The Man Cave Collection: Manservant, Man Flu, Man Handler, and Man Buns

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The Man Cave Collection: Manservant, Man Flu, Man Handler, and Man Buns Page 35

by Ryan, Shari J.


  “You too,” I reply breathlessly, as I jog toward the doors in my click-clacking heels.

  I run outside through the pouring rain and hold my briefcase above my head to salvage what’s left of the curl I tried to put into my hair this morning. I double click the key fob in my purse, and the doors to my minivan unlock. I jump across a puddle and duck inside, falling heavily into my seat.

  Thankfully, the lack of traffic makes up for the extra two minutes I spent in the elevator. However, with the rain downpour, there’s a line of five minivans parked against the sidewalk, and I’m the very last one, which means it will take a full minute to reach the bus stop. I won’t be able to see the bus until it arrives—mothertrucker.

  I dig around under the passenger seat for my umbrella, finding nothing but a bunch of crumpled drawings Cora smashed under there last week.

  Mom, I need to borrow your umbrella for a minute. The memory of her saying that hits me as I jam my fingernail into whatever is metal and hard under the seat. Dammit to hell.

  I look like death anyway; might as well just get this over with. I hop out of the van and trudge through the puddles, soaking my feet and legs. There is nothing better than wet feet inside of peep-toe pumps. As soon as I make it up the hill and over to the bus stop, I realize my paper clip has gone missing. How long has it been gone? I don’t want to know how long my stomach has been visibly showing between the perky buttonhole and hanging thread of my blouse.

  I clutch my shirt together, squeezing water out at the same time. Now seems like a good time to up the rain-factor too. Instead of just pouring, it’s now flying in horizontally with the wind, as well.

  With a quick glance down at my watch that shouldn’t be getting as wet as it is, I see it’s already a minute past the time the bus normally arrives. Thankfully, I’m here, but not so thankfully, I’m standing here like this.

  Ten minutes goes by before the bus rounds the corner. Each of the other moms step out of their cars with their umbrella and a second one for their child. Not me, nope. No umbrella here. Fabulous mother alert.

  As the bus empties out, Cora is the last one to jump off the bottom step right into a puddle, splashing me, as if I weren’t already soaked to the bone. The joke isn’t on me this time.

  “Hi, baby-cakes, how was school?”

  She tilts her head from side to side, her bouncy curls swaying with her movement. “It sucked.”

  “Cora!” I snap. As if she were using a megaphone, the other moms turn around and glare at me like I was the one who said the word “suck.”

  “Just saying it how it is,” she chirps.

  “Well, we don’t use that—”

  Like I needed icing on this freaking cake, a sports car flies by, hitting the unnecessary, massive drainage hole in the middle of the street, and drenches me from head to toe. I shield Cora, of course, but that mothertrucking bitch has got to go.

  “Oh, it’s Tiana!” Cora shouts.

  Tiana, like the Disney princess, except she is no freaking Disney princess. She’s Rick’s peach-cake.

  I click the button on my key to make the sliding door of the van open for Cora, and she hops in and closes the door behind her before I reach my door. I can take a guess that while Tiana was flying by, soaking me with rain and sewer water, she was taking a selfie that will somehow show me in the background, taking her wrath like a beaten, wet rat. That shit will appear all over Instagram tonight because that’s what this twinklette does. She’s a fitness guru with a side gig of promotion yoga on social media. They have those sorts of jobs now. To add insult to injury, she probably gets paid more than I do.

  I drive around the block until I pull into our driveway, watching Tiana as she slowly pulls into her garage next door.

  “Mom, why can’t we pull into our garage? I don’t want to get wet,” says my princess who stood outside in the rain for less than thirty-seconds.

  “Because, sweetie, all your dad’s junk is taking up the space in there, so there is no room for our car to fit inside,” I tell her.

  “Minivan, mom, not a car,” Cora corrects me. Thank you for the reminder.

  Cora hops out of the vehicle and runs through the rain she was just complaining about, crosses over the small patch of grass between the houses and disappears inside of their garage. “Cora! No!” You have got to be freaking kidding me. “Cora Taryn Pierce!”

  Now, running through the rain as I glance down at my watch, I confirm that I have five minutes before I’m expected to be on that call, and Cora is not in this garage. I’ve told her not to do this, yet it’s like I’ve never said it at all, as with most things that come out of my mouth. I open the door that leads into Rick’s kitchen and storm inside, searching for Cora.

  I find her seated at their kitchen island, eating a cookie. “Do you want a cookie?” she asks me.

  “Get over here right now,” I seethe through my clenched jaw.

  She hops off the stool and brings herself to where I’m standing. “Hannah, you look like you’ve been standing in a hurricane,” Rick says with a snarky chuckle.

  “Well, I kind of was, Rick. Actually, you kind of look like you’ve been through a hurricane too.” I point to my ears, signaling at what I mean. “The hairs in your ears are sticking out … too much thinking today? A little brainstorming? You must have too much wind going on in that head of yours,” I say, sounding like the bitter ex-wife that I am.

  He takes a cookie from the plate on the counter and chomps half of it down. With his mouth full, he redirects his attention to our daughter. “Cora, you know you’re only supposed to be here on the weekends, sweetie. I know it’s fun here, but we have to follow the rules, okay?”

  Cora rolls her eyes and crosses her arms over her chest. “This is stupid. You two and your stupid rules. Why can’t I go where I want to go, when I want to go there?”

  Rick and I look at each other. It’s the only time we have any mutual understanding for one another. Not that the divorce was my idea, but he was kind enough to make the decision for the both of us. Oh, and then he was kind enough to move in next door with his mistress.

  “It’s just the way things have to be, sweetie,” Rick says to her with a loving smile.

  “Can’t you just come home now?” Cora asks again, just like she does every time she sees him. She doesn’t understand what divorce means, or the whole “forever,” thing for that matter. Rick is never moving back in with me, and we will never be together as a couple again. It’s easy enough for me to understand, but still painful for Cora to comprehend.

  “I’m afraid that isn’t possible,” Rick continues.

  “It’s because you fucked Tiana, isn’t it?” Cora asks calmly and so surely, it steals every ounce of air out of my lungs. Oh, awesome. Unfortunately, Cora’s last babysitter was a tremendously horrible influence over her, and now I’m trying to bring her newfound sixteen-year-old attitude back down to one of a typical five-year-old.

  I grab Cora by the arm and drag her and her cookie out the door we came in. “Thanks a lot, Hannah,” Rick says as I close the door behind us.

  “Oh, you’re so welcome. You’re lucky that’s all she said.” I don’t say another word until we’re next door in our house, and I sit Cora down on the couch.

  “First, we don’t say the word fu—that word. Second, thank you.”

  “What does that word even mean?” Cora asks.

  I inhale a slow breath of air and swallow the explanation I would like to give her instead of, “It means Tiana is a better friend to him than I am.”

  “Hmm, weird,” Cora says. “Can I get up now?”

  Before I answer her, she bounces off the couch and runs upstairs to her bedroom.

  And … my meeting with Brett started five minutes ago.

  I run upstairs to my office-loft and dial in as I start up my laptop. Of course, you need to do fifteen goddamn updates. This machine is as done as my marriage, and I need a new one. I need a lot of new things.

  “Thanks fo
r joining, Hannah,” Taylor says. “You’re only five minutes late today—it’s like a mom miracle, right?”

  Something inside of me snaps when the smugness of his voice lingers in my head for a second longer than it should. “You know what, Taylor?” I spew his name as if it were the worst cuss word I’ve ever used. “Not only am I soaking wet from head to toe from the downpour I stood in for ten minutes waiting for my daughter, but then I needed to go drag her out of my ex-husband’s house. As I’m sure you know, he lives right next door to me. So, yes, I’m five minutes late today. Any other comments you’d like to start this fabulous sales meeting with?”

  There’s silence on the other end of the call for a long pause. “This is our staff meeting, Hannah, so why don’t we hold our private conversations until later, okay?” Alan speaks up.

  Mothertrucker. I scroll through my phone, opening my calendar to see what the hell was on the schedule for today, and yeah, of course, it’s a staff meeting. I swore it was a sales meeting.

  More silence follows Alan’s lovely statement until I hear Brielle’s voice peep up. “I’ll start by introducing Logan, our new temp. He’ll be working with Hannah and me for the next few months while we hash out the new Anti-Hover-Mother segment.”

  “Nice to meet you all,” Logan says.

  Well, now my temp doesn’t need to wonder about my personal life because I just vomited it out to everyone on the team, including him. This is my life.

  3

  Tuesday: Don’t be fooled, it’s just an extension of Monday

  My alarm—that I haven’t heard in months— blares “Hit Me Baby One More Time” by Britney Spears. I sit up in bed, frantic that I haven’t already woken up. Where’s Cora? Oh no, not today. I can’t today. I have a meeting with a new advertising rep, and Cora cannot be sick.

  I pull myself out of bed and push my hair away from my face. Why can’t it be Saturday? For once, I’d love for someone to wait on me hand and foot, have breakfast waiting for me, and maybe even do my hair before I leave the house. That will most definitely never happen, though. I suppose I should try to appreciate that I now have one less person to get ready in the morning because Rick can be Tiana’s problem for as long as she’ll take him.

  As I drag my heavy feet across the hall, I hear a cough echo from behind Cora’s closed door. Silently, I cry. Screw you, gummy vitamins. You’re just candy with a label tricking me into believing you’re boosting my kid’s immune system for eight bucks a bottle.

  I open the door and find her hiding under the covers. “Cora, sweetie, are you okay?”

  She moans and pulls the covers from her head. “I think I’m sick.” I reach over and press the back of my hand on her forehead, but I don’t feel much heat. There’s an ounce of hope, followed by another cough.

  She runs her arm under her nose and pulls in a loud, wet snorting sniffle. “Can I have a tissue?”

  I jog into the bathroom, grab the box of tissues and bring it back to her. “I’m sorry you’re sick, sweetie.”

  She rips the covers off and hops out of bed. “It’s okay, but I can’t miss school today. A farmer is coming in to teach us about cows.”

  Holy crap, someone in heaven is watching over me. “Are you sure?”

  “Yeah, I’m sure,” she says. “There’s no way I can stay home today.” Ditto, kid.

  “Well, let me take your temperature, and if it’s normal, you can go. Deal?”

  “Deal,” she says, following me downstairs into the kitchen.

  I run the thermometer over her forehead and get a green smiley face on the display, telling me this girl is going to school today. “Yay!”

  “Okay, go get dressed quickly, and I’ll make your lunch.”

  Cora runs upstairs, coughing along the way, and I put her lunch together while firing up the coffeemaker. I’m going to need so much coffee to get through today.

  By the time Cora comes downstairs, she has green boogers dripping from her nose, and her face is flushed. “You look miserable, sweetie.”

  “Can you just do my hair, so we can get out of here?” she asks. Cora never wants me to touch her hair. She’d rather leave the house looking like whatever the Lion King would give birth to.

  I pull her hair up and tie it into a ponytail, sparing myself the horror movie screams I’d endure if I braided it.

  “Cora, I need you to listen to me,” I say while kneeling in front of her. “If you think you’re well enough to go to school, I need you to try and stick it out for the day.”

  “I’ll be okay, mom,” she says with a sniffle.

  I do the whole dog and pony show, dragging her to the bus stop and shuttling her onto the bus before finally hopping into my super-hot, gray minivan. Why do I have a minivan for one daughter? I was supposed to have three kids, but kid two and three will probably end up in Tiana’s uterus now. It sounds way more depressing than it is, but really, it’s a blessing. What would truly be a blessing, though, is if I could lose six seats in this God-forsaken spaceship.

  I speed into the parking lot of Coffee Me and burn a little rubber while pulling into a front spot.

  I jog inside, stopping behind the woman who’s next in line. She turns around to see who’s standing behind her, and of course, we recognize each other. “Hannah, how are you?”

  Gill Sanford. Gill, as in Jill but with the twenty-first-century type of spelling, is a twenty-first-century type of mom. We met at a playgroup when Cora was six months old, and her daughter was about eleven months old. We tried to become friends, but it didn’t work out. We live two very different lives, and our parenting techniques are slightly contrasting, to put it mildly. Every time we were together, it felt like the battle between the working mom versus the stay at home mom. We moms should be on a united front, but it isn’t always like that, and it never has been with Gill.

  She stopped talking to me when she found out I was going back to work after taking an eight-month maternity leave. I tried to keep our friendship intact, but she had no interest in talking to me at that point.

  I’m not even jealous that she wears yoga pants every day, or that she somehow has time to spend at least an hour or more on her hair and makeup. She purposely looks sexy and cute, but like she just came from the gym where she could not have broken a sweat. Oh, and we can’t forget about the tan with no lines and a smile with no flaws—the face of a mother without a hint of worry. I want to ask her how, but I don’t want to hear the answer.

  “I’m good, Gill, how are you?” I ask, sounding as exhausted as I feel and look.

  “Are you sure you’re good, honey?”

  I wave her off with a snort that bellows deep within my throat. “Oh, I am finer than fine.”

  “I heard about the divorce.” She just dives right in. It’s been a year, but I was so good at hiding the secret that word didn’t spread about Rick and me until a few months ago when Cora started school.

  “So, anyway, how is Celli enjoying first grade?” I abruptly change the subject.

  “She’s just great. All straight A’s, captain of her soccer team, and student president. I couldn’t be prouder.”

  Yeah, they don’t have captains in soccer at this age, nor do they have student presidents. Oh, and I’m almost positive a check mark on paper does not equal an A, but what do I know? “Wow, you must be so proud,” I coo, placing my hand on her shoulder.

  Her smile widens, but just enough that I can tell it’s fake. “Can I help the next person in line?” Thank you, barista chick.

  “Oh, and by the way, my daughter, you know, Cora, she can now wipe her own butt after she goes number two. I’m really proud of my little girl, so I totally get the pride thing.” She looks at me like I’m speaking a different language and turns to face the barista. As if I can’t see her, she twirls her finger beside her ear, calling me crazy without saying the word out loud.

  Dumbass.

  Breathe in, two, three, four. Breathe out, two, three, four. I hate people. All people.

 
; “Good morning, Hannah,” the barista says. I still can’t seem to remember her name. I see her name tag each time I’m in here, but it just doesn’t stick with me for some reason. “A large coffee with a shot of espresso, hold the froth?” I can’t remember her name, but she remembers my order.

  “You’re an angel. Yes, to the coffee,” I tell the woman.

  “Ohh, you two know each other?” Gill pipes in as she waits for her green smoothie with the calories and carbs on the side.

  “Hannah is a frequent customer,” the barista says.

  “I don’t know how you do it,” Gill says. “A single mom with a career. And you still manage to …,” she looks me up and down, “match your clothes every day.” That wasn’t just a ditz comment. She’s a bitch.

  “Yup and I brush my own teeth and put my shoes on the right feet too. I’m moving up in the world,” I laugh and squint one eye at her. What nerve.

  The barista places my coffee up on the counter first, and I want to hug her for doing so, but I need to get the hell out of here before I run into someone else I don’t want to see.

  “Um, I actually placed my order before her, so …,” Gill says as I open the door to leave. “Is your manager around?”

  Holy crap, get a freaking life.

  Back in the van I go, but at least I have my coffee. Oh, and I mindfully put a shirt on this morning that won’t tear. I’m calling today a win.

  I arrive at the office ten minutes early and take the stairs instead of the elevator because you know, it’s that kind of day.

  The office is fairly empty, and it’s music to my ears. Maybe I can get through my pile of emails before anyone asks me for something this morning. Wouldn’t that be something?

  I make the long journey through the row of cubes and head right for my office, finding the Pepto-colored walls calling my name.

  “Hannah?” I hear. I take another sip of my coffee and spin around to see where the voice came from, finding Logan at his desk. Dammit. Why? He’s wearing dark jeans today, a white fitted, button-down shirt, suede penny-loafer boots, and that cologne that was burnt into my nose for hours yesterday. For someone his age, he still has thick hair, which is slightly coifed. His square jaw shows some of his age, as well as the very fine lines angling outward from his deep-set, topaz blue eyes. “You’re … uh, dripping over there.” His voice snaps me out of my awkward, analyzing stare, and I find that I am, in fact, dribbling coffee onto the cheap Berber carpeting.

 

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