Tell Me Everything

by Amy Hatvany

“Nice to see you, ladies,” Tiffany said. “Hope you’ll be at next week’s bake sale meeting. Be sure to bring a list of your favorite gluten-free, sugar-free options!”

  “Will do,” I replied, even though just the thought of attending the meeting made me tired. The last thing I needed was another item on my to-do list. Tiffany, however, seemed to thrive on anything that had to do with helping out at the school. I envied her a little, because she didn’t work outside the home, so even with three kids—Lizzy, who was Ella’s age, and her twin boys, Isaac and Sam, who were seven—she had time to be involved in all of their extracurricular activities. With my unpredictable work schedule, having to be at the beck and call of my clients and their needs, the most I could usually do was show up at my kids’ events and cheer them on. That’s more than your mom did for you, I reminded myself. I hoped it was enough.

  “That woman needs to calm her tits,” Charlotte said, after Tiffany had left us to join a small gathering of her PTA friends sitting further down the sideline. “Can you imagine what having sex with her is like? There’s probably a two-page, bullet-point agenda, like the ones she does for those damn meetings. ‘Kissing, two minutes. Discuss pros and cons of going down on each other, thirty seconds.’ Poor Ben.”

  “You’re awful,” I laughed. Ben appeared to be much more easy-going than his wife, always laughing and passing around drinks at social events, making sure that everyone was having a good time, while Tiffany was more likely side-eyeing the caterer’s choice of entrée and pointing out how she would have picked white roses instead of red—“red is so tacky!”

  I turned my attention to the other side of the field, where the team was stretching and getting ready for the game to start. My eyes landed on Ella, who waved at me, excitedly. I waved back, overwhelmed by the young woman she was starting to become. At thirteen, she had gotten her period—an event that was “totally gross” according to her—and needed to wear a bra, which Kari, her step-mom, had taken her shopping for at Victoria’s Secret without talking with me about it, first. “But she needed it, and she was with us that weekend,” Kari said, when I confronted her. “I was trying to help.”

  “Right, but I’m her mother,” I said, attempting to remain calm. “Taking her shopping for her first official bra is something that she should have done with me.” In the long run, I knew it wasn’t that big of a deal, but I couldn’t shake the disappointment I felt about not being there to help Ella navigate that particular milestone. Kari had apologized, but then I saw her roll her eyes at Peter when she turned around to go back inside their house, annoyed with me, and I had to restrain myself from going after her and giving her another, not-so-diplomatic piece of my mind. She wasn’t a bad person, but she also wasn’t a very bright one, so I chalked up her mistake to that, and tried to let it go. When your ex marries a woman you don’t especially like, that’s really all you can do.

  “Love you, baby!” I yelled, now, cupping my hands around my mouth. Ella ignored me, this time, and instead, adjusted her ponytail. She had my long brown curls, and her dad’s green eyes. Tucker looked more like Peter—a carbon copy of him, really—with a black crew cut, pale skin, and green eyes, as well. Jake and I had talked about having another baby, one of our own, but at the time, right after we’d gotten married, the kids were more than enough for us to handle, so we decided that we would be happiest focusing on them and not having to deal with the diapers and potty-training phase again.

  I felt the tiniest sense of relief that Jake hadn’t insisted on having a baby with me, because the truth was, I’d missed out on the freedom most other twenty-somethings experience. I’d gone straight from my parent’s house to living with Peter, never having the kind of autonomy most young adults have during and after college, living on their own, doing whatever they want, when they want. I never got the chance to know what it was like to focus only on myself—to take no one else’s needs into account. After my divorce, especially, I had to grow up quickly, and find a job to help support myself and my toddlers with only a two-year business degree. Real estate turned out to be a good fit—mostly because it allowed me to make my own hours and work from home if one or both of the kids got sick and couldn’t go to daycare. But that flexibility didn’t transfer to my social life. At the office, fellow agents around my age would ask me to join them for drinks or dinner, and I’d have to decline.

  “I need to pick up my kids,” I’d tell them. Even on the weekends they were with Peter, I didn’t go out, choosing instead to stuff as many hours of kid-free, uninterrupted work into two days as I could handle. Overall, it was difficult for me to connect with my peers. The women I did spend time with at the kids’ swimming lessons or story time at the library were mostly in their thirties and forties—women who had waited to become mothers. They were nice enough, but it was hard to establish close friendships because of our age difference. Our life experiences simply didn’t mesh. I didn’t fit in with women in their mid-twenties, either, the few that I knew, because they were mostly unencumbered, able to spend their time however they chose.

  “Can’t you just get a babysitter?” one of my female coworkers asked me once, when I told her I couldn’t take off with her and a few other agents to Vegas for a girls’ long weekend. “Or ask your ex to watch them? You work so hard. You deserve a little ‘me’ time!”

  My face burned with embarrassment, because even if I could get a babysitter or ask Peter to take the kids for four days instead of his usual two, I was barely making ends meet as it was and couldn’t afford to make the trip. Child support from Peter helped, but in the beginning, my commissions were still sporadic enough that I had to keep to a strict budget in order to pay my bills. The only “me” time I had was in the shower, but even there, more often or not, Ella and Tuck were in the bathroom, too, poking their heads around the curtain. But instead of telling my coworker all of this, I said, “I don’t like to be away from them for that long.”

  “Oh. Okay,” she said, with an incredulous look, obviously having no clue what I was talking about. I would have envied her more, if I had the time. I didn’t have any family nearby to pitch in—my parents still lived in Boise, where Peter and I had left right after we married. I didn’t want to go back home, even though my parents offered to take us in, because I wanted to prove to them—stubbornly—that I could make it on my own. Not to mention the fact that Peter wouldn’t have tolerated me taking the kids that far away from him. However poor of a husband he had been, he was a good father, which was one of the qualities that had attracted me to him in the first place—the two of us bonded over our mutual desire to be better, more present and involved parents than the ones we’d had.

  I lived like this for two years, working my ass off to build my business and support the kids, going on the occasional date when I was asked, but rarely having sex. In some ways, that desire had been temporarily turned off after I had babies, which had been a point of contention between me and Peter. My need for physical touch was already overloaded by nursing each of them for a year and a half, and, as they got older, after the divorce, their insistence to be on me was constant—hugging, snuggling, kissing, crying, or looking for comfort when they didn’t get their way. I was all touched-out. It wasn’t until they got a little older that that changed—my body started to become mine again. Then I met Jake.

  He saw one of my properties online, and called me at the office. “I’m an executive recruiter,” he said after he introduced himself. “I have a client moving here in a few weeks who really wants to buy something instead of living in corporate housing. He told me what he’s looking for, and I said I’d make a few calls to try and find him an agent.”

  “That was generous,” I said, already liking the deep, but friendly tenor of his voice. While we were still on the phone, I quickly Googled his name and clicked on his company’s website, immediately attracted to his easy smile and deep blue eyes. He looked to be about my age, twenty-five, or maybe a bit older.

  “I’m a full-service ki
nd of guy,” he said, and I wondered if I’d only imagined the flirtatious, implied sexual innuendo. It had been months since my last date, when I uncharacteristically had a one-night stand with a guy I was physically attracted to, but hadn’t clicked with on any other level. My body was primed, aching for the kind of satisfaction that my vibrator didn’t provide.

  “I could show you the house, first,” I offered, on a whim. “For your client.” It didn’t make sense, really, for me to show the property to Jake, but for whatever reason, I felt a spark between us, even in those first moments on the phone. I wanted to see if it carried over in person. I also wanted to get laid.

  “That’d be great,” he said. We made plans to meet at my listing that evening, and the minute he stood in front of me as I opened the door, my heart skipped a beat. He was tall, over six feet, with broad shoulders but a lean, runner’s build. He wore jeans and a navy blue polo, which set off his eyes.

  “Nice to meet you,” he said. He extended his hand, and I took it.

  “You, too,” I said. The warmth of his skin on mine flowed through my whole body. It wasn’t love at first sight, by any means, but it was definitely lust. He had an energy about him that pulled me in; a quiet confidence and ease in his presence that couldn’t be faked. I glanced, surreptitiously, at his hips, wondering how well-endowed he might be. I’d only had sex with one man who wasn’t of average size—the man I’d had the one night stand with months before—and the experience left me wanting to do it again.

  “Let me show you around,” I said, and we spent the next half-hour walking from room-to-room, while I imagined various scenarios of the two of us fucking in each of them. Should I go for it? I wondered. He seems attracted to me. Should I kiss him and see how he reacts? But something stopped me—something that told me Jake had the potential to be something so much more than a one-night stand. However sexually frustrated I was, the one thing I wanted more than physical release was to find someone to actually share my life with.

  So instead of trying to seduce him on the spot, I pointed out the amenities the owner had added: a bar in the den, a pop-up flat screen TV in the master, and a high-end pool table that would be left behind if Jake’s client wanted it. When we returned to the entryway, I grabbed my purse and keys and looked at Jake. “So, do you think your client might be interested in making an offer?”

  “I have a confession,” he said, the corners of his mouth curling upward into an appealing manner. “He already told me he was going to call you tomorrow. He saw the pictures online and decided it’s exactly what he wants. He’s buying it.”

  “Oh,” I said, surprised, and a little confused. “Did you come to see the house to make sure the pictures were accurate, then?”

  “No,” Jake said. “I came because I wanted to meet you.” His eyes twinkled.

  “Oh,” I said again, and despite my earlier thoughts of what he and I might do together, I suddenly felt a little uncomfortable being alone, at night, with a complete stranger. Ted Bundy was handsome, too, I thought, moving my individual keys between my fingers, like tiny daggers, just in case. I was usually a pretty good judge of character, but you never could be totally sure.

  Jake glanced down at my hand, seeing what I’d done with the keys. “Oh god, sorry,” he said, quickly. “That came out kind of creepy, didn’t it?” He laughed. “I’m not a weirdo, I swear. I just liked the picture of you on your listing. I think you’re pretty.” He held up his hands, palms facing me, in a gesture of surrender.

  Later, we laughed about that moment when we recounted the story of how we met—how I’d been considering jumping his bones and then became worried he might be a serial killer who lured unsuspecting real estate agents to a showing before burying them in his backyard. But that night, since the kids were with Peter, Jake took me out for a late dinner at an Italian restaurant near my office.

  “Did you grow up in Seattle?” I asked as we sipped at our respective cocktails—a vodka tonic for me and a Scotch on the rocks for him. My physical attraction to him had only increased during the short time we’d spent together, and I hoped that his personality turned out to be just as appealing.

  “Florida,” he said. “Outside of Tampa, in a shitty trailer park with my mom and sister. I couldn’t wait to get out.” He gave me a crooked smile and leaned against the back of his chair. After spending a few years in sales, I had learned that peoples’ postures and facial expressions often could tell you more about them than what they said. Jake’s body language was relaxed and open, like he had nothing to hide. I took this as a good sign.

  “I felt the same way about Boise,” I said, liking that we could understand that about each other’s early life. Every time our eyes met, my stomach flipped over, and my mind raced with impure thoughts. “My parents weren’t happy when I left.”

  “My mom couldn’t have cared less,” he said. “She preferred the company of vodka and random assholes she picks up at the bar to spending time with her kids.” A brief darkness clouded Jake’s eyes.

  “I’m sorry,” I said. My heart ached for him, imagining as a little boy, how lonely he must have been, and decided to disclose another, similar bit of my past. “My parents weren’t around much, either, though their drug of choice was work.”

  “What do they do?” Jake asked, appearing sincerely interested.

  “My father’s an oncologist, and until a couple of years ago, my mom was dean of the physics department at Boise University. She just teaches, now. They’re both incredibly practical, and analytical. Not exactly touchy-feely. My brother and I were alone, a lot.”

  “Leah, my sister, and I were, too.” He gave me a wry smile. “Thus you and I became the self-employed, independent types.”

  “Huh,” I said, unaccustomed to feeling a connection with someone so quickly. Most of my first date conversations were more of the awkward, “Hey, this is great weather we’ve been having, huh?” variety. It was a little unnerving, how easy it was to talk with him; I normally didn’t reveal so much about my personal life to a stranger. “I never really thought about it that way, but you’re right.” I released a short sigh. “If only my mother thought being a real estate agent made me successful.”

  Jake seemed perplexed. “She doesn’t approve?”

  I leaned forward and rested my forearms on the table, and Jake did the same, so our heads were closer together. “She doesn’t disapprove. It’s more like she wishes I’d done something more academic. Like Scott.”

  “Your brother?”

  “Yep. He’s a biological research scientist for the National Institute of Health.”

  “That’s in Maryland, right? Bethesda?”

  I nodded. “He’s quite the intellectual.” Growing up, my brother and I had never been especially close, and since he elected to settle back east after completing his Master’s degree at MIT, that hadn’t changed. He occasionally texted to check in on his niece and nephew, but in six years, he’d only met them a handful of times, when he came home for the holidays. He wasn’t married, or even dating anyone, as far I knew. Like my parents, it seemed his priority was his career. My career was important to me, too, but being a mother would forever come first. I never wanted Ella or Tuck to feel about me the way I had felt about my parents.

  “Well, if you ask me,” Jake said, “what you do takes high intellect. Number crunching! Wheeling and dealing to make the sale!”

  I smiled, and shrugged. “Yeah, my parents prefer book smarts to people smarts.” I paused. “You haven’t mentioned your dad.”

  Jake shrugged. “There’s not much to say. He took off when I was eight and we never heard from him again. I told myself every morning that I was going to do whatever it took to get the hell away from Tampa and never look back. I got the best grades I could, and with the help of a few supportive teachers and a good high school counselor, I managed to get a full ride to the University of Florida.”

  “Impressive.”

  “Thanks!” he said, flashing me another dazzling s
mile. “After I graduated, I landed a position as a junior recruiter at Microsoft here in Seattle, but it only took me a couple of years there to realize that I could make way more money as a freelancer, so I went into business for myself.”

  “That’s amazing,” I said, with admiration. “I got an Associate’s degree, then I met my ex, married him after six weeks of knowing each other, and we decided to move here.”

  Jake grimaced, but with a smile. “And that didn’t work out so well?”

  I laughed. “Well, the marriage part, not so much. He grew up without a mom, so he was really anxious to have a family—kids and a wife to take care of them, and I was flattered when he said he wanted that woman to be me. I liked that he wanted a more traditional life, so we just took the plunge, thinking loving each other and both of us wanting a family would be enough.”

  “And it wasn’t,” Jake said, solemnly.

  “Not for very long. I realized pretty quickly that he was just another version of my father. He was gone all the time, focused on work so he could be the breadwinner. He was pretty controlling, actually. We argued more and more until we realized it wasn’t going to work.” I paused, and took a deep breath. “The only good thing to come out of it was our two gorgeous kids.” I held Jake’s gaze, waiting for his energy to change—for him to suddenly “remember” that he had an early morning meeting and make a beeline for the exit. The few men I’d gone out on dates with since my divorce tended to stop calling after I told them I was a mother. I decided to be honest with Jake upfront, in case it would make him run. Better to get it over with, before I got invested.

  But his expression didn’t change. In fact, he smiled, a crinkled fan of lines appearing at the outside corners of his eyes. “How old are they?” he asked.

  “Ella is six, and Tuck is five.” I showed him a recent photo of Ella’s slender arm wrapped around Tuck’s neck in a half-hug, half-headlock. They were sticking out their tongues and crossing their eyes, hamming it up for the camera.