by M. E. Carter
I laugh so hard I’m grateful to already be sitting down. “Like she… she…” I can’t catch my breath. “… like she caressed your bum?”
“Cupped my behind, complete with a squeeze.”
Tears leak out of my eyes, and I can hardly breathe, but I can see him laughing right along with me. Like I said… totally traumatized.
It takes a few seconds to pull myself back together. “I’m so sorry.” Waving my hands in front of my eyes, I try to dry up the tears and pull my breathing together. “I can’t wait for the rumor mill to start spinning about this.”
He groans. “I was doing so good staying out of that web.”
“No you weren’t.” He looks at me quizzically. “Oh please. You can’t convince me you haven’t noticed the way all the single women around here ogle you.”
He twists his lips to the side playfully. “Not all of them.”
“Pfft. Name one woman in this building that doesn’t start drooling when you do that whole hands-in-your-pockets-pulling-your-pants-tight-over-your-ass move.”
His eyebrows shoot up in surprise. “How did you know that was a move?”
“Who doesn’t know that’s a move?”
Lies, lies and more lies. I had no idea that was a move until Callie told me. But he doesn’t need to know that. Interested in him or not, I don’t want him to think I’m a complete tool.
“Hmm,” he hums in answer, the guttural sound practically vibrating through me. And still… my hormones don’t seem to notice. “I thought I was smoother than that.”
“Oh, you’re smooth,” I jest, leaning back in my chair. “Some of us have just been around a while. We know all the moves. We were there when they were invented.”
He looks me dead in the eye and lays it on the line. “Is that why you won’t go out with me?”
My breath catches. It’s been so long since the last time we talked about it, I thought he’d given up on the idea of taking me out.
“Tripp,” I interject quietly.
“No, it’s ok.” He looks down and shrugs. “I know my age is a deterrent.”
Placing my hand on his forearm, I set him straight. “It’s not your age, Tripp. It’s not even mine. I mean, originally I hesitated because I’ve never been a cougar before.” His lips curl up in partial amusement. “But that has nothing to do with it now.”
He peers up at me. “Then what is it?”
The door suddenly opens up and a throat clears behind me. Without even turning around, I know who it is. “I already found the love of my life.”
Tripp takes stock of Greg standing in front of my desk and then winks my direction. “At least I know it’s not about me.”
Shooting him a delighted expression, I finish putting him at ease. “Nope. Not at all. My destiny just involves a really hot, scruffy gymnastics coach. But don’t give up yet. You’ll find her. You have at least fifteen years.”
He blows out an exasperated breath. “That’s a long time to wait.”
“It’s worth it. I promise.”
Tripp pats my hand and pushes off my desk. “I guess I should head back to my class. My conference period will be over soon and I better be ready for the hooligans to show up.”
He turns to walk away, but I stop him. “Hey Tripp, can I give you some advice?”
Looking over his shoulder, he waits for my words of wisdom.
“Don’t try to find her in this school. I hear everything and just…” I shake my head and crinkle my nose. “… just trust me.”
He chuckles. “Noted.” And then he’s gone.
Swiveling my chair around, I stand, and I lean over my desk to give my sexy boyfriend a quick peck, loving that his newly grown beard is long enough now to tickle my lips.
“What was that about?” Greg pries, watching through the glass wall as Tripp ventures down the hallway.
“I think I broke my first heart.”
Greg chuckles. “Really? How does it feel to be such a vixen?”
I snigger. “Honestly, a little like taking candy from a baby.”
“You’re not that old.”
“No, but he is that young.”
“It goes to show how wonderful you are, that even men in their twenties want you.”
Chortling, I poke fun at him. “That was really, really cheesy.”
His responding grin makes my heart flutter. “But did it earn me brownie points?”
“Always,” I tease and lean back in my chair, exaggerating my movements as I cross my legs, making it a point for my skirt to ride up a bit. If the lust in his eyes proves anything, he knows I’m toying with him.
Interesting how a hot twenty-something can try to flirt with me and I don’t respond at all. But the second Greg ventures into the room, my inner-siren comes out.
“So, what brings you to my neck of the woods, anyway? Just wanted to see my smiling face, I assume?”
“Of course. But I also thought you might be hungry.” He holds up a paper sack I didn’t notice before.
“Coney’s Island!” I squeal in delight. “How did you know?”
“Don’t get too excited,” he backtracks as I snatch the bag out of his hand and begin digging through it for the goods. “I got plain foot-long hot dogs.”
“That’s the best kind,” I say, still digging around for more goodies, like ketchup packets. “Never ruin a perfectly good weiner with things like chili and cheese.”
He barks a laugh. “Do you even hear yourself talking sometimes?”
Moaning my approval as I take a huge bite, I talk around my lunch. “Not when you’ve distracted me with presents, I don’t.” Looking down, I realize how rude I’m being. “Um… you don’t want any, do you?”
“No baby,” he chuckles. “I would never come between you and your hot dogs.”
Winking at him, I continue to devour my food as the principal approaches. “How’s it going with the web… Oh! I’m sorry,” she declares when she notices Greg. “Are you eating lunch in front of a visitor?”
I wave his direction and take another bite of my hot dog. Not even my boss will distract me from this nitrate-filled goodness. “Ms. Windham, this is my boyfriend Greg.”
Her eyes widen and her head cocks in surprise, no doubt wondering how she missed this bit of information that can be shared. Greg takes her reaction in stride and puts his hand out to her.
“It’s nice to meet you, Ms. Windham. I’ve heard great things about you.”
She eyes me sardonically. Clearly, she doesn’t think I’ve actually said great things about her. I shrug and say the first thing that comes to mind. “What? I like working with you.”
My answer seems to delight her and she turns back to Greg. “Well, I’ve heard nothing about you, but I guess the grapevine runs swiftly around here. Elena has been wise to keep you to herself.” She leans in as if she’s telling him a secret. “Some of my teachers aren’t known for keeping their hands to themselves.”
I gasp. “You heard about the ass-grabbing?”
“From what our bus driver says, dear, it was a full on fondle.”
Greg’s eyes bounce back and forth between us as we discuss how Tripp’s “ego” was stroked last week. When his phone rings, he excuses himself and steps away, mouthing Libby my direction.
I nod in understanding and continue listening to my boss as she spouts off about how many times she’s had to talk to Maggie Ray’s husband on the phone and how I may have to start fielding all her calls. We both know she secretly enjoys it and gets more pleasure out of bitching about it than she ever would if he left her alone. But I humor her and nod in agreement.
All the while, I’m trying to eavesdrop on Greg’s conversation when his body language suddenly gets tense.
“Since when?” he demands from across the room, pacing as he listens to her on the other end of the line, Ms. Windham still babbling on.
“Over my dead body,” he suddenly bellows, making me still. Even my boss looks over, knowing something is wrong.
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br /> “You stay put. I’m coming over and we’re gonna talk about this.” He presses the end button so hard, I’m grateful he doesn’t have an old-school flip-phone or he would have crushed it. As it is, he still might do some serious damage to this one.
“Greg?” I say, not wanting to sound as scared as I suddenly feel, but somehow knowing the rug is about to be pulled out from underneath me. “Wha… what’s going on?”
Placing his hands on his hips, he turns to face me, a murderous expression covering his normally jovial face. Then he spits out the words I’ve been dreading since that first day I found out he had come back.
“Libby. She’s moving to Austin.”
My whole body runs cold as he turns and hightails it out of the room, and out of the school. For the umpteenth time, I feel like I can’t breathe.
Here we go again.
I am not doing this again.
That’s the only thing I can think as I drive to Libby’s house, hands gripping the steering wheel so tightly, my knuckles are turning white. The anger is coursing through me and it’s taking everything in me to get my breathing under control.
All of this is a game to her, and that infuriates me. My life is not a game. Our child’s life is not a game. And I’m tired of her making us the unwitting players just so she can feel like she has some sort of power. She isn’t going to uproot my life again. Fuck that. It’s not good for me, it’s not good for Elena, and it damn well isn’t good for my three-year-old daughter.
Screeching to a halt in front of her house, I slam the car door and stalk my way to the door. Before I reach the door, I stop, close my eyes, and take a few deep breaths.
Libby wants me to fly off the handle. She gets some sort of pleasure out of making me crazy with emotion. But if I’m going to get through to her, if I’m going to make a very strong point, I need to calm down.
She will not control all our lives anymore.
Pounding on the door, I wait for her to answer, running through all her different excuses in my head while I stand there. She’s going to surprise me, no matter what I do, but at least it makes me feel somewhat prepared.
The door finally flies open and Libby stands there, clearly annoyed that I’ve come over. Her lips are pursed, her hand is on her hip, and her head is cocked like she has better things to do than discuss uprooting our daughter again. So much beauty on the outside. So much ugly on the inside.
“What do you want, Greg?” As she stands in the doorway, I know she’s trying to block me from going in, but this conversation isn’t happening through the door. Pushing my way past her, she shrieks, “Hey! I didn’t invite you in.”
“And I didn’t ask,” I spout off. “Where’s Peyton?”
Crossing her arms, she throws me for the first loop. “She’s at daycare.”
What? “Since when does she go to daycare?”
She rolls her eyes like this is common knowledge and I’m an idiot for not keeping up. “Since always.”
“Bullshit. I’ve been watching her in the mornings when your mother goes to work and she can’t find you because you haven’t gotten home from partying yet. Where. Is. My. Daughter?”
She drops her arms and walks through the open-concept room to the fridge, grabbing a bottle of water. At least it’s not a beer. I’ll at least give her credit for not normally being a day-drinker.
Taking a swig, her eyes never leave mine. She’s drawing this out, not ready to give in to me yet. It’s a battle of wills, but I’m not going anywhere until we hash this out. I’ve got nowhere to be. Except work in a little while, but they can start without me. This is too important.
Finally, she caves. “I told you. She’s at daycare. They have a drop-in program, but it doesn’t always have availability and I don’t always have the money to take her.” Her hands go back on her hips. “If you would give me more in child support, I might be able to actually take her regularly so she could get on a routine.”
“And if you dropped her off with me in the mornings, since you know full well I don’t work until the afternoons, you could save yourself a whole bunch of money.”
Daggers shoot out of her eyes. She was expecting me to be emotional and possibly irrational, not lob rational ideas back at her today. And the last thing she wants is for me to spend more time with Peyton. My daughter is my weakness. Keep me from my child, and I’m crippled. Libby knows that and loves to exploit it.
It’s all more games. How did I not see all this crap before now?
There is nothing I won’t do for Peyton. But I won’t follow along behind Libby blindly anymore. Peyton needs to see what a strong man is like. What putting your child’s needs above your own means. What loving your child more than you love yourself is all about.
Crossing my arms over my chest, I brace for the showdown that’s about to begin. “Now, what in the hell is this crap about you moving to Austin.”
“I got a job.”
“Where,” I demand. I’m through with asking her things. From now on, we shoot straight or not at all.
“At Dell.”
“Doing what.”
She slams the water bottle down on the counter. “It’s not your fucking business, asshole.”
“It is my fucking business,” I yell, taking one step toward her. “You don’t have a degree in anything that has to do with computers so my guess is you got an entry level job in the call center. Yet here we are, in a town ripe with call centers that don’t require you to take my daughter away from me!” I roar, and she actually takes a step back.
Briefly, very briefly, I think we might be making some headway, but she pulls herself together quickly.
“I don’t have to justify anything to you, Pencil Dick.” And here we go. She’s lowered herself to the name calling, so I know this is about to get nasty. “The mileage limitations in our divorce decree became null-and-void the minute we all moved to San Antonio. And I have physical custody of Peyton so you can’t stop me.”
She thinks she’s got me, but I’ve been anticipating this move and planning for it for over a year now.
“You gave me a week’s notice that you were moving to San Antonio, so you could live with a man you met online.”
She rolls her eyes again. “What does that have to do with anything?”
“Whenever I would pick Pey up or drop her off, Aputi would do the hand-off with me because you were too busy playing on your phone, and he can verify this.”
She huffs and begins to speak, but I keep going before she can get a word in edgewise.
“Less than a year later, you up and moved back home because things got too ‘hard’.” I throw up the air quotes, to add insult to injury.
She blanches as I continue pointing out her flaws.
“You were falling-down drunk at Peyton’s birthday party.”
Another step towards her. This time, she steps back.
“Your mother drops the child off with me most mornings on her way to work because you aren’t home yet from a job you supposedly have, but no one can verify. A job that causes you to work overnights which severely limits your career choices and makes a lot of people have a lot of questions about what kind of business you’re actually in.”
“What are you implying?” she whispers.
“What I’m telling you is that you. Are. Not. Moving.” A strange sense of calm comes over me, knowing I’ve got her right where I want her.
“I have a job there, Greg.”
“Decline the offer. I guarantee you haven’t even begun the search for employment in this area. But let me make this clear.”
She swallows hard, waiting for me to drop the ax.
“I’m not playing this game with you anymore. You’re not going to uproot Peyton on a whim and mess with all of our lives.”
“It’s my life, too.”
“No!” I bellow. “If you even pack one box, I will file for full physical custody so fast your head will spin.”
She gapes at me, but I’m not done.
“No judge would remove a child from her mother!” she screams at me. But I call bullshit.
“No judge would hesitate with the amount of evidence I have against you and all the character witnesses I can call. And I will call them.”
It’s clear she knows I’m serious. So she switches tactics. Tears begin to flow down her cheeks. “You would take a child way from her mother? How could you do something like that to her?”
“I will do anything to make sure she is healthy, happy, and has both parents in her life. Even if it means forcing your hand. And let me remind you of something,” one more step forward, strictly for emphasis purposes, “if I win custody, when I win custody, not only will your child support cut off, but you’ll have to pay me.”
The truth of my words runs across her face momentarily making her pale, but in true Libby fashion, she recovers quickly. Steeling her spine, she pulls up to her full height and glares at me.
“Get out of my house.”
With a menacing smirk, I step back. “I’m glad we understand each other. See you tomorrow for the hand-off.”
I turn and stalk out the door, closing it gently behind me.
I got her. She knows it. I know it. And it’s done. The ball is in her court, but if she pushes me there will be a fight. And it feels good.
Smiling, I climb in my car, turning the ignition and put it into drive.
Now to head back to Elena and begin my future.
“Angie knew she wo… would… wouldn’t feel better,” Maura sounds out the words as she reads her newest easy reader book, Green, Green, Go Away, all about a little girl that hates the color green.
It’s like the author wrote about Max and new her aversion to yellow. I have no idea why she suddenly decided “it’s yucky”, but I’ve given up making macaroni and cheese for lunch now.
“She was so mad. She hated green and would nev… never like it. Angie kept think…ing… thinking, ‘Green, green, go away. Don’t come back another day.’”
Stroking Maura’s blond curls, I try to concentrate on the story and help her when she gets stuck, but my mind is on other things.