“Don’t worry, the bell just rang,” I reassure her as she stands and pushes her cute little blue glasses up the bridge of her nose and slips on her three-sizes-too-big jacket. “What book are you reading now?” I ask, knowing it will probably be something that will surprise me. Tamara reminds me a lot of myself at her age. I loved reading and could easily get lost in a book for hours on end if left alone.
“To Kill a Mockingbird,” she says softly as she unzips her backpack, shoving the book inside.
“That’s one of my favorites,” I say after a moment, and she nods without looking at me. “If you ever want to talk about it, I’d love to hear what you think of the story,” I say, knowing this book isn’t something an eleven-year-old girl would necessarily be reading, but her mother explained during our last parent-teacher meeting that she allows Tamara to read pretty much whatever she wants. If I’m honest, Tamara is far too smart for the books we read in class.
“Thank you, Miss Reed.”
“You’re welcome, honey. Is your mom picking you up today?”
“I don’t know, her or her boyfriend will be here.” She shrugs, looking uncomfortable, and I bite my bottom lip. I have no issue at all with the fact that Tamara’s mom is a stripper. I actually think it’s admirable that she puts food on the table, a roof over her girl’s head, and clothes on her back. The problem I have with her is she constantly has men in and out of Tamara’s life, and none of them are ever any good.
“If no one’s here by four, come back in and let me know. I’ll make sure you get home,” I say, sliding off my desk to stand.
“Okay.” She chews the inside of her cheek, twisting her backpack in her hands.
“Is everything okay?”
“Yeah, um . . . I got you something.”
“You got me something?” I say, not able to hide the surprise in my tone. Nodding, she opens her backpack and pulls out a crushed pink gift bag with darker pink polka dots on it.
“It’s nothing big,” she says quickly, looking nervous, but she’s very wrong. I know that whatever she has gotten me she most likely paid for with her own money and got on her own time, making it huge.
“Honey, you didn’t have to get me anything at all.” I pull her in, giving her a hug before leaning back and taking the bag from her. Opening it up, I pull out a simple purple candle and hold it to my chest. “I love candles.” I smile, giving her another tight hug. “Thank you, honey.”
“Happy birthday,” she whispers, then her body stiffens against mine, and I turn to see what’s causing her distress.
“Your mom said you’d be waiting out front. Come on, I’m going to be late.” Tamara’s mom’s new boyfriend, Juan, says from the doorway. He sounds annoyed and his eyes are narrowed. My spine stiffens. Moving closer to Tamara, I rest my hand on her shoulder, giving it a gentle squeeze.
“Sorry, Mr. Varges. I asked Tamara to wait after class so she could help me put away a few things,” I lie, not wanting her to be in trouble with him.
“Well, we have places to be, so if you’re done, we need to go,” he says, keeping his eyes locked on Tamara. I step slightly in front of her, and his eyes finally come to me.
“Sorry about keeping her, and thank you for being understanding.”
“Sure.” He lifts his chin, and Tamara quickly heads toward him without a backward glance. Watching them go, I feel like I always do. Torn. There is nothing I can do, and there is nothing I despise more than feeling helpless when it comes to my kids. Taking a seat at my desk I put the candle back in the bag and carefully place it with my stuff to take home before pulling out the spelling tests I need to correct before I leave for the evening.
An hour later, I circle the huge A in red ink on the last spelling test and smile. My kids are all smart, and I feel like a proud mom who knows she’s done a good job. None of the kids got lower than a B, and by New York City public school standards, that is amazing. Tucking the now-graded tests away in the top drawer of my desk, I pick up my bags and head for the door. I’m starving—I didn’t get a chance to eat lunch, since we had a teacher meeting during my lunch hour, so the pizza I plan on ordering for dinner is sounding better by the minute.
Pulling out my cell phone once I’m out of the building, I send thank-you texts to Libby and Mac, who both messaged to say happy birthday, then one to my mom and dad telling them how excited I am to see them in a few days. Even though it’s my birthday, tonight is going to be a very low-key night; all I want to do is go home, put on a pair of yoga pants and a sweatshirt, walk my girl, order a pizza, and go to bed. Okay, I kind of want to add seeing Levi in there somewhere, but I still don’t know if that’s smart. I can’t figure out if he’s different or just like every other gorgeous man I’ve ever met.
Hopping on the subway, I take the train uptown and get off at my stop, then walk the two blocks to my building. As soon as I’m home, I take care of parts one and two of my plans for the night. I put on my yoga pants and hoodie as soon as I get home, then take out Muffin, who wasn’t at all happy about having to go out in the cold on a short walk—or drag—through the park. By the time I make it back to my apartment, it’s almost six, and my hunger has turned into starvation.
Pacing back and forth in my apartment, I groan. Levi said that if I wanted company on my birthday to just knock on his door, but the idea of actually doing that is making me feel sick. I wanted to just order pizza, then maybe go over and see if he wanted some, but then I thought, what if he doesn’t like the kind of pizza I like? What if he’s allergic to pineapples and he ends up going into shock from eating them, or what if he was just being nice and he didn’t actually mean for me take him up on his offer? “Stop being stupid,” I say out loud, putting my hand to the knob. I release it just as quickly and resume pacing. “This is getting ridiculous.” Shoving my shoulders back and lifting my chin, I put my hand on the knob.
The moment I swing my door open, my empty stomach turns with nausea, along with something else that I’m not willing to acknowledge, as I stare at the woman standing just outside Levi’s closed door. She’s gorgeous, model gorgeous, with thick, dark hair; tan skin; and a willowy figure that would make even Libby jealous.
Turning her head toward me, she smiles a beautiful, blinding-white, perfectly straight-toothed smile. “Hi,” she chirps, and a muscle in my chest constricts.
“Uh . . . hi. Sorry, I thought you were my pizza,” I lie, and she tilts her head to the side and giggles. Even her giggle is beautiful, I think with disgust, then panic when I see Levi’s door start to open.
“’Bye.” I slam my door quickly and drop my face to my hands.
Oh my god, I’m an idiot. Why did I think for one moment that he wouldn’t have a girlfriend? Why the hell didn’t I ask him when he asked me if I had a boyfriend?
This is why I don’t date. I don’t know how to date—I have no clue when a guy is actually interested or when he’s just being nice. “God, you are a loser.” Tears burn my eyes, and I curse the fact that my period is due any day now. I’m not a wuss unless it’s that time of the month—then I cry and blubber about everything under the sun, even stupid laundry detergent commercials with cute little bears in them.
Feeling Muffin press into my side, I fall to the floor and pull her down to my lap so I can cry ugly, fat tears into her fur. “It’s just going to be me and you forever,” I moan into her coat as she consoles me with a lick up my cheek. “I’m going to end up old and alone like Aunt Margret,” I wail, feeling completely sorry for myself. “One day when I’m still single at fifty, I’m going to think that some hot twenty-year-old who’s only after my money wants me because I’m so desperate for love.” I sniff, burying my face deeper into Muffin’s wiry fur, hearing her whine, then feel her press her cold nose against my neck. With a hiccup I give her one last squeeze and pull myself up off the floor.
As much as I want to sit around and feel sorry for myself, my stomach won’t let me. I know if I don’t eat I will likely pass out from hunger. Wander
ing over to the kitchen, I search through the cupboards for something to fill the void in my stomach, since there is no way I will be ordering pizza—the idea alone has my stomach turning. Finally, in the last cupboard, I find a can of chicken and stars soup and some crackers my mom brought me when I had the flu last year. Looking at the expiration dates on both, I know I will be testing fate if I eat them, but desperate times call for desperate measures. Dumping the soup into a bowl, I place it in the microwave, setting the timer for three minutes, then open the package of crackers. Taking a small bite out of one, I sigh in relief when it’s not as hard and stale as it should be.
Needing something to wash the dry cracker down, I open the fridge and dig all the way to the back behind the dozens of takeout food containers I’ve collected and pull out the bottle of moscato my sisters brought over a few weeks ago. I don’t normally drink alone, but tonight seems like the kind of night when someone—a loser—such as myself would drink by herself. Twisting the cork out of the top, I dump the almost full bottle into one of my giant plastic tumblers and take a huge gulp, feeling it cool my dry throat on the way down, then burn my empty stomach. Shoving another cracker into my mouth, I chew and swallow while I grab my bowl of soup from the microwave, practically burning my hands off as I put it down on the counter. With one more large gulp of wine, I find the tray my mom also brought over when I was sick, put everything on it, and carry it over to the couch. The moment I sit, Muffin hops up next to me.
“Happy birthday to me,” I mutter, picking up a handful of crackers and dumping them into my soup.
“Ruff.”
“Thanks, girl. I love you, too.” I pat Muffin’s head, then toss her a cracker that she catches, then spits immediately on the floor. Looking at the cracker, then her, I shake my head, find the remote, turn on the television, and flip through for something to watch.
“Oh god . . .” I breathe through my tears, resting my fingers against my lips as Hilary Swank reads another message from Gerard Butler. “Why did he have to die?” I sob right along with Hilary not for the first time since starting this movie, then my head flies up as someone knocks on the door. Wiping my face with the sleeve of my sweatshirt, I hop off the couch and press “Pause” on P.S. I Love You as I step over the dishes I set on the floor, along with the pile of Kleenex. Knowing my sisters probably ignored me and decided to show up anyway, I open the door without checking who it is—regretting the lapse in judgment when I find Levi on the other side.
“Uh, hi . . .” I move my eyes past his shoulder toward the hall to see if his girlfriend is with him.
“Hey,” he says softly, then lifts up my chin, and his eyes scan mine. “What the hell is wrong?”
“Nothing.” I tug my face away from his fingers when his touch practically burns me.
“Something’s wrong, you’ve been crying.”
“I was watching a movie.”
“You were watching a movie?”
“Yes, I was watching a movie,” I huff, dropping my eyes to glare at Muffin when she whines and paws the door to get to him. Traitor.
“What movie are you watching?”
“It doesn’t matter, did you need something?” I ask, looking in the vicinity of his chin, not having the willpower to look him in his beautiful eyes.
“You didn’t knock.”
“Pardon?” I frown, trying to keep up, but the wine sloshing around in my system is making it difficult.
“Can you look at me?” Reluctantly my eyes meet his, and I hold on to the doorjamb to keep standing as my head grows dizzy from the wine I’ve drunk.
“Why does he have to be gorgeous?” I think—or think I think it, but his lips curve into a very sexy smirk, letting me know I’m drunker than I think I am.
“You think I’m gorgeous?”
“I . . . um . . .” I shake my head.
“Have you been drinking?” he asks suddenly, and I pull myself up to stand at my full height, then tip slightly to the side.
“I had a cup of wine.”
“A cup of wine?”
“Yes, a cup of wine. Are you going to repeat everything I say?”
“Okay . . . What the fuck is really going on?” he growls, and I automatically lean back.
“Nothing is going on. It’s my birthday, I—”
“I know it’s your birthday. That’s why I brought you a cake,” he cuts me off, and I blink. Um, what? Did he just say he brought me a cake? He holds a pink box up between us that I didn’t notice before. I look at it, then him. “My sister-in-law owns a bakery. She was coming into the city today, so I had her bring a cake for you.”
“What?” I breathe.
“Jesus.” He rubs the bridge of his nose, muttering something under his breath, then puts his hand to my belly. When he pushes me back into my apartment I almost fall, but I stumble into him as his hand grabs onto the front of my hoodie and he pulls me roughly into his hard chest . . . Unfortunately he does it with the box holding the cake, so it’s flattened between us.
“Oh no,” I whisper, looking from the box to his somewhat amused and slightly pissed, very handsome face.
“Will everything with you always be difficult?”
“I ruined your cake,” I shout, attempting to push away from him, but he doesn’t let me go.
“Actually, you ruined your cake,” he mutters, and I feel it coming on—I know I’m about to cry again. Only this time it’s worse, because I’m going to ugly cry in front of him.
“I’m sorry.” I squeeze my eyes closed and duck my head, trying to fight back the inevitable tears I feel building behind my closed eyelids.
“It’s just a cake.” He holds me up against him as he leads me across the room. “Have you been crying all night?” he asks, and I open my eyes and catch him studying the mound of Kleenex on the floor. The cracker Muffin spit out crunches under my bare foot as he helps me sit.
“Yes . . . no . . . maybe . . . I was watching P.S. I Love You,” I whisper, lifting my foot to dust off the cracker bits stuck there. I need to do something so I don’t just blurt things out anymore.
“Are you not feeling well?”
“Pardon?”
“You ate soup and crackers for dinner. Are you feeling okay?”
“I always eat expired soup and crackers on my birthday,” I mutter under my breath, and his eyes narrow. Shaking his head he pulls out his phone, and I sit up. “What are you doing?”
“I’m ordering a pizza. What kind do you like?”
“Why are you ordering pizza? I already ate soup.”
“The bowl’s still full.” He points at the tray with my still almost full bowl of soup and stale crackers, then picks up my mound of Kleenex, placing them on the tray before he carries it all to the kitchen while putting the phone to his ear. “Are you good with half Hawaiian, half pepperoni?”
“Uh yeah,” I agree as my stomach growls and my mouth waters.
With a nod, he gives the person on the phone the order and the address, then shoves the phone into his back pocket. Needing to look at anything but him, my eyes go to the box sitting on the coffee table. It’s ruined—so smashed that cake is squeezing out of the open edges. Untying the string around the box, I open the lid and feel my stomach dip. The cake was decorated with a fawn colored with light-orange icing. Or at least I think it’s a fawn—now that it’s squished, it looks like a chubby bear playing in grass.
“You had your sister-in-law make this cake?” I whisper.
“Yeah.”
“That was nice,” I say absently, wondering why he would ask her to make me a cake for my birthday when we don’t even really know each other. Swallowing through the strange feeling in my chest, I finally work up the courage to look at him. “I was going to knock on your door earlier, but . . .” I look away, wondering if I should just come out with it, then figure, what the hell. “I thought your girlfriend was over and I . . . I thought that you were just being nice when you told me I should knock on your door on my birthday,” I sa
y, looking back at him and noticing his eyes have changed ever so slightly.
“I’m not that nice, and I don’t say things I don’t mean. Ever,” he says, petting Muffin, who is currently leaning into his side with her full weight. “And I don’t have a girlfriend. You probably saw my brother’s wife, Ruby, since she’s the only woman who’s been to my place since I moved in.”
God, I’m really bad at this stuff. I assumed he had a girlfriend, cried about it like an idiot, then ruined the cake he had made for me, because once again, I’m an idiot. Covering my face with my hands, I hiccup as the tears I’ve been holding back start to fall. Stupid fricking period. Feeling the couch dip as he takes a seat next to me, I startle when his arm wraps around my shoulders and he guides me to rest against his chest. “I’m not normally this lame,” I cry, and I’d swear I hear him laugh, but I ignore it since I know it will piss me off if I think he’s making fun of me.
“It’s okay, birthdays are hard.”
“It’s not that. I’m a girl and the red bitch is due any day and she ruins my life every month when she comes into town.” I sniffle, feeling his chest shake. “Oh god, I said that out loud, didn’t I?”
“Take a breath. It’s all good.” It’s not all good—I’m blubbering against his chest like a baby on my birthday when we don’t even know each other, and to top it off, I told him I’m getting my period.
“I’m sorry, you probably think I’m a weirdo now.”
“Actually, I think you’re cute,” he says quietly, rubbing my arm. Cute, he thinks I’m cute? I take a chance and peek up at him, and he softly rubs his thumb under my eye, then down the bridge of my nose, tapping the end. My eyes cross. “Definitely cute.” Swallowing, I lean away from him, needing to put some space between us. This is too much, whatever this is. It’s way too intense for me right now. “And . . . the walls are back up.”
“Um . . .”
“It’s all good. I’m patient.” What does that mean? Before I can ask that exact question, the buzzer in my kitchen goes off, telling me that someone’s at the door downstairs. “That’s the pizza. I’ll be back.”