"Auntie Samantha, Auntie Samantha!" they chirp in unison.
"Hey babies!" I say, hugging their squirming little bodies. "What are we going to do tonight while Mommy's gone?"
"Mommy has a date," grins Robin, Hannah's daughter and the eldest at six years old.
"Oh, does she?" I ask. I bend to pick up Adam, Hannah's son, who is four. He throws a hand around my neck and gives me a tight squeeze. I am dead tired, but Hannah's little ones are fun to hang out with, and I'd forgotten that I was the one to encourage my friend to start dating again, offering my babysitting services to sweeten the pot. She's been divorced for almost two years, and I want to see her happy again.
"Your mommy looks beautiful!" I say.
Hannah gives me a hug and a peck on the cheek. "Thanks for doing this," she says. "You look tired."
"I am tired," I admit.
"And you forgot, didn't you?" she whispers in my ear.
I wince and give her a self-deprecating shrug. "Does it matter? I'm here now, and you have a date," I tell her. "So, go!" I flutter my fingers at her in an "away with you" gesture.
I discover Hannah has already ordered a pizza, so after she leaves, I sit down with the kids and we gorge on pepperoni and mushrooms. I learn Adam loves his new preschool.
"We have these cubbies where we put our work every day and get everything in a folder on Friday," Adam says. "Let me show you."
He leaves the table and returns a minute later with a bright blue folder crammed with papers. He begins to show me all his finger paintings, sheets of tortuously written letters and numbers, and several sheets of printed papers of animal motifs, which he has colored in crayon.
Robin notes the strokes thrown her brother's way, and disappears, returning with her backpack. Robin is a kindergartner, and her Friday work folder is filled with more advanced versions of her brother’s schoolwork.
Possibly, I am biased, but I gotta say, like the children of Lake Wobegon, Hannah's kids are above average.
After dinner, we hang out on the sectional in the living room. I turn on Netflix and we watch an episode of Stephen Universe. I'm pretty sure Hannah wishes I would make the kids watch something more enriching, but part of being the cool play auntie is that I get to ignore her wishes at times like this. Not every childhood experience has to be an enriching one, I tell myself.
We finish an episode and are about to watch another when the front door opens and Hannah walks through the door, arms laden with grocery bags. I give her a questioning look as she walks past us, and she rolls her eyes in response. The kids continue to watch their show, and I follow Hannah to the kitchen where she is putting away milk and eggs.
"Do I want to know what happened?" I ask, sitting at the kitchen table. The pizza box is still there. I assumed I would have time to clean up after putting the kids to bed and before Hannah came home.
"Only if you need a good laugh," she says. She sits across from me at the table, removes her shoes, and starts to massage her bare feet. She opens the pizza box and takes out a slice. With her first bite, she moans.
"I'm sorry you had a shitty date," I say, picking up another slice for myself. I had only had one with the kids, and I’m ready for more. "Tell Aunt Samantha all about it."
She launches into a tale of being stood up, just as she arrived at the restaurant.
"Aiden was mad that I was late," she says, and before I can apologize again, she waves a hand at me. "Listen, don't be sorry. If he can't handle a single mom being 10 minutes late for a date—and keep in mind that I did call his trifling ass—then I'm sorry, but Aiden is not the man for me."
Still, despite her assurances, I feel bad.
"He called me just as I was giving my car to the valet," she says. "Thank God I didn't have to pay the man, but it was pretty humiliating." She shrugs.
"Wait a minute," I say. "I thought you already dumped a guy named Aiden?"
"That was a different Aiden," she tells me. "That was Aidan with an A, or rather, two As. Tonight's clown was Aiden with an E."
"How do you keep them straight?" I ask.
"It's actually easier than it seems," she tells me. "And I've been talking to this other guy named Aidyn. With a Y."
"Is this a dating service that specializes in guys with that name?"
Hannah polishes off her slice of pizza and reaches for another.
"I think this is just a very popular name in our age cohort," she says around a mouthful of pizza. "It's called the divorce aftermarket. These are the guys that either failed at marriage, or just never got it together to make even a starter marriage work."
I snort. "You should write a book about your experiences," I say. Thinking of the Dear Ida column, I decide to bring it up to Hannah. "You know, there's an advice column called Dear Ida. You should write to her for dating advice."
"Now why would I do a thing like that?" Hannah looks at me as if I'm completely nuts. "I'm having too much fun, believe it or not. I've gone on more coffee dates than I can tell you. It beats buying overpriced coffee any day. And I have met a couple of nice guys. No spark really, but nice guys, just the same."
"If you say so," I tell her. My mind lingers on the letter I wrote to Ida. I hadn't had a chance to check to see whether there was a response.
"Maybe you should write to her about Tough Customer," she says. I had been giving Hannah regular updates about Lincoln Cooper. She knows I am working for him, and she also knows we have a mutual attraction.
"Maybe I already did," I say in a teasing tone of voice.
"You've been holding out on me," she informs me.
"I have no idea whether she answered me back," I say.
"Well, why don't you know?" she asks. "Why haven't you checked?"
"Possibly because I have been working like a dog this week, and my bestie needed me to come babysit so she could go out with some dude named Aiden with an E."
Hannah pulls out her phone and starts the search. Soon, she finds my letter, and begins to read out loud.
Dear Ida:
I'm starting a new professional project, and I'm excited about the challenge. This is potentially one of the biggest contracts my fledgling business will see for the foreseeable future. However, I'm worried about my ability to remain professional. The man I will be working with is extremely attractive. I am committed to maintaining professional decorum with this man, but he is attractive to the point of being distracting. Also, I sense that the attraction may be mutual. This project could make or break my new business venture, and I do not want to jeopardize my professional relationship. I think it's important to have a good working relationship, especially since this man may have referrals for me in the future. What is the best way to maintain a professional demeanor with this man?
Sam in Texas
"First of all, I love how you said you were so excited about this challenge yada, yada, yada," she tells me. "It sounds like you're writing a follow-up letter after an interview." As ever, Hannah's perceptions are uncannily spot on.
"I don't like you," I deadpan. "I have no idea why I even speak to you." I toss a soiled, balled up napkin at her, because that is what you do when your friends know you so well that they make a nuisance of themselves.
"It's true, though," she says. "Now let's look and see what pearls of wisdom Ida has for you."
Dear Samantha,
Congratulations for landing such a lucrative contract, and good for you for launching your own business. What makes you think you can't be professional with your new client? Surely, you meet attractive men all the time and don't worry about your ability to be professional?
This much is true, I think. Peter is a good-looking guy, attractive in his own right, yet I have zero interest in jumping his bones.
With this in mind, remember why you took on this job. Whenever you feel the urge to flirt with him, think about your future goals and whether a momentary interaction is worth possibly keeping you from living your best life.
I do not find this answer at a
ll reassuring. Hannah is similarly dissatisfied with this bit of advice.
"What the hell?" Hannah says, tossing her phone to the table. "That's terrible advice! Girl, you better climb that man like he's a mountain and you're a Billy goat gruff!"
No one could ever accuse Hannah of being a prude.
"Your children are in the next room," I point out, blinking at my friend.
"When the TV is on, my children don't even know who I am," she says. “It’s like they enter a portal to a multiverse where moms do not exist.”
Hannah is a complete nerd.
"Is it a good idea for you to use the television to babysit your children?" I ask, giving her a disapproving look.
"You have two children in three years, then tell me what counts as a good babysitter," she says, archly. She gets up, opens the fridge, and takes out a Lone Star. She holds it up, then asks, "You want one?"
"Nah, you go ahead," I say. "If we were hanging out for a while, I'd have one, but I think I'll just take my tired ass home."
"Okay, then," Hannah says. "Be that way."
She walks me to the front door. I wave goodbye to the kids and give Hannah a hug for the road. As I leave, I see a tall, tattooed dude park his motorcycle, then walk up the front path, stopping long enough to nod at us and say, "Evening, ladies," before going inside the house next door.
"Evening," the two of us chime in unison.
After he's inside his house, I give my friend a bug-eyed stare. Hannah has been holding out on me. I feel duty bound to mention this to her. But when I open my mouth to give her shit, she makes a pantomime of her zipping her lips closed. I give Hannah a narrow eyed glare. I mouth, "Who is that?"
Hannah only says, "Good night, Sam."
"Good night, sweetie," I say, giving her a look that lets her know this conversation is far from over.
As I get in my car, my phone vibrates in the pocket of my blazer. I look at it and see I have several missed calls and texts from Tough Customer. Sighing, I close the car door, start the car, and look at the messages.
Tough Customer: 9 am tomorrow.
Followed by an unfamiliar address. I find it cruel to demand someone's presence at 9 AM on a Saturday. I am working up a head of steam to make this very point to Mr. Cooper when I remember how much he is paying me to be inconvenienced like this, and I re-think the snotty reply my fingers itch to type. I even add an emoji to the reply.
Me: Sure thing!
Tough Customer: A Hero Club Novel Page 5