Speaking of Gabby, she’s home from Leona’s, her belly full of pancakes and playing with her friend Lizzie in her room. I feel a good kind of achy in places I haven’t been achy in a long time, and I’m enjoying her being occupied with a peer a little bit too much.
Memories of last night replay in my mind. Fast forward, rewind, pause, my brain is on overdrive. Problem is, my heart is too.
A. It’s been so long, and I should still be denying myself affection, and, B. I’m lying to Reid.
This morning as we lay in bed, he spoke about his blog and how much he loves it, and joked about his abs. I nodded and acted surprised and interested in the conversation, telling him I liked his blog. “Far cry from a few of the mom blogs I’ve read,” I told him.
I’ve been so lost in Reidville, I forgot who I actually was for a minute or twenty.
“I hate to shoo you out of here,” I told him with a wink, “but Gabby’ll be back soon, and I don’t think we should let her in on our sleepover.”
He kissed me and asked if we wanted to come over for dinner on Sunday. “I’ll do something fun, burgers. You can bring a side dish, if you want?”
Flutters rippled through my veins, mammoth butterflies flapped in my belly. It was a surreal experience.
Anyway, I said, “Yes,” and for five minutes, I was that girl. Young and smitten, balancing it all. Motherhood, love life, career, feelings.
“Mom!”
I try to focus on my daughter.
“Lizzie asked if we can come to Christmas at her house, can we? Can we? Can we?”
Awake from my Reid fog, I stare at Gabby hopping on one foot. “Delia, James, and the kids are coming on Christmas Eve, baby girl. Don’t forget, we always see a movie on Christmas Day,” I say in desperation. I run my hand over her hair and her cheek, taking in my beautiful daughter.
“I know,” she interrupts, continuing to hop.
“Do you have to pee?”
“No, but something burns there . . .” The last part she whispers, pointing between her legs.
“Come here.” I gather her in my arms and hold her tight. “Does it burn when you pee?”
She nods. I put my lips on her forehead and realize she’s not warm from hopping. She’s running a fever. Nothing like a kid with a urinary tract infection or God knows what to pop your post-sex-haze bubble.
“Sweetie, we have to take your temperature and call the doctor. Let’s tell Lizzie and call her mom.”
“What about Christmas?” Gabby looks at me with wide eyes, and I can’t resist her charms.
“We can stop by . . . yeah?”
I’m fidgeting with my phone, pulling up Lizzie’s mom’s number, making a mental note to put a bra on to go to the doctor, when Gabby asks her next question.
“Maybe Reid’ll come?”
Lizzie’s mom answers quickly, saving me from responding to Gabby. Thank God.
“Hey, Linda, listen. It’s Andi. It seems like Gabby has a bladder or urinary infection. She’s running a fever.”
Linda murmurs the appropriate commiserations.
“No, not contagious,” I say, trying to dispel her concerns, and she offers to come pick Lizzie up.
I nod, listening. “No, you don’t have to grab her. My guess is we will have to run to the doctor’s, so I can bring Lizzie when we go. Save you a trip.”
She agrees, and I hang up and dial the doctor, listening to Gabby tell Lizzie her “bagina is burning.”
Lord, I guess I won’t be going to Reid’s on Sunday.
Gabby’s bagina is cock-blocking my vagina.
Not really, but I can’t help but joke. Obviously, this is reason number 152 why I don’t date. I’m a single mom who can be called to duty at a moment’s notice.
Later, we’re on our way to the pharmacy from the doctor’s office, prescription in hand. Gabby is half asleep in the back seat, after complaining about her playdate being cut short, when my phone dings. I don’t check it until we park, and it’s the little things.
REID: Hope you’re having a good day. Thinking about making fried pickles tomorrow. Ya think Gabby will like?
I pick up Gabby and hoist her out of my car, walking with her over my shoulder to the pharmacy. She’s too big for this and I’m too slight for it, but hey, it’s part of the job description.
“Put me down,” she mumbles, and I do so gratefully.
“Can I get candy?”
“Sure.” I know there will be a movie and couch time when I get home too.
Someone has to pay the bills, and I need to make an evening post and check comments.
With a mouthful of skittles, Gabby dances by my side despite her ailment, and I ponder what to say to Reid while we wait.
ANDI: Gabby’s not feeling well, so I may need to change plans.
It’s vague and a bit harsh, but a good dose of my reality.
The pharmacist yells our last name, and I grab our package and head out, ignoring the dinging of my phone. In fact, I pretend not to hear it all the way home, so when I find Reid parked in front of our house, I’m somewhat in shock.
“Reid!” Gabby charges toward him. “Can you come for Christmas? At Lizzie’s. I told her about FunZone.”
“Um, Gabby, give Reid a moment to breathe.” I rest my hand on her shoulder. “Hi,” I say to the man himself, unable to make eye contact.
Feeling exposed, I stare at the ground. It’s clear he’s not the type of guy who is going to let me push him away with my single-mom sob-story tactics. I probably should consider his move a bit stalkerish, but instead I’m raw with emotion at knowing he dropped whatever he was doing to check on Gabby and me.
“I’m sure this is a bit weird,” he says, “but I felt bad when you said Gabby was sick and you couldn’t come over tomorrow, and I thought maybe you’d want some company. You probably want to watch TV or something, but I thought . . .” He looks down at Gabby, his hands by his sides.
“She’s not contagious,” I blurt.
He looks at me, then Gabby, then me. “I wasn’t worried about that. Did you think . . .”
“I don’t know,” I say, but then Gabby interrupts.
“Mom, I have to pee.”
“Yes, let’s go. You can’t hold it.” I can’t look at Reid. He’s been inside me, we’ve been naked and sweaty together, yet I can’t seem to reconcile this intimate moment with my daughter in front of me.
I hurry her up the stairs, Reid in tow, and when I open the door, she plows to the bathroom.
“She okay?”
Finally, I have a moment to take Reid in. No coat, a new flannel—green—and worn-in jeans. His eyebrow is cocked, but he’s not smiling or smirking while he waits for me to answer.
“Urinary tract infection. Probably held her pee for too long when playing or whatever. She’ll be okay. Girl problems, ya know,” I say, trying to lighten the moment.
“I feel like an ass, running over here. It’s probably too much.”
When he steps back, I reach out, squeezing his bicep. “It was nice. I’m not sure anyone’s ever done that for me before.”
“Do you need to help Gabby?”
I shake my head. “She’s pretty self-sufficient in the bathroom. When she comes out, I’ll give her some Tylenol.”
“Do you want me to go?”
I take myself in, casting my gaze down at my ratty thermal, leggings, and leg warmers. “As long as you don’t mind my somewhat sketchy appearance, I’d love you to stay. Pretty sure a Disney-princess marathon will ensue at any minute.”
“I’m guessing it’s going to be an education for me.”
“Oh yeah.”
Just then, Gabby runs into the room, her feet bare, and still jumping. “Mom, can I watch TV?”
I nod. “As soon as I give you some medicine.”
I tell Reid I’ll be right back, then lead Gabby to the bathroom where I keep the Tylenol. She had one dose of antibiotics at the pediatrician’s office and will get another before bed.
W
hen I come back out, Reid is staring at his phone and laughing. It’s a gorgeous sight until he says, “You ever heard of Lila, some kid?”
Schooling my expression, I start to respond but Gabby interjects.
“We love Lila! She’s so funny, with those two mini-buns. Mom, will you do my hair like that?”
“I take it you don’t know Lila?” I ask Reid, fluffing pillows on the couch, desperate to contain my anxiety.
I know good goddamn well why he’s asking. Because he thinks “Andrea” is so funny and witty, and while I was helping Gabby, he was reading her post.
Gah, I’m jealous of myself.
“No, but this blogger, who is pretty sardonic and funny, wrote a sweet column about her today.”
“Those are three words you don’t often hear together—sardonic, funny, sweet—but what the heck do I know? I’m only a medical transcriptionist.” There’s so much wrong with the run-on bullshit I spewed. So very much. I’m a bumbling idiot.
“I was thinking, what do you do? When you transcribe?”
And one-two-three, he’s into me again, and I’ll take it.
“Well . . .”
“Mom, come on. Put it on.” Gabby leaps out and hops up next to Reid.
“This isn’t how I ever imagined I’d spend my Saturday night, but I like it,” he says.
“This isn’t certainly how I saw spending the last few days, or ever, so I guess we’re even.”
“Popcorn?” Gabby asks.
“I’ll do you one better,” Reid says. “Chinese takeout?”
“With egg rolls?”
“Gabby, don’t be so demanding.”
“With egg rolls.” Reid winks at my daughter, and my heart shatters into ten million pieces. Fucking Mr. Coffee; he should be here right now.
“How about we watch half the movie and then order?” I suggest, feeling like a fifth wheel.
My daughter and this strange man nod in unison, and I hit PLAY.
We didn’t go to Reid’s the day after our Chinese takeout and movie night. Gabby’s stomach hurt from the antibiotic, so I spared him that particular not-so-perfect parenting experience. We did have a blast watching movies and eating Chinese, so much so, I didn’t update my blog until midnight.
For an hour or two after he left that night, I lay in bed, dreaming of the possibilities with him. He didn’t seem to mind Disney movies, he loved takeout, and he rushed to my rescue—it’s an act, I told myself. Some kind of after-sex glow or haze. In the end, I got up and wrote a somewhat cynical post about the tree at Rockefeller Center and the bloggers snatching SEO from it, and called it a night.
Now, life is in fast forward and it’s Wednesday. I’m sifting through two days’ worth of emails, behind the eight ball and all that good stuff.
I have several inquiries I’m proud of, Universal Studios being one of them. Looks like Gabby and I may be taking a spring-break trip this year, gratis! I need to figure out how to do that anonymously, but I will because this is an opportunity I can’t miss.
The next email hits me in the gut.
Andrea,
Hi, it’s Reid again. I loved your new voice a few days ago in your post about Lila. What struck me is your ability to switch gears. One minute, snarky; the next, sweet. It’s cool.
I’m wondering how that would translate to my blog. Did I say I love blogging and I’m not going to give it up for anyone? Why would I? Plus, I’ve been invited to Disney!
Which brings me to this. I’m dating a woman with a kid and I don’t know if she realizes how much work this blog requires. Work I enjoy and don’t mind dedicating time to.
I’m wondering if you have a significant other, and if you have any pointers on how to balance it all. Yes, this is new for me, but it seems to be going fast (and I don’t mind). I also realize you’re a stranger, and I’m dumping this on you. It’s odd, I know. But you get this blogging thing.
Forgive me if this is too forward.
Talk soon,
Reid
“Shit,” I mumble and slap my laptop closed. This is getting ridiculous. Next thing, we’ll be on the same flight, me heading to Universal and him to Disney.
I haven’t dated in a thousand years, and now I find myself hooked up with the one guy who could blow my cover or understand it—or who the hell knows. Either way, I’m lying to his face, and I do know that is bad juju.
I’m pacing my small apartment when a text pings. It’s him.
REID: Slammed with finals and grading this week. May not come up for air until Saturday. Any chance we can grab a cocktail?
I don’t answer him. Instead, I text Delia and tell her to make her sweet potato soufflé for Christmas Eve. I text Leona too, reminding her to come for dinner when she gets home on the twenty-sixth.
I do anything but text Reid. I make a grocery list for the holidays. I order slippers for James. Christmas is ten days away, and I’ve never been this prepared.
Swiping my glasses off, I rub my palm across my face. “Ugh,” I say to an empty room.
I stand up and pace. I hate grading. Oh, did I mention Tim couldn’t hack being a TA and liking a female in the class? So he quit, leaving all this damn end-of-semester grading to me.
Opening the mail app on my phone, I notice Andrea hasn’t written me back. I also stare at my text messages icon—no red dot with a number inside. No messages back from Andi.
Jeez, I’m hopeless. Either that, or showing up at her house unannounced, declaring myself worried over her sick daughter, was over the top.
Or both.
Making a deal with myself, I decide to finish grading this section’s assignments, and then go for a run. When I get back, I’m going to grill a brisket and slather it with some ginger-honey sauce, and call it a day. No more texting Andi; no more internet stalking and confiding in Andrea.
None of it.
Obviously, easier said than done when Andi replies to my text.
ANDI: That sounds great. Cocktails on Saturday. Gabby was invited to her first sleepover party.
The possibilities feel endless as my pulse refuses to settle following my run. I grab a water and answer Andi.
REID: She must be excited. Of course, it’s not as great as FunZone. :) Why don’t I pick you up and we try the new Bar Frenchman?
Part of me wants to invite her here and cook for her, but she deserves a date. I get the sense she doesn’t get out all that much—
ANDI: Perfect. 7:30?
Who am I to disagree? I tell her yes and find my second wind when it comes to grading. Time to plow through this shit.
We’re sitting in the corner of the bar at Bar Frenchman. Glass windows span the length of the building to our left, revealing snow drifting from the sky.
“Cheers!”
We clink glasses, Reid’s full of a rich amber liquid, mine a cabernet.
“To our first civilized date,” Reid says with a laugh.
“That’d be correct. Although I’m not sure which was more barbaric, FunZone or Lumberjax?” I answer before taking a sip.
“Or after Lumberjax.”
“Fishing for compliments, I see.”
“Not at all, but I must say, you look beautiful tonight.”
I look down at my black fitted sweater (a V-neck with a decent view of the tatas), skinny jeans, and ankle boots. Pretty much my leaving-the-house uniform.
“Thank you.” I bring my gaze back to Reid’s. “I’m not such a dressy person.”
“I like that about you. After all, I grill for a living. Well, not a living, but a part-time gig.”
“Bet you’re pretty glad not to be grilling tonight.”
We turn and catch the rapidly increasing snowfall.
“I do it in the snow,” he says with a wink, and I giggle like a schoolgirl. “It’s not bad, bundling up and standing in front of a warm grill, plus the end result is always a win-win. Last year, I did beef ribs on the grill for Christmas. Some of the guys from work came over.”
“Now, I’m hung
ry,” I tease. My wine is going down with way too much ease, and I make a mental note to slow my pace.
“Good thing we’re at a restaurant. Want to order some stuff to share?”
I nod. I can’t help but think that this feels too easy. Reid is so laid back, too nice, too good. I don’t know what, but too something. Where are his flaws?
I feel like I want to throw my hands in the air and yell, “Where are they? The flaws!”
He doesn’t seem to notice I’ve gone completely mental and am way up in my feelings.
We decide on poutine and a cheese dish to share, and go back to our conversation.
“No ribs this year?” Why I ask, I don’t know. It’s like I want to fuck shit up with us.
“No ribs. Tim, my grad student, is going home, and the other guys I had last year all seem to have shacked up. Me too, sort of.” He raises his eyebrow, and it pops above his glasses.
I take a long hard look. Reid’s hair is messy and his beard a little scraggly. He looks delicious, and I want to forget the poutine.
“Are you staring at me?”
I shake my head.
“Yeah, you were, and I like it.” He leans in and pecks my cheek. “Like what you see?”
I feel myself swallowing. I can’t help it. I do like what I see.
“We are kind of shacked up, right?” he asks.
He’s probing, wanting to define this. I deduce we’re doing this all ass-backward. He’s met my kid; he’s spent time in my house; he knows Leona. I’m messing up.
Screw it. I down my wine. “I guess, but it’s complicated. I don’t do this often, and I’m pretty sure I’m breaking every rule in the book.”
Like lying to you.
I don’t mention the lying part, but go on. “I’m sure if I were better at this, our first date wouldn’t have been with Gabby in tow. In fact, you probably wouldn’t have met her yet. You’d be carefully kept at arm’s length. I think that’s in bold in the single-mom’s dating rule book.”
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