by Pippa Grant
“Beggars can’t be choosers.”
“You’re not begging. What’s but?”
“I don’t like runny eggs and I think bacon’s burnt three shades of brown before anyone else does, but I don’t like it chewy either, so basically, I only ever make myself bacon because every other bacon disappoints me. So I guess my favorite breakfast is oatmeal?”
I try—and fail—to stifle a laugh.
“Don’t start. Oatmeal’s a good, solid breakfast. Protein and fiber. You can’t get that from a pancake or a waffle, and if I start my day with syrup, I’m falling asleep by ten. I miss when my body was in its twenties.”
Now I’m smiling so hard my cheeks hurt. “How old—”
“Don’t finish that question.”
“—is the rest of you?”
“Dammit, I told you not to finish that question.”
“Are you an old soul?”
“No. I’m actually a very young soul, but life is working very hard to beat it out of me.” She sighs. “And apparently I’m feeling dramatic this—ow! Bad Skippy.”
“Did he bite you?”
“No. Just a scratch. Like I said. Feeling dramatic. Might do some King Lear on the storytime rug later.”
“Or maybe you need someone to take some stress off you.”
“Sometimes I think letting someone else help run my life would be more stressful. It’s easier to go grab Hudson’s Mr. Axolotl when you know the four places he’s most likely to have tossed it aside than it is to walk someone through which corner in the living room or which cabinet in the kitchen he’s likely to have tossed his favorite stuffy. Assuming he hasn’t flushed it down the toilet, since his preschool teacher told him axolotls are amphibians.”
“Ingrid?”
“Yes?”
“I wasn’t talking about someone managing your kids or your life. I was talking about private grown-up time.”
“I—oh.”
There’s a wispy, yearning quality to that oh, and where my cock was semi-hard before, he’s surging to full attention now.
“My kids are going to wake up any minute,” she whispers.
“It’s barely five AM. How early do they usually get up?”
“Six-thirty, but they’ll know.”
“What will they know?”
“If we start having phone sex.”
Yep. Raging hard-on. “That’s an excellent idea.”
“For you,” she grumbles.
“I do the talking. You do the touching.”
“Wait—what?”
“What do you sleep in, Ingrid?”
“I—a T-shirt.”
“What color?”
“It used to be light blue, before The Great School Spirit T-shirt debacle in the wash. Now it’s a dirty gray. Lesson for the ages—never trust black T-shirts that come home from school.”
I love that she has a story for everything. “What does it say?”
“Fuck off, I’m sleeping.”
My dick is raging and trapped in denim because I’m the dumbass who hasn’t changed into my sweats yet—don’t ask—and I’m still smiling like the happiest dude on the planet. “What does it really say?”
She sighs. “It says Mommy Loves You. Zoe’s school did this thing where the kids could go into a bazaar with ten dollars before the holidays her kindergarten year, and she came home with this shirt big enough to fit a grizzly bear, and it’s getting threadbare but it’s legit the softest shirt I’ve ever owned, and—and this is why I never have sex, isn’t it?”
“Don’t worry. Dr. Levi’s here to address all your sexual needs.”
There’s a muffled noise, and yeah, I know she’s laughing, and no, I don’t care.
Make a woman come, she’ll remember your name.
Make a woman laugh and come, and you’ve set the standard by which she’ll judge every other man.
I’m not just here for the pussy.
I’m here for the whole package.
There’s a different muffled noise, and it strikes me that she quite possibly has a squirrel watching her as I try to talk my way into phone sex.
Not the weirdest thing I’ve ever seen. Got lost in Georgia once and saw a raccoon pulling a dildo down the road.
“Sorry,” Ingrid whispers, though she doesn’t sound sorry in the least. “You caught me off guard. I’m not exactly in practice.”
“I love practice.”
“Maybe you can talk to Piper. She wants to be the next Ares Berger without putting in the—sorry. Not sexy to talk about my kids, is it?”
“They’re your world. But right now, you need to be your world.”
“I don’t know if that’s possible.”
“Want help?”
“I’m completely serious. They could walk in any time.”
“If you want to tell me no, tell me no. I promise, I won’t push you. But if you’re using them as an excuse because you’re afraid of wanting something for you…”
I wish I could see her. I want to see her eyes. Her lips. Her body language. Is she quiet because I hit a nerve?
Her breath comes softly over the phone. “That’s a remarkably deeper sentiment than I expected at five in the morning.”
She doesn’t add from you, but I assume it’s there.
Much as she’s willing to talk to me like I’m just a regular guy, there’s no hiding the whole traveled-the-world, got-rich, dated-superstars, lives-large thing.
“My mom still breaks up with guys if she doesn’t think they’re good enough for Tripp and me,” I say.
It’s not hard to picture Ingrid’s golden eyes studying me now, trying to decide if I’m serious or not.
I’m not.
Except I’m starting to wonder if it’s possible.
I settle deeper into my couch and kick my feet up on the armrest. “You’re calling me a liar again, aren’t you?”
“Am I right?”
“Yep.”
She laughs softly. “Let me guess: she doesn’t date at all, and if she does, she doesn’t tell you about it?”
“Nailed it.”
“Do you ever have your people spy on her?”
“No, but lately…” I shake my head. “We’re talking about you. Not my mother.”
“And I very much want to know how you treat your mother when you’re not being a brat about her giving up her own time to take care of you when you get a concussion.”
“Hey!”
More laughter.
Does she know it’s better than any song I’ve ever written?
Probably not. “Everyone from my old neighborhood—we’re still tight. And in a lot of ways, it’s like we never grew up. Mrs. Ryder chewed me out last Christmas for not encouraging her to get out and live more. I blew her off, because I thought if Mom wanted to date someone, if she found someone worthy, she’d date someone. But I didn’t expect her to do it and keep it a secret.”
“You still think she has a secret boyfriend?”
“Know she does. Gossip train still works. Pretty sure Beck’s getting coal for Christmas this year, since he’s the one who let it slip. Guy can’t keep a secret for anything.”
“I’m sure coal in the ol’ stocking will be horrible for a happily married billionaire.”
“He’ll get excited about snowman eyes and disappear to his place in the mountains for a week.”
“While you’ll be grilling your mother on her secret boyfriend over a turkey dinner?”
“I get the feeling you’re on her side here.”
“Team Mom, all the way.”
I’d smile at her teasing tone, except I’m starting to wonder if I haven’t been as good to my mom as I should’ve all these years. “I used to think she didn’t want another guy in her business after raising two boys, but now I wonder if she’s been afraid all this time. You think your mom’s not afraid of anything.”
“Motherhood is basically constant fear about something.”
“Don’t live in the fear, Ingrid. You’re smart. You’re
capable. Your kids know you love them. When shit happens, you handle it. When shit’s not happening—that’s you time. Don’t let the fear own it.”
She’s quiet again.
Heat creeps around my ears.
The last thing she needs is me lecturing her about how to live her life.
“What are you afraid of?” she asks softly.
And now it’s not just my ears.
It’s been a long time since someone who didn’t know me well asked that question. And even the people who know me well didn’t get a straight answer.
“You sound like you know fear pretty well,” she adds.
No judgment.
Commiseration, if anything.
I close my eyes. There’s no shame in what I’m afraid of. But it’s still hard to say it out loud. “I’m afraid of losing what’s important.”
“Your family?”
“No. Me. I’m afraid of losing me.” It sounds like a selfish asshole thing to say out loud when I’m surrounded by people who worry more about their kids and partners, but it’s true. “A few years after I went solo, I was on the road three hundred days a year. I worked. I wrote songs. I recorded them on my bus because I didn’t have time to take off the road and get into the studio. I played bigger and bigger venues. I wanted to make enough money to take care of my mom, to have a cushion if everything fell apart tomorrow and I had to start from scratch, and it became… It was like an addiction. I was addicted to success, but more success wasn’t bringing more joy. It was just bringing more and more pressure, until one night, I stepped out on a stage, not knowing why I was doing it when I didn’t need the paycheck, when I was missing my family even though Mom was literally six miles away that night, when my brother was settling down in love, when my friends were in all corners of the world and I almost never saw them together, and I didn’t want to be there, because I was an imposter. Just a kid from a middle-class neighborhood who got lucky a few times, and who was getting spoiled by the world for being born with a gift for music that I didn’t ask for and didn’t earn. And that night, I looked out at all those people, and I saw a woman in the third row holding a sign that my song was what had gotten her through three tours in a combat zone.”
She sucks in a breath, and I know.
I know.
It was her. She was the woman in the crowd.
And so I keep talking, because I’ve had this bottled up inside me for years, and if I don’t get it out now, I won’t ever tell her.
I want her to know.
“I lost me. I lost my why. I forgot that for every dollar that went in my bank account, there was someone out there who found happiness in my music. So I changed my attitude, I went back to who I was before Bro Code, I figured out what mattered most and where I wanted to change the world, and that’s what I’ve been doing ever since. Fewer big shows, but more time with fans. More visits to hospitals and nursing homes and schools. Charity work. Not in public, where everyone can see, but where I know it counts. Life without a purpose, without a meaningful goal—that’s not for me. So that’s what I’m afraid of. I’m afraid of losing me again.”
“That’s…wow.”
“You didn’t show for the meet-and-greet.” My heart is pounding. My tongue’s dry, and my voice is raspy.
If I’m wrong—
“You saw me. I didn’t make it up.”
“I saw you.”
“The bouncer—with the backstage pass—”
“I told him to give it to you between sets. But you didn’t show. You disappeared.”
“I was married, Levi.”
“I wasn’t—I wouldn’t have—Jesus, Ingrid, I—”
“I know. I know. I do. It wasn’t you. It was me. Daniel—my ex—he was already pissed that I was taking the sign. He said it was like I was cheating on him. And he was upset about watching Zoe when he rarely handled bedtime, and he kept texting that he was having trouble, and if I’d been out later than I said, he would’ve—that would’ve been the end. I knew that would’ve been the end. And it probably should’ve been, but I wouldn’t have Piper or Hudson if I’d used that pass, and they’re all a handful, but they’re my handful, and—I can’t believe you saw me. I can’t believe you remember me.”
I’m itchy in my own skin, like I’m naked on stage at Madison Square Garden. I’ve never told anyone all of that together. Not Tripp. Not Beck or Cash, who would get it. Not my mom either.
But Ingrid gets it.
She felt it.
And I hate her ex. I hate the sacrifices she has to make. Most of all, I hate that she feels guilty about anything. “One person can change the world, Ingrid. One person can change one person’s world. But you can’t do it if you’re afraid.”
“I—wow. This is blowing my mind a little. I…I changed your life?”
“It’s not why I keep coming back.” My tongue needs to consult my brain before I keep talking, but, as usual, it doesn’t. “It could’ve been anyone holding that sign. But I keep coming back because I’m glad it was you.”
“This might be better than phone sex.”
I smile. Leave it to Ingrid to break the weird tension, even if her voice is shaky. “Clearly, you’ve never had good phone sex.”
“I don’t think I’ve ever—Ah, Hudson. Good morning.”
“Mama snug-snug?” a sleepy, tiny voice says distantly over the phone.
My heart tugs with a memory of the first time I held my nephew. I’m a workaholic and I know it. Kids? Even less in the plan than marriage. I wouldn’t make a good dad. James and Emma are the closest I’ll get, so I drop by, read them books, chase them in the yard, help build play forts all over Tripp’s living room, and snuggle them at naptime, which they’re both about to outgrow. I’m the fun uncle that they can trust with anything, and I like it that way.
I miss the way they smelled when they were babies, my big brother told me a few weeks ago.
Hard agree.
I wonder if Ingrid misses it too.
The rustling noises on the other end of the phone have died away, replaced with the soft, non-stop chatter of a fully-activated four-year-old.
“Breakfast,” I say to Ingrid.
“Twenty-six minutes,” she repeats. “Eight thirty-two. Don’t be late.”
Fifteen
Ingrid
I don’t know if Levi is the punctual type, but I’m clearly not, which means I’m two minutes late to meeting him at the back door of the store to let him in for our breakfast date.
Despite being up first, Hudson was last to be ready for the day.
It’s basically a rule. If any of my kids are up early, they’re impossible to get ready on time. It’s like they think beating their alarm clocks by thirty minutes means they get three extra hours of playtime.
“You time, Ingrid,” I mutter to myself as I hustle down the alley after walking Hudson to preschool. I was trying to listen to an audiobook, which is my normal routine, but I couldn’t silence all the thoughts swirling in my head today. “Think about something other than your kids. Be a dazzling, interesting conversationalist. Be a grown-up without any responsibilities. Remember to smile. Show a little cleavage. Go for it if he offers to strip and take you on the table.”
The desert formally known as my vagina roars to life at that suggestion, and heat pools in my breasts.
Having a partner for sex is a novelty, and obviously, one my body’s on board for.
Having a partner who confessed this morning that he saw me, remembered me, and used my sign as inspiration to give his life meaning?
This should be overwhelming and terrifying, but instead, I’m feeling powerful.
Sexy.
Attractive.
Desirable.
Like Levi’s confession put us on a completely level playing field.
He’s not coming back because he’s into booty calls with frazzled moms.
He’s coming back because he sees me as something more. And maybe I should see me as something more too.
I spot a late-model Buick parked near the back door, and I blow out a relieved breath. Definitely not Levi. I have a minute to get myself together.
Is this a booty call?
Or is he just bringing breakfast?
I hope it’s cheesecake. And a booty call.
I’m six steps from my back door when my phone rings at the same time the back door of the Buick swings open.
The girls’ school.
Crap.
For a split second, I consider letting it go to voicemail.
But if they need something— “Hello?”
“Hi, Mrs. Scott. It’s Rebecca.”
No It’s Rebecca St. John, receptionist from your girls’ school.
Not for me.
We talk at least twice a week, and not because I’m a model PTO parent. “Hi, Rebecca,” I say as I take in the scene unfolding before me in the alley.
Holy shit.
Levi was in the Buick. He’s stepping out of the back of the car and smiling at me with a warmth that completely takes my breath away.
Hi. I missed you. Are you real? How fast can you strip? I can’t wait to touch you. But it’s okay if we just talk and eat too. I like hanging out with you. You get me.
I swear it’s not one-sided, and I swear it’s not my imagination.
He wants to take my clothes off. And he’d do it right here in the alley and take me against the wall.
A brute of a dude with a shaved head who looks like he could hold his own with Piper’s favorite hockey player steps between us, cutting off my view of Levi’s dark, inviting eyes.
Bodyguard. Right. I don’t know this one. Giselle must have the day off?
“—could bring that in for her?”
I shake my head. I’m on the phone with my daughter’s school, and I’m standing here mentally getting myself laid in the alley. “I’m sorry, Rebecca, my connection cut out. What was that?” I fell under the spell of looking at Levi, and I missed what the school secretary said.
But I don’t miss it a second time.
“Piper forgot her hearing aid.”
No.
Noooooooo.
Is she serious?
My entire body sags in defeat, and I shift my gaze to the crumbling asphalt on the ground beside the building’s dumpster. “Does she know where she put it?”