Wrong Place, Right Time

  He leans over and takes control of my mouse. “You almost did.” He closes down this profile and opens up the first one, which I rejected for being too sad. The first thing I see after he clicks on the link is Dev’s face.

  My heart sinks. “Oh. Shit.” I turn to look at him. “Dev, I’m sorry.” Not only did I call him sad, but I also basically just told him he’s a crap father. Why didn’t I think before I opened my big mouth? Of course he wasn’t including kids in the “favorite person” question. Not on a dating website!

  He stands. “No big deal. Don’t feel bad. Unless you’re worried about buying me dinner.”

  I look up at him, incredibly relieved that he’s not holding my careless words against me. “Worried? Why would I be worried?”

  He smiles and shrugs. “Not everybody’s a good winner. I’ve met a lot more sore losers than good winners in my life.”

  Maybe my assessment wasn’t that far off after all. I can see now where the sadness I sensed in that ad is coming from, and I also know how he was able to hide it so well. He’s strong. Not just with those muscles of his but with his heart. He’s one of the good guys.

  But I don’t say any of that out loud. Instead, I try to keep the party rolling. “I’m not a sore loser, Dev. I will buy you dinner wherever you want, and go whenever you want to go.”

  He claps me on the back of the shoulder. “Great. It’s a date.” He turns around and walks out of the room.

  I’m too stunned by his choice of words to respond right away, but then I realize he’s making the sounds of a person leaving. “Where’re you going?” I shout at the door.

  “Gotta get back home! My mom is waiting for me. She doesn’t like to stay up too late.”

  I stand and smooth down the front of my clothes, sad that he’s leaving, but realizing it would be really silly of me to ask him to stay. What would we do? Play Xbox? He called our future dinner a date, but I can’t just assume he meant it that way. Besides, he’s got baggage. Do I really need more baggage in my life right now? I’ve got a whole entire truckload of my own to deal with.

  I wait for him at the front door. He arrives with nothing in hand. “Don’t you want to take your pizzas?”

  “What pizzas?”

  I lean past him and look into the family room. The three boxes are still there. I point.

  He shrugs. “Just empty boxes. I could put them in the recycle bin for you, if you want.”

  “No, no, don’t worry about it.” I look from his toes to the top of his head. “I guess it does take a lot of calories to run that machine.”

  “You know it.” He smiles. “So, I’ll give you a call about that dinner?”

  I nod. “Sure. You can get my number from my sister.”

  He winks at me. “I already did.”

  I can’t think of what to say that won’t make me look and sound like a blushing, stammering schoolgirl, so I just smile. And then I grab the front door and pull it open for him. “Have a nice night.”

  “You too.” He leans down and kisses me on the cheek so fast, I don’t even see it coming until it’s over.

  My hand floats up to my cheek as he walks out onto the porch and down the front stairs to his waiting vehicle. It is the dead ugliest car I’ve ever seen in my entire life. So ugly it shocks me out of my happy, floaty cloud.

  I laugh. “What is that thing?”

  He turns around and walks backward. “What?”

  I point at the banged-up beast in my driveway.

  “My car? You’re kidding me. You don’t know what this is?”

  I’m holding my cheek where he kissed me, smiling and shaking my head.

  He pulls open the door, a loud creaking noise echoing all over my front yard and into the neighbors’ yards too.

  “This, my young, naïve woman, is a Pontiac Phoenix. A classic. A real man’s car.”

  I lift my brows as high as they’ll go before answering. “If you say so.” I slowly shut the door on his offended expression, and then I collapse in giggles in the front hallway. Damn. My face hurts, I’m smiling so hard. I haven’t felt this good or this young in a really long time.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  I’m in the kitchen preparing eggs and bacon for the kids’ Monday morning breakfast when Sammy comes downstairs crying.

  “What’s wrong, little man?” I put my spatula down on the counter next to the stovetop and turn to face him, squatting down so I can be at eye level with him.

  “My tummy hurtth.” Big fat tears slide down his cheeks.

  I rub his belly gently. “Are you sure?” I ask him this because he’s had a lot of these so-called tummy aches lately, but the doctor hasn’t found any medical reason for it. I’m starting to suspect there are issues at the daycare that Sammy’s not sharing with me.

  “Yeth, I’m thure. And I don’t haffa poop tho don’t tell me to go thit on the toilet.”

  I have to hold in my laughter. He looks so offended.

  I nod. “I understand. But, you know, it doesn’t hurt to sit on the potty for a little while just to be sure.”

  “I knew you were gonna thay that.” He puts his hands on his belly, rolls his eyes, and moans. “Ohhh, it hurtth!”

  I let out a long sigh. I’m not even an hour into my day yet, and I’m already screwed. My boss is going to love this one.

  “Would you like some eggs and bacon before you lie down?” If this is a false alarm, he’ll be tempted.

  He shakes his head without hesitation. “No. My tummy really hurtths.”

  I pick up the spatula and wave it at the entrance to the kitchen. “Okay. Go back to your room or go lie down on the couch in the family room, and I’ll bring you some of our special tea.”

  “Okay, Mommy,” he says with the most pitiful voice I’ve ever heard. “Thank you for taking care of me.”

  Aaaand my heart melts right there on the kitchen floor . . . This kid knows how to play me like a guitar virtuoso. Twang twang . . . and I’m toast.

  Sophie wanders into the kitchen next. “What’s wrong with him?” my ten-year-old asks, gesturing at the little guy who just shuffled past her like a disinterested zombie, his pajama bottoms so long they tuck under his feet.

  “He’s not feeling very well this morning.”

  “Oh, boy, here we go again.” Sophie rolls her eyes.

  I point at a seat with my spatula. “Sit. And be nice. He can’t help it that his stomach hurts.”

  She drops her voice. “Mom, you know he’s totally faking it.”

  I shake my head. “I don’t think so. Not this time, anyway.” I push some eggs around, wondering if anyone is going to eat them. They’re not looking so great.

  She hisses out her disbelief. “Whatever.”

  I could engage with her, but right now I need to save my energy for the excuse I’m about to make to my boss. He has a way of making me feel desperate and sneaky, even when I’m telling the truth about why I can’t come to work. It’s not like I’m hungover and blaming it on a little kid’s fake stomachache.

  Melody comes into the kitchen next, which is completely normal; my almost-eight-year-old is always the last one down the stairs, the last one out the door, and the last one in bed. And right now, she’s still half asleep, which is also status quo.

  “Good morning, Merry Sunshine,” I say in an especially bright voice.

  “Morning, Mama,” she mumbles. She gets up on the stool in front of the kitchen counter and rests her chin in her hands. A few seconds later her head drops to the side, startling her awake.

  I put a big glass of orange juice in front of my very disoriented, sleepy daughter. “Drink this. It’ll wake you up.”

  “Do we have to go to school?” she whines, taking the glass and holding it in front of her while she waits for my answer.

  “Yes, you have to go to school. What did you guys do with your dad this weekend, anyway? Why are you all so tired?”

  Sophie pipes up, sounding very happy about the information she’s delivering. “W
e got to stay up until one in the morning.”

  I put my spatula down gently on the counter, trying like crazy to control my temper. I so want to Hulk-out right now.

  “Great. Excellent,” I say with exaggerated patience. “I suppose you also ingested ten pounds of candy.”

  Melody perks up. “More like a ton.” She is also very happy about her weekend.

  Bastard, Miles! I am going to kill you!

  “Sammy barfed,” Sophie says. “It was disgusting.”

  Melody’s grimacing right along with her sister. “Yeah. It was disgusting. Daddy’s girlfriend got really mad.”

  “I don’t like her,” Sophie says before I can interrupt. “She’s totally stuck-up.”

  “Sophie! Don’t say that!”

  Sophie shrugs. “Well, she is.”

  This is the first I’ve heard of Miles having an actual girlfriend. I thought he just dated girls who are barely legal, avoiding all forms of actual commitment.

  I poke at the eggs. “So, Daddy has a girlfriend, huh?”

  “Yeah. But he said not to tell you and that it wasn’t any of your business.” Sophie seems to delight in delivering this little nugget of information. If I didn’t know any better, I’d think she’s enjoying getting me worked up.

  My grip on the spatula goes very Hulk-like. I flex a few of the muscles in my arms and legs, just for fun. It helps keep my mind off the fact that I want to murder the father of my children right now. How dare he play games with our kids?

  “He’s right,” I say as cheerily as I can. “It’s not my business and I don’t care.”

  Melody speaks next. “But if he has a girlfriend, he’s never going to come home.”

  I drop the spatula in the pan, turn off the stovetop, and turn around. “Melody, honey, you need to stop thinking that way. Your daddy and I are never, ever, ever getting back together.” Thank you, Taylor Swift, for reminding me that I am not the only woman in the world in this position.

  “Not if he has a girlfriend,” she says, pouting.

  “No, not if he does and not if he doesn’t. It just isn’t going to happen.”

  “But don’t you love him?” Melody asks, nearly crying. Both of the girls are staring at me now, waiting for my answer.

  How do you tell your children that you’ve seriously considered running their father over with your car on more than one occasion? That you cannot remember what you ever saw in him? That you think he’s a lying scumbag who doesn’t deserve to even be their father?

  I sigh. There is no way to say these things. You just have to lie or dance around the truth. I always try dancing first . . .

  “Babies . . . I love that your daddy gave me the three most beautiful children on the planet. I got very lucky meeting him.”

  “You’re avoiding the question,” Sophie, the too-smart-for-her-own-good child, says.

  “Who wants eggs?” I ask brightly, not ready to step knee-deep into the lies this morning.

  “They stink. I’d rather have pancakes,” Melody says, holding her nose closed.

  I whip around and start shuffling pans around. “Pancakes it is!” I’m not normally the kind of mom who runs a restaurant with a full menu out of my kitchen, but at this point I’ll do anything to avoid a conversation about Miles. “You girls go get dressed, and by the time you’re done, the pancakes will be ready.”

  They slide from their stools and shuffle off to their rooms, grousing at each other the entire way.

  Once again, I’m left to deal with the fallout that comes from Miles spending a day and a half with our kids. Sammy’s sick from all the sugar, and the girls are suffering the aftereffects of crashing down from a glucose high, manifesting as extreme fatigue and crankiness. I won’t be one bit surprised when the nurse calls from school today to tell me my girls need to be picked up.

  I reach over as I’m pouring some Aunt Jemima pancake mix into a bowl to grab my phone so I can call my boss. Might as well get it over with.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  I’m staring at the phone, not quite believing what I just heard.

  “What do you mean, I don’t need to bother coming in?”

  My boss’s laugh is decidedly uncomfortable. “What I meant was that we’re going to be doing a little restructuring in the coming weeks, and so you being out with your sick kid is kind of good timing for us. For you, I mean.”

  “I don’t even know what that means. Good timing?” My blood pressure is going through the roof and there’s a weird ringing in my ears. “How can my sick child be good timing for anything or anyone?”

  His tone turns cajoling. “Come on, Jenny, you know it’s been real tough for us over the past six months. We had a meeting with our investors, and they recommended that we cut a few positions. We had to make some really difficult decisions. Good news is, you’ll be one of the lucky ones who gets to have a little bit of a severance package. In the end, you’ll have some more time with your family, which is always good, right?”

  “Lucky? What? More time with my family? What the . . . Are you punishing me because I’m a single mother? I told you, my son is sick, Frank. This is not a joke. This is not me calling in because I’m hungover, like I’m sure George has already done this morning.”

  George is single, like most of the people I work with, and a notorious party animal; he’s always the one with the lampshade on his head and his hairy butt on the photocopy machine at the Christmas party. I’ve seen it. It’s not pretty. It could explain why he’s still single. A man with that much butt hair should never advertise it so publicly.

  “No, this has nothing to do with your status as a single parent or the fact that your son is sick. Jenny, I believe you. I know how it is with kids; they get sick all the time. Remember, I have two of my own.”

  “Yes, Frank, and you have a wife at home who doesn’t work, lucky for you, so none of us have ever actually seen your children interfering in your ability to come to work at six in the morning and leave at ten at night.”

  He loses the nicey-nice tone to his voice. “Nobody is questioning your dedication to the job, Jenny. You’re a fantastic engineer. You know your stuff. That’s why I’m not worried about you. You’ll find another job right away.”

  My chest feels really tight. It’s all finally sinking in. I’m being fired. Holy shit, I’m being fired! What am I going to do? How will I pay my bills?

  “How could you possibly know I’ll find another job right away?” I ask, on the verge of hysteria. “The economy isn’t that great. And you know the startups aren’t paying shit right now.” Great. He made me swear.

  “So? Don’t go for a startup. Why don’t you get a job with the power company or something?”

  “Do you want me to jump into the Mississippi, Frank? Because you know that’s what I’d do if I had to go someplace like that every day. There could not be a more boring job on the entire planet.”

  “Okay, then, do some freelance work. I know you’ve been wanting to try that. The severance will give you a couple months’ pay, so you can relax and give it a shot.”

  I snort in disbelief. “Oh, that severance package had better be more than two months’ pay.” He can’t be serious. Two months? The last guy who got laid off got nine. Nine!

  Frank sounds nervous. “Why do you say that?”

  “Because. I’ll bet if I did a little analysis on the people who are staying and the people who are going, it’ll be the people with kids who are being let go. It’ll be the single parents and people over thirty first out the door. And don’t think I won’t cause a fuss about that either. This is unfair. This isn’t right. It’s illegal to fire people for having kids at home. You’re just using this as an excuse to get rid of us and hire young kids fresh out of school for half the pay.”

  “Okay, Jenny, I can hear that you’re upset. And I completely understand, because you weren’t expecting this to happen today. I’m sorry to be blindsiding you with it, honestly, I am; but there’s nothing I can do. It’s out of my
hands.”

  “I’m not going to stand for this.” I sound like a big justice-seeker, but both Frank and I know better. I’m no Green Lantern. I have all these threats I’m ready to deliver with gusto, but I know I don’t have it in me to follow through. I’m so screwed right now. I’m going to have to sell the house. Where will we go? Where will we live? May’s townhouse is way too small for all of us, and I’d rather be homeless than move to my mother’s place. I can see her for the occasional holiday, but living together would never work. Being with her for too long reminds me of how she kept us in that house with our jerk of a father when a better parent would have left and spared us all a lot of pain. I’ll probably never forgive her for that, especially now that I have children of my own. At least I learned one lesson from her: never stay in a relationship that will turn your children into victims.

  He sighs. “Well, you could take it up with the investors if you want, but I wouldn’t recommend it.”

  “Why not?” I can already picture myself busting into a conference room where they’re no doubt plotting how to hire people and get them to work twenty-four-hour shifts for free. I actually have a cape on in this vision.

  “Because. We live in a small world down here. You form a reputation for getting angry at your employers and demanding big severance packages, and word will get around. Nobody’s going to want to hire you.”

  He’s trying to scare me into shutting up. I swear I can see my skin turning green, and my pajama pants are getting tighter by the second. “I’m going to hang up the phone now before I say something I’m going to regret.”

  “Okay. I get it. No hard feelings, Jen. I wish you the best of luck. When do you think you can come in and get your things?”

  I grind my teeth for a couple seconds before answering. “Just put my stuff in a box, and I’ll come pick it up when my son isn’t sick anymore.” I slam the phone down on the counter, grab the hair on the sides of my head, squeeze, and scream.

  I hear shuffling feet, and then my son appears from around the corner. “Mommy? Are you okay?”

  I let my hair go and battle to keep the tears from popping out for my baby to see. “Actually . . . I feel like turning into the Incredible Hulk right now and smashing things up a little bit. But I’ll be fine in a couple minutes when I calm down.”