The guilt left a knot in my stomach as I told him Lina’s soccer schedule made it hard for anything right now. Using my kid as an excuse felt wrong, and I knew in my gut I should just reject the idea entirely. The only thing stopping me was the likelihood of Richard causing a scene at our daughter’s soccer game.
His mother—who’d overheard our whole conversation—interjected, offering to pick Lina’s soccer bag up the night before and make sure Lina got to and from practice. Which in itself confused the hell out of me.
But, now I get to have dinner with Richard next week.
I didn’t have to come up with an excuse when he asked Lina if she wanted to get ice cream—“his treat”—after the game. She didn’t even bother to give him one, brushing him off with a “maybe another time” before walking away to talk to one of her teammates.
When I brought up his presence on the ride home, she acted like it was no big deal.
“Honestly, I just pretended he wasn’t there. I didn’t want him to affect my game.”
That’s my kid. Eight going on eighteen.
While Lina showered, I changed my outfit seven times, attempted three different hairstyles, and put on makeup. I wiped two different shades of lipstick off my lips before settling on a gloss.
While I’m definitely trying hard, I don’t want to look like I am.
Finally settling on a pair of stone-washed jeans, a navy and white striped boat-neck T-shirt, and a pair of white Keds sneakers, I grab the cross-body purse I take everywhere and wait for Lina to finish up in the living room.
Twenty minutes later, she emerges from her bedroom, looking like a completely different kid than the sweaty, dirt-covered soccer player that went into the shower. Her hair is pulled into a sleek ponytail, high on the top of her head. Lina’s opted for a white romper covered in bright pink and purple flowers. Low gladiator sandals and the Coach clutch my sister gave her for her last birthday complete her ensemble.
The fact that Lina’s more put together at eight than I am at twenty-seven, never ceases to amaze me.
“You ready, spaghetti?” I ask, cringing as the words leave my mouth. It’s the same phrase my father used with me and my siblings when we were kids.
Raising an eyebrow, Lina smirks. She doesn’t call me out on it verbally, but her look alone says everything it needs to.
“Let’s go, brat,” I tease with a chuckle, opening the front door of our little home.
Once Lina is settled in her seat, I put the key in the ignition and groan dramatically. Turning back to face my daughter, I’m met with expected confusion.
“You won today.” I sigh loudly as her eyes light up in recognition.
“I have control of the music!” She dances once she’s fastened her seatbelt.
“So, Elton John?” I ask, grinning, expecting the eye roll I get in response.
While Lina has been known to sing “Bennie and the Jets” and “Rocket Man” just as loudly as I do when they’re on, my favorite musician is certainly not her first choice.
“Put on the Jonas Brothers,” she deadpans, unimpressed with my attempt at being funny.
After connecting my phone to the stereo via Bluetooth, I hand it to her.
“Go crazy, kid.” I laugh when ‘Burnin’ Up’ starts playing just a few seconds later. The next ten minutes are spent listening to a combination of the Jonas Brothers, Nick Jonas’ solo music, and DNCE (Joe Jonas’ side band).
I know more than I’m willing to admit about the three brothers that got their fame from the Disney Channel. My daughter’s love for them started when she was about four and Olivia, who is also obsessed with all of them, kept playing “Jealous” around Lina.
By then, the Jonas Brothers weren’t on television anymore, but you can find anything on the internet. Lina declared her love for Joe Jonas before the end of the first episode of the band’s show. Nothing has changed in the last four years. Especially after taking her to see them for her first concert last month.
“So, I’m kind of regretting telling Richard no to ice cream.” She laughs, pausing the music.
Calling her father by his first name was her choice. I always refer to him as “your father” when speaking to her. She’s never corrected me, but she’s also never personally called him her father either.
“Ice cream sounds really good,” she adds.
And, there’s the eight-year-old.
“You’re right,” I agree, turning into the parking lot of the warehouse. “Ice cream does sound good. How about we grab some after we finish here?”
“Really?” she asks in surprise, her voice cracking.
Lina never goes without. Between my family, Richard’s parents, and myself, she always has the latest thing that has her attention—from the toys she “needed” as a toddler to the technology that “all her friends have” these days. I save all year long to make sure those days are memorable.
Everything is budgeted out. Every little thing—even our weekly trip to Roasted and Toasted.
I know that if money were to ever get too tight, to the point that I couldn’t pay my bills, there would be plenty of people that would help me without question, but I don’t ever want to be in the position to have to ask. Which, in turn, means there isn’t too much wiggle room for things like going out to get ice cream.
Well, there wasn’t. Until I signed that contract yesterday.
“If it’s early enough, we can head to Kimballs after this,” I say, mentioning our favorite ice cream stand in Westford. It’s a thirty-minute drive, and there are ice cream stands closer, but it’s been my favorite since my parents took me there as a kid. “Maybe we can even get in a game or two of mini golf!”
“Yes! Yes! Yes!” she exclaims, bouncing in the backseat.
The inside of the warehouse is completely lit up, allowing anyone from the outside to see the entire set.
“Whoaaaa!” Lina says under her breath as she unbuckles her seatbelt.
Stepping out from inside the warehouse, Ryan appears in jeans and a black T-shirt. At the sight of him, my stomach tightens, and I swallow, desperate to coat the sudden onslaught of dryness that has settled in my throat. The little beads of sweat in my palms are a clear indication of the nerves I am desperately trying to push aside.
“I hope you haven’t been waiting long,” I say, getting out of the Jeep. With every step I take, my heart rate picks up. It’s not like last night. There’s no desire to flee. The only thing I’m worried about now is making myself look like an idiot in front of Ryan.
So, of course, leave it to my kid to break the ice with, “Hi, I’m Lina. You must be my mom’s new, hot British boss.”
15
Ryan
Today, I learned that it’s possible to choke on air.
When Carina and her daughter stepped out of the car, the last thing I expected to be referred to as was the “hot British boss.”
Within thirty seconds, no less.
By the gasp and the pink tinge on her cheeks growing increasingly darker as the seconds pass, Carina clearly wasn’t expecting it either.
“Lina!” Carina scolds, before turning her attention to me. “I have no clue where she got that.”