Balance Check

by M. E. Carter

  Fiona turns and tramps away mumbling, “You guys are disgusting,” under her breath. The whole thing makes me laugh. He loves embarrassing her.

  “You do realize she’s the least-dramatic of the bunch,” I say, as I pull away to grab the hot pads and pull the pigs-in-a-blanket out of the oven. “Once the others start going through puberty, we are totally screwed.”

  “And I will have fun embarrassing them with our acts of love. Ow, that’s hot,” he blurts out, dropping the croissant and shaking out his fingers. Serves him right for grabbing food straight off the cookie sheet before it has a chance to cool.

  Before I can reprimand him for stealing more party food, a booming voice calls from the front door. “Is that dinner I smell?”

  Aputi rounds the corner and kisses me on the cheek, handing me a platter of freshly made taquitos.

  Yes, Aputi. He’s been the most surprising addition to our fold.

  Right before we got married, as we were trying to figure out what to do with Greg’s house, he got a call from Aputi. Turns out, his daughter lived in the area and didn’t want to stay with her mother anymore. In her full-blown teenage years, the two of them weren’t getting along and she wanted to get to know her dad better. Of course, Aputi jumped at the chance to raise Amber for the few remaining years of her childhood and decided the best course of action was to move here so his daughter could still be close to her mom.

  In that moment, we became rental property owners and it’s turned out great having them live next door. Not only is his daughter, Amber, our favorite babysitter, the love of Aputi’s life was practically around the corner. Her name is Deborah.

  Yes, that Deborah. As it turns out, the uptight, high strung, half-crazy woman who ended up divorced when her husband decided she was too OCD for his taste, is the perfect match to this quiet, huge, intimidating Samoan dude. He calms her crazy. She takes care of him. They adore each other and it’s ridiculously cute to watch.

  “Thanks,” I remark, putting the platter next to the rest of the food. “Where’s Deborah?”

  “She’s cooking the rest of the taquitos and trying to get Trevor off the Xbox.” He snatches a handful of chips out of a bowl, eliciting a glare from me that he completely ignores. “She’ll be here in about ten.”

  “You didn’t want to wait for her?”

  An ornery smile crosses his face. “I’d rather be here to see the fireworks when Christopher shows up.”

  “Christopher is coming?!?” Fiona screeches again.

  Greg immediate rubs his ear with his finger, a grimace across his face. “Weren’t you just in the other room? I need to attach some bells to your shoes. You’re getting too sneaky as you age.”

  Fiona completely ignores Greg, too busy staring me down. I look back at her like she’s being ridiculous. “Of course, Christopher is coming. This may be your first girl/boy party,” I chide as a shove the bowl of chips in her hand to take out to the garage, “but this is our family.”

  She stomps her feet, some sort of garbled half yell/half scream coming out of her mouth before she turns on her heel, flipping her hair over her shoulder in a huff as she leaves.

  Aputi looks over at Greg. “This is gonna be a fun few years.”

  “At least she’s not dating yet,” he responds, patting Aputi on the shoulder. “Hope you’re enjoying that.”

  Aputi groans. “Don’t remind me. It took everything in me not to pound the shit out of the loser Amber brought home for dinner the other day.”

  “Who brought home a loser?” Callie asks, walking in with a giant cake box.

  “Amber,” Aputi responds.

  Callie carefully slides the box onto the counter. “You say that every time she’s dating someone new.”

  “It’s true every time she’s dating someone new.”

  The cake box is opened, revealing a two-teared, black and white cake with Fiona’s name written in beautiful calligraphy icing, a giant 13 candle at the top. It’s beautiful. And over the top. Some things never change.

  “Well,” she responds, as she steps back and inspects the cake for any flaws that need to be fixed. “Get used to it because she’ll probably marry a loser the first time around. Look at all of us.”

  We all look at each other and kind of shrug like “She’s not wrong.”

  Despite her dig, Callie and Ben are still married and spend most of their time arguing. I’m convinced she gets some sort of sick pleasure out of thinking up creative ways to get him back when he pisses her off. For instance, the time she gradually weaned him off caffeinated coffee all the way to decaf. He kept increasing the number of cups of joe he would drink to make it through the day. Then one day, she added back the full-strength version without telling him. He was strung out and jittery as hell. I’m still not sure how many hours he stayed awake before he finally crashed.

  That’s when I realized it’s all some weird form of foreplay they enjoy, so I stopped even asking about it. Now, when she bitches, I just laugh at the ridiculousness of it all. If it works for them, who am I to judge?

  Suddenly, Christopher and Trevor go racing by, Max and Peyton hot on their heels. No telling what they’re up to, but judging by Fiona’s scream, it’s not good. Yet, we’re all so used to it, none of the adults even make a move to go investigate.

  Christopher is still a death trap waiting to happen. We can’t figure out how he hasn’t broken any bones yet, but there are wagers floating around our group of friends about concussions and teeth being knocked out. At nine years old, Christopher has been playing pee-wee football for a while and he loves it. I’m convinced he’ll play through college and maybe even beyond. Aputi practically foams at the mouth when anyone mentions Christopher’s potential.

  I look around the room as Deborah walks in and realize, it’s all done. We’re ready for tonight. All we need now are a dozen teenagers to walk through that door and the party will officially begin.

  Suddenly it hits me… I have a teenager. The memories of my own teenage years are so vivid, and that’s the stage my daughter is now in.

  Wow. It’s like her life is just beginning. What a strange revelation.

  Greg puts his arm around my shoulder and kisses the top of my head. Whispering in my ear, so as to not interrupt the conversations around us, he asks, “You ok?”

  I squeeze my arms around him and nod. “Yeah. Having a moment, I guess.” He holds me tighter and we enjoy watching our friends and family laugh and be together.

  It’s been fun building this big group of friends. I’ve always had only one or two close-knit people to lean on, so having an entire tribe that helps take care of each other has been an unexpected joy in my life. Five years ago, I wouldn’t have expected this.

  Rubbing my hands down his stomach, I look up at Greg. He looks back, a contented smile on his face. “I love you, you know?”

  His grin only gets bigger. “I know. And I love you, too.”

  Kissing me, I realize how happy I am in the moment. In my life.

  I’ve still got flab. He’s still got abs. I still make him laugh. He’s still great at oral.

  I had a second chance to find my one great love, and here it is.

  And it’s a Perfect 10.

  Did you enjoy Greg and Elena’s story?

  Find out more about Greg’s sister Joie,

  as her new life as a student turns upside down

  when she meets Coach Jack Pride

  in Pride and Joie.

  Coming Fall 2017!

  Here’s a sneak peek!

  Pride and Joie

  A #MyNewLife Romantic Comedy

  by M.E. Carter

  Copyright 2017

  CHAPTER ONE

  Joie

  Somewhere in between Austin and San Antonio, out in the boondocks and away from the fast paced, twenty-four-hour vibe that defines a big city, there’s a town called Flinton.

  Life moves a little slower in Flinton. People say “yes, ma’am” and “no, sir” no matter how old the
y are and how old the person being addressed is. Almost everyone attends church every week and wears their Sunday best, no exception. And big, blond hair is the norm. You know, closer to Jesus and all that. In some ways, it’s a stereotypical Texas cow town.

  That is, until you cross over to the south side of the area and step foot onto the University campus. Then, it turns into the typical college town.

  Flinton State University is a huge school and boasts the college life new adults always seem so excited to join. Roughly twenty-five thousand students attend classes somewhere within the boundaries of the five square miles that is the campus property. Fraternities and sororities divide people into Greek life and everyone else, although there’s not real pressure to join one. There are clubs and organizations for just about any interest you can think of—dancing, reading, Frisbee golf. There’s so much to choose from, it’s hard to believe anyone ever goes to class. So much education happens outside the classroom.

  Around here, cafeteria food is complained about daily. Messy buns and pajama bottoms are normal eight a-m class attire. And everyone is free to be who they want to be, away from the prying eyes of their parents.

  As much diversity as there is around here, though, there’s one thing that draws everyone together.

  Football.

  As is true of most teams in the PAC-10 and Big-12, if you are involved in football in some form or fashion, you’re basically a god among men. Doesn’t matter if you’re a coach, a player, or the water boy. If you’re on that field for any amount of time, it’s clear you are a priority to the administration and other students.

  I knew this before signing up for classes, but I’ve spent the last hour trying very hard to concentrate on the syllabus my new professor gave us and jot down notes about study groups and project requirements. Instead, my mind keeps drifting back to my son Isaac.

  He’s one of the football players here at FSU, and I, his forty-two-year-old mother, am now his peer. At least in the classroom. It’s not bad so far, except for the fact that I’ve been sitting next to some teenage skank who spent the first few minutes in this room telling her friend all about the party she went to over the weekend and some of the crazy things Isaac’s teammates did.

  At least, I’m choosing to believe it was his teammates. The thought of my only child doing keg stands in his boxer briefs has me wanting to run to his dorm room, grab him by the ear, and drag him home. But I won’t because we have an agreement.

  When we first discussed my going back to school, he was hesitant about me taking classes on the same campus as him. The more we discussed it, the more we realized our paths would probably never even cross. He’s a third-year business major on the football team. I’m a first-year education major who commutes every day. We might run into each other on the quad every once in a while, but for the most part, there’s room for both of us to achieve our goals with minimal on-campus interaction.

  At least we thought so. But as luck would have it, sitting in the second row of my new classroom backfired on me. There was nowhere else for the party crowd who straggled in at the last minute to sit, so I’ve been forced to hear about the huge welcome-back shindig, which gave me way too much information about the people my son hangs out with. Just the thought that it could be him who had a random threesome makes me shudder. Some things a mother doesn’t need to know.

  “Are you cold?” the young blond next to me whispers when the shiver runs through me. I’m trying very hard not to judge her. Usually I’m of the mindset that people are people and we’re all doing the best we can. It’s hard to maintain that perspective when your son’s integrity may be on the line. And yes, I’m aware that I sound like an over-protective mom, but being the oldest one in my class has already been an eye-opening experience. And its Day One, Hour One.

  This may end up being a long four years.

  I respond with a simple shake of my head and polite smile in the girl’s direction.

  “Always bring a sweatshirt with you,” she whispers again. “I learned last year that there’s no consistency in the building temperatures. Sometimes it’s really hot and other times its freezing, so be prepared.”

  I mouth thank you at her and continue taking notes. And I do appreciate the information from her. I haven’t been in college for over twenty years. This is all new to me again and any advice is helpful. Even if it’s from a floozy.

  And yes, I’m aware some grandma vernacular rears its ugly head when I’m being judgy and over-protective.

  “Next time, we’re going to begin our discussion on Dante’s Inferno,” my new professor bellows, most of my classmates already packing up their belongings. I understand that class is almost over, but am I the only one waiting for him to finish? Looking around it’s clear—yes, yes I am.

  “Make sure you have the first five chapter read before Wednesday so we can discuss,” he continues. “You don’t want to be lost or you may never catch back up.” The rustling of papers and laptops slamming shut gets louder. When I did my two semesters back in the day, we brought books and notebooks. Now everyone brings a computer. It’s been quite the culture shock to see. Not to mention feeling completely unprepared. Take a guess who brought paper and pen for my notes. That would be me.

  “Alright, alright,” Professor Something-Or-Other waves his hand in dismissal. “You’re free to go. But stay safe, especially all you new freshman. Remember, you’re fresh meat.”

  A few chuckles come from around the room. Probably upperclassmen who have heard this all before. Or know he’s right.

  “Is this your first time in college?” the girl next to me asks. For wearing jammie pants, no make-up, and partying until the sun came up, she looks remarkably refreshed. It’s so unfair that I had to be up at five thirty so I’d have time to cover up the dark circles under my eyes before driving here, and she probably rolled out of bed ten minutes before class started, nary a circle to be seen. Damn these children and their young, flawless skin. I should have enjoyed it more when I had it.

  “I took a few classes years ago,” I respond, shoving my antiquated note-taking methods in my new satchel. It’s dark leather and big enough to hold all my supplies, plus everything I may need in the event of an emergency. I love it. “Unfortunately most of my credits didn’t transfer.”

  She makes a face. “That sucks. My mom had the same problem when she went back to school a couple years ago. Like, how unfair is it that she had to retake them all? I swear, all the administration at this school does is nickel-and-dime us.”

  I actually got more credits than I expected, considering my classes are so old. But I don’t say that. She’s young and idealistic. I’m sure it would fall on deaf ears anyway. College kids are notorious for hating anyone who works for their college. “I’m just glad I got credit for my freshman English class. It’s too bad I have to retake Algebra, though.”

  She grimaces again. “Ew. I hate math classes. Just one more to go and I’ll be finished with numbers for good, I hope. Anyway, I’m Mia. If you need anything or whatever, I’ll be here three days a week. And I know how hard it is to go back to school at your age, so I’m happy to help.”

  I feel my eyebrows shoot up in surprise at her dig, but quickly bring them back down. I’m pretty sure she wasn’t trying to be rude, and since I’ve spent the morning judging her party-girl ways, my guilt tells me I need to give her some grace. She is, what, nineteen? Twenty? I don’t think most of us have a good lock on our filters until we’re in our thirties. And even then, it’s iffy.

  “Thanks, Mia.” I smile back at her and situate my bag over my shoulder. “I’m Joie. And same goes to you, even though I’m not sure what kind of help I can give you since I’m so new.”

  She shrugs. “I’m sure something will come up. Maybe a recipe or something.” With a small wave, she turns and bee-lines her way out the door, along with the rest of the crowd.

  I take a few seconds to pull my printed schedule and a map out of my bag. I could use the university app a
nd my GPS to help guide me to my next location, but I’m too overwhelmed to try to make it all work. Old school is my comfort zone when I’m feeling nervous. I love technology as much as the next guy, but give a girl a minute to catch up to the millennials.

  No, that’s not right. These kids are too young to be millennials.

  Oh boy. I’m beginning to feel ancient.

  As the last one out of the room, I don’t have to fight the crowd as much to get through the doors. Most everyone is coming inside for their next class, not going outside, so it gives me a moment to pause and look around, taking in my feelings about the scene around me. Frankly, I’m giddy.

  Twenty-two years ago, I was in my second semester of college when I found myself pregnant. One too many parties and one too many bad decisions meant inevitably forgetting birth control and my oops baby decided it was time to come into the world.

  Don’t misunderstand, Isaac was the best thing to ever happen to me. For the first time, there was someone else who was more important than me. Well, in my eyes anyway. And there was nothing I wouldn’t do, nothing I wouldn’t sacrifice to give him the life he deserved.

  So my plans to get a degree, even though I was undecided on my major at that point, were put on hold as I became a wife and a mother. The wife part only lasted a couple of years, but the mother part stuck. It wasn’t easy. My entry-level job as the receptionist at a local construction company didn’t pay much, but the lovely elderly woman who acted as the office manager trained me well so advancement was imminent when she retired.

  We still lived paycheck to paycheck, but my job provided me the ability to pay all our bills and buy a small house in a decent neighborhood. Plus, because I worked with your typical good-ole-boys, when Isaac started playing football, they pooled their money to make sure he had whatever equipment he needed. And most of the guys showed up for a least a couple of games every season. Considering his dad was never around, I know Isaac loved their support as much as I did.