writes this stuff? No one kidnaps a guy named Jason Miller in real life. I wouldn’t have lasted a day in county lockup.

Damn, holy mother of mac and cheese, this is terrifying.

I felt my blood sugar drop, and for a second, I would’ve sold my soul for a double cheeseburger and a nap.

If I could, I’d divorce Natalie right now, shove Jason Miller into her bed, and wish them eight kids and a house full of chaos.

I pictured them in a split-level with a picket fence and a minivan full of screaming toddlers. Good luck, you two. Maybe take up yoga.

But right now, I’m on the set of a parenting reality show.

The lights buzzed overhead, the AC was blasting, and somewhere a producer was probably yelling into an earpiece about "natural family dynamics."

I was the one who threatened Natalie with Ethan to get her to join.

Yeah, not my proudest moment, but in this script, apparently, I’m the plot device with leverage. There’s always one, right?

Ethan is the well-behaved son I’m looking after.

The kind of kid who folds his socks and says please and thank you, even to the UPS guy. If only I’d known he was the golden ticket.

Oh, right—Natalie and I each brought one kid to the show, but the audience doesn’t know about our relationship yet.

I could practically feel the producers rubbing their hands together, waiting for the big reveal to set Twitter ablaze.

According to the plot, I’m supposed to “accidentally” reveal our marriage on the show, using public opinion to tie her to me.

Which is the dumbest plan since New Coke. If reality TV has taught us anything, it’s that secrets never stay buried, and the audience loves a trainwreck.

—Like hell I would. Only an idiot would do that.

Honestly, I’d rather try to teach a cat to swim.

This relationship? I’m keeping it buried.

This marriage? I’m getting a divorce, no matter what.

And if I have to fake food poisoning to get out, so be it.