"Why? We're not having school tomorrow. Look at the sky."
"I said go home."
"I could still come up. I mean I can just run to the corner store and grab a few things and—"
"Go. Home."
I duck inside and close the glass door, a secret smile plastered on my face.
No, I am not going to allow myself to think that was kind of cute.
Huffing, I throw myself on the couch, flip through the apps on my phone, and...
These are desperate times and call for desperate measures. With my ruined beef stew stinking up the apartment, I put in a delivery order for Arby's and wait for the driver to bring me a half pound Beef n' Cheddar and a large Diet Coke and then eat until I'm delirious with beefy goodness and cheddar despair.
Tyler is almost certainly right, I am not going to have to get up tomorrow. I expect the alert to come through my phone any second. Flipping on the TV, I get a weather alert.
"The Governor has declared a state of emergency in effect through tonight until tomorrow at eleven AM. Essential travel only..."
Yeah. Snow day.
I have everything ready for tomorrow's classes, which will now be Thursday's classes. Sprawled out on the couch, evidence of my beefy shame arrayed before me on my thrifted coffee table, I prop my book on my chest and read, eagerly flipping the pages and trying not to picture anyone I know as the main characters.
Yet, even though they're described completely differently, the image of the hero slowly morphs into Tyler in my mind, and twice, the book bops me in the face as I lose track of reality and get too involved in a fantasy I've started crafting on my own.
That's not wrong, is it? It's not like anyone will know. I can fantasize about whatever I want, no matter how embarrassing it would be, even if I'd never let Tyler know I'm into that. He'd probably freak out. Yeah, things will be easier if I relieve a little...tension. So I go for it, my hand skims into my underwear, and I close my eyes and, still a little guilty, picture Tyler walking back into my little apartment and pulling me to my feet.
I pretend my fingers are his fingers, even if they don't compare. I run my hand under my t-shirt and pretend it’s his, think about the way he was staring at my breasts, trying not to in an almost boyish effort to conceal how hard he was checking me out. He wanted to get his hands on them. Hell, his mouth on them. I tasted his mouth. How hot and slick his tongue would be on my nipple. I imagine him pressing me into the wall and my hands undoing his belt, drawing him out, a big meaty slab of a cock so big and thick it makes me shiver with surprise as I stroke it and caress it, bringing him to arched, aching hardness.
He's so strong, I bet he could just grab me and I could throw my legs around him and take him while standing, let him fuck me into the wall. I haven't had anything like that this decade, just limp, utilitarian fucks from my ex-husband who didn't care if he lasted so long as he finished, but never mind that now, never mind that, Tyler, Tyler...
My phone goes off. Loudly. It's a custom ringtone: Rubber Band Man. Assigned to one person. My ex.
Are you fucking kidding me? Now?
I try not to pant when I answer. Why am I even answering? Damn it, I was occupied.
"What?"
"Yeah, good evening to you, too, Cassandra. It's Bill."
"I know who it is. What is it?"
"Becky is off from school tomorrow. They called it."
"Okay, bring her over here."
"I can't, I'm at the airport."
"You probably won't be able to fly out anyway. Just turn around."
"I'm in the airport in London."
"So? Have Barbara bring her over. It's a mess outside. I don't want to drive my car, I don't think it's safe."
"Barbara is busy."
"Doing what? Her book club?"
"She's busy."
"Right," I snarl. "Fine, I'm on my way over now. Does Becky know I'm coming?"
"I'll text."
"So will I. Good luck with the flight, Bill."
I hang up before I say, "I hope customs fists you."
Leaping to my feet, I hide my romance novel, make sure everything is fairly tidy, double check that there's no vibrators or, uh, other things out in the bedroom, and take out Dad's old gun, unload it, and lock it securely in a metal lock box which I keep at the top of my closet. Then I throw on my wool overcoat, just because it's warm, and my Uggs.
They're cozy, okay?
The Miata is not going to be fun to drive in this weather. I clear the crust of snow already formed on the roof. I'll be blind through the back window. Fortunately, it's not a long drive to Bill's house. I'll take it slow.
Yeah, it takes a fucking hour.
Annoyed, and a little exhausted, I pull up to their house and have to park on the street. Their huge driveway is full (and Barbara does not park in the garage, as it is full of Bill's motorcycle collection) and there's a half dozen more cars, all lumbering SUVs, parked on both sides of the street.
When I get to the door, Barbara swings it open. A sign hanging from the archway into the kitchen reads WELCOME REALTORS!!!! with all the exclamation points, and I smell punch and cocktail weenies.
"I'm here for Becky."
"Well, come in," Barbara says, the very prototype for the Stepford Wives.
Grudgingly, I cross the threshold and walk through the living room. Her friends or employees or co-workers or whatever they are all eye me with thinly veiled contempt. They know who I am.
"This is my husband’s first wife," she says, "the teacher."
"Professor," I correct.
"Yes, that's quite nice," she says, dripping with contempt. "Let's just get Rebecca and you can be on your way."
I give them all the stink eye and trudge up the stairs, kicking extra snow onto Barbara's patterned carpet runner that probably costs as much as a car.
In case you were wondering, the money is all her. The bitch.
Becky's room is bigger than my entire apartment. My twelve-year-old daughter looks up from her homework.
"Hi, Mom," she says.
I can't help but grin.
"Hey, Big Becky. You ready to roll?"
She looks around her palace of a bedroom and my heart sinks, complete with its own bathroom and four poster bed and flat screen TV, and a hook pulls in my chest. Does she value this...this shit more than her own mother?
Stop it, Cassandra. Not everyone hates you.
Whatever hesitation she has is overcome and she rushes over and catches me into a big hug.
"Rebecca, run downstairs and grab your bag, will you?"
Once she's out of earshot, Barbara looks at me.
“Try not to feed her that processed beef and so-called cheese."
"Try to go fuck yourself," I say, cheerily.
Okay yeah, I am a bit of a bitch, but she's a bigger bitch for daring to say that to me.
"I know you can't afford better on your salary, but her health is important. She's a developing girl."
Rage heats my cheeks, turns my pale skin scarlet, but I hold my tongue. I should have held it the entire time—Becky could have heard me drop the C-bomb—but I'm in control now.
"I'm sure you have important spoons to polish. I'll get going."
"You shouldn't disparage domestic skills, Cassandra. If you learned a few you might not be a spinster with a cat."
"I have a kid. I am by definition not a spinster. Words mean things, Barbara. I know they probably didn't cover much of that in your home ec classes. I mean, there's probably not a lot of writing for 'theory of casseroles,' but you must have set pen to paper sometime." I shrug.
"You think you're so very clever, don't you?"
"I have tits and brains, and mine weren't installed at a dealership. Barbara."
I sniff and storm out of the room before we end up fighting. Uh, again.
Becky has her bag and is waiting for me downstairs, all dressed up in a heavy coat that makes her waddle. Barbara has joined us on the porch as I lead her out to my c
ar.
"Do you really have to drive that ridiculous thing in the snow?"
"You’re right, I should have dusted off another car from my vast collection. Come on, sweetheart."
I push Becky a little ahead of me so I can give Barbara the finger over my shoulder and hurry my kid into my car.
"Come on, honey. We need to get back to my place before it gets too snowy."
"I like your car, Mom," she assures me, resting her bag on her lap. "Do you think we'll have to go back to school this week?"
"School is very important," I assure her.
"Yeah, but..."
I raise an eyebrow.
"Nothing," she mutters.
"It's nothing bad, is it?"
She shakes her head.
"Remember, you can always tell me if it's something bad. I won't be mad. There's nothing more important to me than you."
"Barbara says your tenure is more important," she says, in that meek tone kids use to test the waters.
I clench my hands on my steering wheel so hard it creaks.
"Barbara is an empty-headed skank and she says whatever dribbles out of her useless, hollow skull. Don't tell her I said that."
"I won't."
"Don't tell your father what I said to her, either. I know you heard."
"What did you say?"
"Nothing!"
She laughs. "I'm hungry."
"Did you eat?"
"Yeah, but it was an artistinal spinach and eggplant sandwich with a rosemary garlic aoli."
"That's not food."
She's quiet.
"I think all the places are closed, but I'll see what we can do on the way back."
Glumly, she leans her chin on her hand and gazes through the window.
I don't want to overfeed her, but still, I wasn't planning to have her back until the weekend, and the cupboards are bare. One grocery store is still open, but when we head inside, it looks like Soviet Russia. There's no bread left, almost all the eggs are gone, and there's two bottles of milk left. I grab what will fit in the trunk of my little car and we head home.
When we get back to my place, I thank God for Nintendo. That little portable game thing they make now is a blessing. Becky happily plugs it into my TV and plays Zelda while I make a pot of plain old fashioned boxed macaroni and cheese. I'll just give her one portion and save the rest for tomorrow. I might get ambitious and make us pork chops or burger patties in gravy.
While the water boils, I sit behind my daughter. She's cross legged on the floor and I take position behind her on the couch and find myself idly stroking her hair. She's growing so fast and I don't see enough of her.
I can't. This is no way for a kid to live, and living with Bill and his wife means she can go to a better school and she doesn't have to be a latchkey kid or come with me to campus and hang out in my office. She leans back against my legs and I let out a sigh of relief. My tenure portfolio, loans, bills, classes, all of it fades away when she's with me.
If only it didn't have the bitter edge of knowing I had to let Bill take primary custody.
"How are things living with Bill and his wife?" I ask her.
She grunts, engrossed in her game.
"Fine, I guess. She's too nice and it's weird and she wants me to make friends with these girls I don't like, and she doesn't like my real friends."
"Why not?"
She shrugs.
"Who are your real friends?"
"Skyler and Tara. I think Barbara doesn't like Skyler because her mom is a nurse and she doesn't like Tara because she just lives with her dad. Her mom died."
"I'm sure they're nice, Becky."
She nods.
"Who does Barbara want you to play with?"
"Jeeze, Mom. It's not playing. I'm twelve years old."
"Okay," I laugh. "Hang out with, then?"
"Her friend's daughters. They're all...like her. It's creepy."
"Uh huh," I say. "Well, as long as you're not getting into trouble, you can hang out with whoever you want."
"Well," Becky says, sheepish, as if she's confessing something. "Barbara says if I hang out with the wrong people, I'll end up like..."
"Like what?"
"You," she mutters.
My rage burns my cheeks just as water hisses in the kitchen. I leap up and run over to turn the pan down to stop it boiling over. I think I put too much in. Sighing, I grab for the box, tear it open, and dump the macaroni in. I can handle that much.
"Becky, you're old enough to know I've made some mistakes, and I'm not where I want to be in life. You know I'd rather we lived together and when I get a raise, I can move out of here and you can come live with me."
She's silent.
"Being like me is nothing to be ashamed of. I have a doctorate."
She swallows.
"Go ahead and tell me what she said, honey. I won't get mad at you."
She switches off her game and hops up on the couch with me and my breath catches. She looks so much like me at that age, just a little different in her coloring.
"She said being a history doctor is a waste of time and you should have done something more important with your life, like be a real doctor. She said you must be a real mess if nobody wants you."
"Sweetie," I pat her hair. "You don't need a man to be a complete person."
"Are you sure?"
I frown and lean back into the sofa. It creaks, ancient springs groaning.
"Well, it just doesn't mean anything. There are lots of people who are great and they're just fine being single. There's lots of people who are a total mess and have somebody."
Becky blinks, and I realize how pained that sounded.
The timer dings and I rush off to mix up the food. I scoop some in a bowl for her and, screw it, I'll have one, too. It's a snow day. We sit on the couch and put on Netflix.
"Want to watch Frozen again?"
"Jeeze, Mom, I'm too old for that."
I sigh.
I don't know, maybe she is. In four years she'll be able to drive, in six she'll be going to college. Will I still be alone then? Will I ever make enough to cover my loans and rent for a better place, or am I going to be holed up in this old brick monstrosity until I turn gray or it folds down?
Until I turn gray, as if I don't already have a little silvery trail forming behind my left ear.
That hair of yours is the key to the kingdom, my mom used to say. Boys love hair like yours.
Boys. Jesus, when is Becky going to start asking me about boys? Or should I say something? If I don't, Barbara will beat me to the punch, and probably relish it.
"Mom? Are you okay?"
"Just tired, hon. Come here. I need hugs."
God, I wish I could keep her with me all the time. I feel like less of a robot when I'm with her, like my Dr. Mills persona isn't eating into who I really am.
Who is that, exactly? Can I say that this is the real me if no one ever sees it? Would I really be treated like shit by my colleagues if I smiled once in a while?
Eventually, with a belly full of warm macaroni, Becky starts to snore. I gently detach from her and unfold the futon, grunt as I lift her into it, and step back. She's getting heavy. Hell, she's almost as tall as I am. It's crazy. She doesn't even wake as I tuck the blankets around her and the pillow under her head.
"Sleep tight," I murmur, and lightly touch a kiss to her forehead.
In my bedroom, I collapse into bed after cancelling my normal alarm.
When I wake, before the alarm, I crawl out of bed and I can feel snow, even though nothing has changed inside. Becky is still sound asleep, and I don't rouse her. I can't open the balcony door. Snow is crusted against the glass a good three feet high, but that's probably from drifts. The weather says we got nine inches of snow overnight with another ten expected through tomorrow evening. Classes will probably be out all week.
Crap. I hope I have enough food. I do a quick inventory. Yeah, I have something for all three meals for the next week,
we're fine. I decide to let the smell of French toast, the only dish I actually know how to cook, wake Becky from her snow day slumber.
She comes into the kitchen yawning, sifts powdered sugar onto her toast (she never uses maple syrup) and carries it back out to the living room where she's appropriated my Netflix account to watch some tween show.
Yawning, I turn to my desk and check my faculty email. Classes are cancelled. Yeah, no shit. Cancelled through Thursday, and the deans will make a determination then.
Oh, just call Friday too, you jerkwhistles.
Whap.
What the hell was that?
"Mom, something hit the window," Becky calls. "I think it was a snowball."
Another one. Whap.
Lurching into the living room, I try to peer through the glass door. Grunting, I pull it open slightly. The snow has drifted and hardened against the door, so there's a knee-high wall of white. Thankfully it holds its shape. I kick at it, pushing the snow away, trying not to let any flow inside, and pull my robe tight around myself to poke my head out and look around.
"Down here."
Oh no.
The “balcony” is only two steps deep, so I can just lean over and grab the snow-crusted rail to look down.
Tyler, dressed in enough layers to go for a space walk, is standing on the sidewalk below with a shovel.
"How about I clean your walk?"
"That's my landlord's problem," I call back. "Go back to your dorm."
"Nah, I got this."
Where the hell did he even get a snow shovel?
Despite my protests, he clears the steps and starts cutting a path through the snow on the sidewalk. By the looks of things, he got here by taking bounding steps through the snow, his shovel like a walking stick. It must have taken him an hour to walk here from campus in this.
"You're wasting your time. We're getting another foot of snow."
"It's easier if you stay ahead of it," he calls up. "Maybe when I'm done I can come up and we can have cocoa and tiny little marshmallows."
Becky pokes her head out beside me and looks down.
"Who are you?" she calls.
"Who are you?"
"I'm Becky."
"Okay, Becky. Want to have a snowball fight?"
"No," I start.
"Yes," Becky says, darting for her bulky coat. The next thing I know she's rushing outside in a coat and her pajama bottoms, and I'm chasing after her in my wool parka over my sweats.
Stuck With You Page 7