But other than that first day… nothing. Friday comes and goes, and it’s a totally normal workplace situation. I’m baffled. I mean, is Bryce just screwing with me or did he decide I’m not his type? Hell, maybe he’s found some lovely woman who’s so worth his time he’s actually decided not to send her to my inbox for the impersonal email FU.
But I’m to the elevator and free from the office for the weekend without anything else happening. Oh glorious weekend! I get to be the uncomplicated mommy version of me.
Shannon catches up on her graphic design work and Charlie and I do mundane things like shopping and laundry and cleaning the house.
And of course, playing blocks together over and over and over. This is his favorite pastime. It involves stacking blocks.
And then knocking them over.
Stacking them.
Knocking them over.
Over and over and over and on and on for all eternity.
Most of the time it drives me bananas, but this weekend I find the monotonous action soothing. Especially when Charlie giggles every time the blocks fall over like we’ve just invented the absolute most hilarious thing in the world.
When I finally can’t handle the blocks anymore, I put on my favorite upbeat playlist and dance with Charlie all around the apartment. He giggles like crazy every time we do this. No one can stay stressed out or unhappy when he’s in full-giggle mode.
He’s more than ready when I put him down for his afternoon nap. I collapse on the couch with a pile of laundry that needs folding and push play on a Netflix series I’ve been meaning to catch up on.
It’s not the ringing doorbell that jerks me from sleep. It’s Charlie’s screaming from down the hall. I shoot to my feet, disoriented from the awkward cramped position I must have drifted off in. The doorbell continues its shrill chirping. I glare.
Do I go ream out whoever’s pushing it repeatedly in spite of the clearly ducktaped note over it that says ‘DO NOT RING’ in capital letters, or go soothe Charlie?
“I’ll be right there!” I yell as I jog toward Charlie’s room, aka, my room.
He won’t calm down until the noise stops. I don’t know why, but he just starts to screech whenever the damn bell is pushed. And the idiot is out there isn’t letting up.
“Stop pressing the bell!” I shout at the door. Charlie screams bloody murder in my ear as I hoist him on my hip and then hurry toward the door. I stub my toe on Thomas the fucking Train and I’m ready for a mommy beat-down when I finally swing the door open.
There stands David. And walking away from the stoop is a tall, slim, and immaculately dressed woman who must be his wife. She’s wearing some kind of expensive-looking wrap dress that falls just slightly past her knees. She doesn’t give a backward glance before sliding into the driver’s seat of their Audi parked at the curb.
Dammit. I must have forgotten this was his weekend. He emailed last week, but I totally spaced it. Usually on his weekends he picks up Charlie on Friday night, but he had some work mixer last night and asked to pick Charlie up this afternoon instead. I blink, still trying to wake up.
“What’s wrong with him?” David tries to pull Charlie from my arms.
I step back and glare at him. Is he crazy trying to pull Charlie away from me when he’s so upset? He needs his mother.
“What’s wrong is someone can’t read.” I nod toward the sign over the doorbell for emphasis. It’s hard to be heard through Charlie’s continued crying. He’s squirming in my arms and I bounce him. “Shh, it’s okay, baby. No more bad noises.” I spin around a couple times until I start to feel dizzy.
It does the trick though. His cries turn to giggling squeals. I drop down to the ground. I have to keep distracting him if I really want to win the battle and keep the crying at bay.
“What’s this, Charlie?” I rip off a blade of grass from the small square of green space that counts as ‘lawn’ in this place. It’s basically a place for the tenants who have pets to take them to piss and crap. Most of the time they’re good about bagging it. And when they aren’t? Well, there’s a reason these patches stay so green.
I run the blade of grass down Charlie’s nose, across his cheeks and down underneath his neck until his grin and giggles seem like they’re going to stay. Soon he’s got a clump of grass in his hand, tugging to try to get it out of the ground. He yanks and yanks, and finally a few pieces come off clutched between his tiny knuckles. He looks delighted and smiles his big drooly smile at me.
“You’re so strong, Charlie! But no,” I grab the fist that’s heading toward his mouth, “grass is not for eating.” Especially considering what I know about what these patches are used for.
I hear an unfamiliar phone ringtone and look up and around. David pulls his phone out of his pocket. He looks tired today, wearing his forty-two years roughly in the lines on his face.
He straightens and frowns—I can’t tell if it’s because he caught me watching or because of what’s being said on the other end of the conversation.
Either way, when he hangs up, his voice is clipped. “Enough of this. You’re delaying me taking my son. I can document this, you know.”
My mouth drops open and immediately my eyes shoot to the car and the woman waiting there. Sure enough, she has her phone up like a camera, maybe even like she’s taking video of the event.
“What the crap, David?” I whisper to him.
He stubbornly resists meeting my eyes. “You’re half an hour late in delivering him to my care. That’s another breach of our court custody agreement.”
I scoff in disbelief, popping my own phone out of my pocket to look at the time. “It’s four-twenty. I didn’t spend twenty minutes getting to the door. You were late. Plus, I was cool with you guys picking him up today instead of yesterday like you were supposed to. Then I had to calm Charlie down after you terrorized him with the doorbell!”
Dammit, Cals, get yourself together, he’s goading you.
“That’s not the way I see it,” David says. “Or the way the courts will see it.” He looks down when he says it, like he’s parroting someone and it’s obvious to even him. Two guesses as to who—my eyes shoot to the profile of the woman sitting in the Audi. I bet it was her on the phone telling him to hurry up. She is such a shrew.
When I look back, David’s scooping Charlie off the ground and up into his arms. I hate what a good picture they make together. Charlie has the same wide, flat nose and dramatic eyebrows as his father. It was a little difficult for me in the beginning—Charlie looking so much like his dad when the abandonment was fresh. Most the time now, though, I see Charlie as his own little person. It’s only rare moments like now where I feel that kick in the gut about the resemblance.
David flips Charlie over his shoulder. Charlie squeals and giggles as his dad heads with him toward the car. Away from me.
“Wait!” It’s a mixture of pissed off and desperate, and I hate it. I hate being reminded that I ever felt anything for this man. I hate that he has the legal right to just walk off with my son like this. “Just wait a second, okay? I need to wash his hands off.”
David looks impatient, but I go jogging into the house anyway. Charlie’s health is more important than some stupid feud going on among his parents. I scramble through Charlie’s diaper bag, having to all but empty the damn thing before I finally find the baby wipes. I hurry back outside. Of course, David’s already almost to his car.