by M. E. Carter
“It really was.” I smile proudly. “I have never seen landscape like that before, and I’m sure I’ll never see it again.”
“Did you see any kangaroos?”
I chuckle. “Sure did. We stayed far, far away from those bastards. They’re mean.”
Joie lets out a laugh, and I can’t help but laugh along with her. I appreciate that she’s not focusing on Sheila’s death, but on her life.
“I’m glad you got to do that with her. She’s a lucky woman to have a husband who would drop everything to head Down Under.”
I shrug. “It’s what she’d always wanted to do, and I wasn’t gonna let her leave this earth without seeing her biggest dreams.”
Joie smiles again, resting her arms against the table as she listens to me, completely engaged in our conversation. A warm feeling runs through my chest, and I realize this is what dating in my forties should feel like. None of those bull-shit games I see my players playing. None of that drama. Just two people enjoying each other’s company. Maybe this will be fun after all.
“Anyway, I’m sure I could have started dating sooner, but working at a university makes it hard to find people in the right age category, if you will.”
She nods in understanding. “If it makes you feel better, even if you don’t work with a bunch of new adults, it’s slim pickings out there.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah. I was the office manager at a construction company for close to fifteen years. I was surrounded by men. Still, nothing.”
I chuckle as she smiles. “That’s just sad.”
She shrugs back at me. “It’s the way of the dating world, I suppose. You’re lucky to be on a date after only a couple years. I’ve been single for, what, eighteen years and can count the number of dates I’ve had on one hand.”
I blink rapidly as I digest her statement. “Eighteen years? Good lord woman, how did no one snatch you up yet?”
“That’s very flattering of you to say,” she responds. “Maybe I’m picky. When you’re left alone to fend for yourself at the age of twenty-two with a two-year-old, you tend to change your standards.”
“Holy shit, that’s young,” I remark, mostly to myself, even though I said it out loud. “And your parents didn’t help you?”
She sighs and sits back, getting more comfortable. “They tried. But I was a headstrong young woman. I’d been giving them trouble for years . . . sneaking out, partying behind their back, eloping when they warned me of the idea. I think I was determined to prove I could do it. Like letting them help would somehow be recognizing they were right about my behaviors.”
That admission makes me smile. “When did you finally get over it and let them help?”
“I’m not sure I have. But I have apologized many times for the way I treated them. Especially once Isaac became a mouthy teenager.”
I bark a laugh. “Yeah, I’ve heard teenagers have a way of making your parents seem much smarter than you give them credit for.”
“So, so true.” She grins. “You haven’t experienced the teenage years yourself?”
“Nope. When Sheila was diagnosed with cancer the first time, the radiation pretty much eliminated that possibility. But my sister has two teenagers right now and, oh boy, have I heard some stories.”
We continue sitting in the coffee shop, each ordering a second cup that I pay for this time, and talk until our cups are empty and it’s time for me to head back to the stadium.
As we stand and Joie begins gathering her things, I realize I like this woman. I really like her. She’s nice. She’s beautiful. She’s charming. And she’s short.
I usually go for tall ladies, but Joie is so full of personality, she seems to tower over me in some weird way.
“Listen, I know you’re busy with your studies and your new job”—she flashes me a smile at the mention of those damn balloon animals—“but I’d love to take you to dinner. If you’re interested?”
“Sure.” There’s no hesitation in her answer. “I live about forty-five minutes away. On the outskirts of San Antonio. Is that a problem?”
“That’s actually perfect. There’s an amazing pizza joint out there we can go to. No suits. No dresses. Just casual and fun.”
“Sounds good.”
We exchange phone numbers, and I walk Joie to her car, carrying her giant-ass bag that weighs damn near a hundred pounds.
“How do you lug this around?” I grunt when we get to her small four-door, and I toss it on the back seat.
“What can I say? I’m stronger than I look.”
Somehow, I don’t doubt that.
“I’ll call you in the next couple of days and maybe we can get together this weekend?” I offer, confident she won’t change her mind.
“Sounds good. I’m sure I’ll run into you on campus, probably literally, sometime soon,” she jokes as she climbs into her car, ending our coffee date with the same humor we’ve had the whole time. Then, with a smile and a wave, she cranks the engine and is gone.
I watch as her car drives away, shoving my hands in my pockets.
Dating in my forties might not be that bad.
It’s been years since I’ve been on a date. Okay, it probably hasn’t been that long, but it feels that way because somehow, someway, over the years, “Isaac’s mom” has been my main personality and “Joie” became secondary. In all facets of my life, including dating.
It happens. When you become a mother, life wraps around raising that little person, and it’s easy for your own likes and dislikes to get lost in the process. An opportunity to hang out with Jack as a woman enjoying time with a man was a real treat for me. And as much as I didn’t want to get my hopes up about his intensions with me, it’s too late.
Fortunately for me and my hopes, Jack didn’t wait those two days to call. No, by the next afternoon, we were texting back and forth.
It started with a How did your biology test go, anyway? which turned into How long do coaches have to be at the stadium on a regular day? and pretty much every mundane, irrelevant, yet enlightening question in between.
I’m no stranger to texting. Amanda and I are the worst about sending each other inappropriate memes or jokes at the least opportune times. But something about texting with Jack is different. It’s flirting, but it’s not over the top. It makes me feel good. Makes me feel special. It’s just fun.
I giggle as I read the most recent message from Jack. I shouldn’t laugh at his frustration of grown boys refusing to throw their lucky socks in the laundry, making the locker room smell like it’s full of dead fish, but I do. Any mother who has raised a teenage boy knows this pain, so I can sympathize. Plus, somehow, I’ve turned into a giggly girl around him.
I have to remind myself to put my phone away. It’s time for study group, and I need to find the room and focus.
Following the signage on the wall, I locate room 3B in the northeast corner of the library and open the door.
Wow. Once again, I’m the oldest person in the room, I think to myself. I know everyone in here has to be in my class, otherwise they’d be in a different study group, but I only recognize one person. Nick is a bit older than the others by a few years. He enlisted in the Army straight out of high school and spent eight years in the service. When he got out recently, he decided he wanted to be a teacher. A high school teacher, to be exact. In his words, “Teenage boys need more strong-male role models,” and so here he is.
Of course, he didn’t tell me any of this information. I overheard him telling the cute blonde he sits next to in our educational psychology class. They sit in the row in front of me, so it was hard not to eavesdrop. Plus, there aren’t many men in the class, and I was interested. I could be ashamed of myself for listening in on someone else’s conversation, but hey, at least it wasn’t reality TV.
As I take a seat across from Nick, I notice everyone else staring at their phones. I suppose the discussion hasn’t started yet. Either that, or they’re really good at bouncing back and forth
between social media and the topic at hand. Or they’re very bad at studying.
Either way, I refuse to pull my own phone out of my satchel again. I don’t need the extra distraction Jack’s texts bring.
Well, I don’t need it. Want? That’s another story.
“Excuse me,” I ask the person sitting next to me. She’s a tall woman, probably about twenty. She has long dark hair and large dark eyes. She seems friendly enough. “What time does the group start?”
Before she can answer, Nick jumps into the conversation. “Professor Ellis said it’s an informal study group. I guess that means anyone can start us off, right?” He swivels his head back and forth as he waits for someone at the table to respond and gets mostly shrugs instead. A few heads nod. There’s one laugh.
That was from someone not paying attention at all, but still playing on her phone.
Nick shrugs. “Okay. Well then, I guess we should get going. The syllabus says our first test is going to include Piaget’s cognitive development stages. Should we start there?”
Papers rustle and laptops are flipped open. Someone asks, “Is this test going to be essay or multiple choice? Does anyone know?”
No one does, so we all agree the best course of action is to assume it’s an essay test and get all the details memorized.
We begin going over the topics, Nick giving us the most direction by throwing out questions, and it seems to help. Until he starts to get stuck.
“I think the hardest thing for me to remember is the sensorimotor stage,” Nick says. “I don’t know why I can’t remember object permanence. It seems so simple.”
“Maybe it would help to come up with some real-life examples,” I suggest. “For instance, when my son was about a year old, he thought it was hilarious anytime I would put a dishrag over his head, pull it off, and yell, ‘There he is!’ It was like a modified version of peek-a-boo.”
“Oh, that’s a good example,” someone says, the click of typing keys speeding up.
“It doesn’t just work for object permanence,” I continue. “He was also learning how to manipulate the hand towel. And he was in control of it. When he put it on his head, it stayed. When he pulled it, it moved. It falls under recognition of the ability to control an object as well.”
I get a few more nods of understanding and watch as people continue jotting down my examples. Other people have ideas, too, mostly from their years of babysitting or having younger siblings.
An hour later, we all feel pretty confident that we have the developmental stages down and could get through almost any question Professor Ellis throws at us. To be perfectly honest, I didn’t find this part of the lecture that difficult to grasp. But I guess I do have an advantage, being that I’ve watched all the stages as they unfold in real time and with a real child. They just get to read about it in a boring book.
Collectively, we decide to take a break before moving on to the multiple intelligences. This is where I start to get confused, so I’m glad we’re doing it next.
As my study-mates stretch and grab for their phones again, I reach into my bag and pull out some treats. I really want to be seen as a regular student, but let’s face it. My natural inclination is to make sure these kids are fed. It’s a curse.
“I know we’re not supposed to have food in the library, but I snuck these in anyway.” I grin and drop the paper plate full of double chocolate brownies in the middle of the table. They’re moist and chewy, and I know they taste amazing because I had three of them before they finished cooling this morning.
Yes, I made brownies at six o’clock in the morning. When the neighbor’s dog wakes you up and you can’t go back to sleep, you might as well be productive, right?
It doesn’t take long for everyone to grab a brownie, or three, and the moans of enjoyment surround me.
“Wow. Thank you so much,” the tall girl next to me says, kindly. Stephanie is her name. I make a mental note to remember that.
We all start milling about, and one of the guys approaches me, I assume to thank me as well. He’s a huge guy. At least six four and well over two-hundred-fifty pounds. I assume he plays football, but I’m not going to ask. I want to be respectful of my agreement with Isaac. For him, but also for me. I’ve been Isaac Stevens’s mom for so long, it’s kind of nice to just be Joie sometimes.
“You’re Isaac’s mom, right?”
Welp, so much for being my own person for a while.
It’s not his fault he figured me out, and he doesn’t mean it as an insult. I smile at him and put out my hand. “You caught me. I’m Joie.”
His giant paw grabs my tiny hand, and he gives me a solid shake. “Brian. It’s nice to meet you, Ms. Stevens.”
“Oh, please, Brian. Call me Joie. I’m here as a student, not a mom.”
“Okay, Joie.”
“How did you figure me out, anyway?”
After Mia’s meltdown over Isaac’s old hoodie the other day, I stopped wearing it around campus. I didn’t want to accidentally out myself and potentially have another embarrassing conversation where the underlying theme is incest. Naturally, that means I’m curious how this guy knows me.
“Well, it took me a second because you’re really young to be his mom.”
Ah, flattery. It’s like being carded at the grocery store for booze. We all know the cashier is full of crap, but it makes us feel good anyway. “I'm not that young. I’m forty-two.”
He shrugs. “That’s not old. Forty is the new thirty, and all that.”
I’ve not heard that one before, but I’ll take it. It makes me feel younger than I am, which I have no problem taking advantage of.
“I guess you and Isaac have the same smile.” He squints at me strangely before saying, “It’s kind of creepy how much you look alike actually.” I’m not sure if I want to drop my head on this desk over his audacity, or laugh at the statement. Either way, he’s not done. “But I still didn’t put it together until I ate one of your brownies.”
What one has to do with the other, I’m not sure, but my confusion must be apparent.
“Isaac brought some to practice once last year.” He rubs his neck and glances at the few remaining treats on the table, longing on his face. “The only person who makes brownies like that is my mom, which is why I remember. Kind of made me a little less homesick when I had them.”
Now I remember. I had made several dozen for a bake sale the Presbyterian Church was having, but I overbaked. They’re Isaac’s favorite so I didn’t think twice when he took the overage with him. I had no idea he shared them with his team. He was just a walk-on player at that point. But clearly, he knew his teammates well enough to know a little treat from home could make a big impact.
I pat Brian on the arm. “Well, I’m glad they gave you a little taste of home. Where are you from?”
“Wisconsin.”
“Wow!” I exclaim. “You’re a long way from home.”
“Yes, ma’am,” he says politely.
“You like it so far?”
“I’ve had some time to get used to it,” he responds with a sheepish grin. “I’m a sophomore, but I red-shirted last year. I like it better now that I’m getting some playing time in on the field.”
Just a sophomore. This guy is huge, and yet, he’s still so, so young to be this far away from home.
“Do your parents get to come down for any games?”
His cheeks pink a bit, and I can tell I’ve embarrassed him. “Oh no, ma’am. We can’t afford to be flying back and forth except to get me home for summer and back. But it’s all right. They watch all my games on television. And this year, they’re having big potluck barbecues. All the neighbors and my old church friends go over and watch the game with them.”
I can tell by his wistful expression that he misses Wisconsin. I supposed being homesick isn’t uncommon for the college crowd. Especially if you can’t get home for the holidays. And then it hits me . . .
“Wait . . . what do you do over the holidays?”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean, where do you go if you can’t afford to fly home?”
He shrugs. “I stay here.”
I blink a couple of times before I realize my jaw is hanging open. It never occurred to me some of Isaac’s teammates, these kids, would be spending the holidays alone. Granted, if the Vikings get picked up for a bowl game, it’s likely they’ll play on Christmas. But there is so much time surrounding those few games.
Pulling myself together, I smile at him and pat his arm again. “Maybe I’ll have Isaac bring you guys some more brownies over the holidays.”
His eyes brighten. “That would be great, Ms. Stev . . . uh . . . Joie.” Suddenly his attention is diverted by someone grabbing the second to last brownie, leaving one lone treat. I smirk, knowing he is about to tackle anyone who gets between him and the prize he is gazing at. “Anyway, thanks again for bringing these,” he says without meeting my eyes, his glued to the chocolate as he rambles over to the table. As soon as he grabs it and takes a bite, his eyes roll in the back of his head and a deep moan comes from his throat.
I chuckle under my breath, taking his reaction as the best compliment I could ever get from a giant college football player.
Turning back to my studies and taking a seat, I make a mental note to find out more about what accommodations the athletes who are stuck here over the winter break receive.
And I revel in the fact that forty is the new thirty.
I wonder if Jack realizes he’s going to dinner with such a young woman. I’ll have to text him later and find out.
“That’s what I’m talking about!” Hank exclaims, banging his hand on his desk.
We’re watching clips of last week’s game. More specifically, clips of each player. Hank’s eyes are riveted to the screen as we watch Stevens explode off the line, knocking the other team’s defender right on his ass.
“Woo-ie. He’s gotten good over the last year.” Hank sits back, a shit-eating grin on his face. “He’s what, a junior?”
I nod. “Red-shirted the first year, so as long as he’s still on a five-year graduation plan, we’ve got him for another two years after this.”