It was a full schedule that did not include leering at the new neighbor who I would not be welcoming into the cul de sac with fresh baked cookies. Plenty of bored housewives would do my job for me.
“He’s got a daughter too,” Alexis continued. “She’s cute.” A pause. “And I don’t see anyone else, you know, wife, husband ... My gaydar is great, but this man screams heterosexual bad boy with a big cock.”
I raised a brow at Alexis. Yes, she might’ve been an exercising, green juice drinking, little freak of nature, but her mouth was as dirty as a sailor’s.
“Well, go on then,” I said to her, waving my hand. “Trot over there and wave your pert little butt in his face. You can become a stepmother to a teenage girl.” I sipped my coffee. “And trust me, no cock is worth that.”
Alexis finally turned, which was good. I didn’t want this new neighbor seeing her gawking and come to any kind of conclusions.
“Not for me,” she said. “I’ve got a boyfriend.”
I struggled to stop myself from rolling my eyes. Ah, her boyfriend. The stuffed suit with too much gel in his hair and a stick up his ass. He didn’t suit Alexis at all. But she couldn’t see that, of course. Or she was willing herself not to see it. Her boyfriend was part of her five-year plan. He was raised to have manners, had a secure job and an acceptable sperm count. Yeah, she got that checked before she committed to him. Romance and passion were not important when measured up to financial security and procreation. Yeah, one of us was switched at birth for sure. As much as I didn’t understand her, I loved my sister.
“I see you rolling your eyes,” Alexis said, her gaze moving from the window.
“I am not rolling my eyes.”
“You are in your head.”
I frowned. “You can’t see inside my head.” If she could really see inside my head then she’d have had me committed a long time ago.
Alexis sighed. “I know you, Bridge. I also know this guy is exactly what you need.”
I turned away from her to pour more coffee and to start the boys’ breakfasts. I was planning on turning into June Cleaver instead of ... whatever I’d been lately, but the morning got away from me so instead of my intended pancakes, they were having cereal.
“A man is the last thing I need,” I said, setting their bowls down on the counter.
“You need to get back out there,” she said.
I turned to her. “Back out where?” I asked. “Into the shallow pool available for widowed mothers of two?”
She frowned at me. “You’re a catch.”
I scoffed. “Yeah, beyond the aforementioned widowship and children, I don’t have much else to add other than being a failed mommy blogger and a mediocre cook.”
“You’re not failed, you’re transitioning,” she replied, not fighting me on the ‘mediocre cook’ part of the conversation. My sister was a lot of things, but a liar wasn’t one of them.
“Transitioning,” I repeated. “Yeah, that’s a good way to put it.”
The blog had been dying a slow death. Slow because news had spread of my tragic loss and obviously strangers on social media sent an outpouring of support. Grief. All very nice.
But social media had an attention span. There was a time limit on grief. On my expected hiatus. I was supposed to bounce back from this loss with some positive, inspiring outlook. I was supposed to put on mascara, pose for a photo, and write some inspiring caption about how I knew David would want me to carry on. Or some spiritual crap. I was meant to monetize my grief.
Of course I didn’t. I was too busy with a mental breakdown.
We were still in a more than comfortable position. David was a partner at the law firm, had earned great money, had been good at saving, investing. He also had a trust fund that his mother had been sure I was after when we first starting dating. She’d wanted a prenup, and I’d been more than happy to sign as a middle finger to her, but David refused. He stood up to his mother regularly, eschewing the stereotype of the rich son brought up by a beast of a mother and bowing to her demands.
So we’d be okay with bills, the boys’ tuition, their college funds. I didn’t have to work if I didn’t want to. And I really didn’t want to. I wanted to curl up in my bed for the rest of my life and sleep. I wanted to go crazy. There was a comfort that insanity brought. You weren’t plagued by the problems of reality.
But there were two people that couldn’t go insane. Poor people—you needed money for the luxury of insanity.
And mothers. Single mothers did not have that luxury either. Abandoning two boys I loved more than life was not something I would ever do, no matter how fucked up I was.
So I had to figure out how the fuck I was going to carry on. No way would I be able to pose for Instagram photos, post the links to my ‘must haves’ in the Nordstrom sale.
I’d have to pivot.
“Bridget?”
I jerked, spilling the milk I’d been pouring into Ryder’s cereal. Alexis was looking at me in that slightly worried way that had been constant in the first months after David’s death and more sporadic now.
I opened my mouth to say something that might reassure my sister I was not going crazy—who knew what the fuck that would be—but luckily, my son entered the kitchen. He was wearing a white, pressed shirt—which he obviously had pressed himself because I sure as shit didn’t—suspenders, and chinos.
He glanced down at the mess I was trying to clean up. “I don’t want cereal,” he declared.
My youngest, as a rule, was not terribly picky or bratty. Neither of my boys were, in fact. Which surprised the ever-loving shit out of both David and I since we had both been brats of the highest degree in our respective childhoods.
“Well, what do you want, then?”
“A cigar and a strong cup of black coffee,” my eight year old answered with a straight face.
Had I not been used to such statements paired with such outfits, I would’ve spat my sip of coffee all over our white marble kitchen island.
I had been hearing such requests for a year now, so I was able to hold my coffee down, but I did smirk at Alexis delicately choking on her green juice.
A sharp and blinding pain erupted in my stomach with the moment, with how much I wished David were here to try to keep a straight face, to marvel at our little weirdo.
“Well, I’m all out of cigars, so it’s a no on that one,” I said, forcing my voice to be even. At this point, Ryder stumbled in, his midnight hair a mess, his shirt on backward, and a scowl on his face. My oldest was not a morning person. He got that from me.
Ryder didn’t speak to anyone as he reached for a mug and poured himself a cup of coffee.
“I do have coffee,” I told Jax. “But I think I’ll get in trouble with the mom police if I let my eight-year-old son have any. Sorry, buddy.”
Jax frowned. “There’s a mom police?”
“Sure. They hang out in front of the school wearing expensive leggings, sunglasses, and holding almond milk lattes.”
Alexis chuckled.
“Why is Ryder allowed coffee?” Jax asked. It was not a whine—he didn’t do that either—but a serious question.
I glanced over to my zombie son. Or more accurately, glanced up at him. At some point, he’d gotten taller than me. Teenagers did that. Lost whatever awkwardness that came with long limbs, and turned muscled, handsome, and far too manly for their mother’s own good.