A second round of scans the following morning confirmed that Mason didn’t need surgery—yet—they were going to cast his arm and see if it healed itself, rather than placing pins in his bones. She half expected him to ask to go home with her, but as she waved him and The Sperm Donor off, she summoned an Uber of her own and made her way back to her empty house.
Empty. Just like her heart.
She checked her phone for what had to be the billionth time. Still nothing from Elliott. Nothing. Not even a message to see how Mason was. Nada. Zip. Zilch. Rien. How the fuck could he just sit at home scratching his balls and not think to drop her a line to see how her kid was?
She grumbled as she emptied the dishwasher. She’d made it to lunch time without a nervous breakdown or calling him and demanding to know what the fuck his deal was. Her soup was reheating in the microwave, and she had thawed a bagel from Panera that she’d discovered in the back corner of her freezer.
The doorbell rang just as her soup pinged in the microwave. What the fuck was the deal with the timing of the cosmos? Couldn’t it just let one thing happen at a time? Her growling belly concurred.
Pulling the door open, her stomach dropped. She’d expected…hoped…prayed that Elliott would be standing in front of her with a bashful smile, ready to fix up what had broken between them, but instead, it was a mom from the ice rink. She hadn’t spent much time with her, or any of the other moms for that matter, but her name definitely began with an N.
Natalie? Nora? Noelle? What the hell was the woman’s name?
“Nova.” She peeked out from around a huge basket in her hands. “It’s Nova.”
“Huh?”
“My name. It’s Nova. You were muttering ‘N’ names to yourself and I figured I’d help a girl out.”
“Oh God. I wasn’t.”
She nodded, pushing her way into the house past Clare. “You were. Sorry. Rude, I know. But this is heavy as fuck and I need to put it down somewhere. Kitchen?”
Clare pointed. “Through there.”
Nova shuffled the gift basket through the house and placed it with care onto the breakfast bar. “I know our kids don’t play for the same team.” She braced her hands against the back of her hips and stretched out the curve of her spine. “But we heard about Mason’s accident, and I wanted to stop by and see how he’s doing.”
She glanced over her shoulder, then back to Clare.
“He’s at his Dad’s.” The words ripped through her chest. Her lip quivered and she blinked four hundred times in quick succession to fight the welling tears already spilling down her cheeks.
“Oh, honey. Come here.” Nova enveloped her in such a tight hug that it felt like she might not fall apart for a whole thirty seconds. “Do you have wine? Something stronger?” Nova pushed her back by the biceps before plopping her onto a chair at the dining table and making herself at home around the kitchen.
Opening the microwave she breathed in deep. “Holy shitballs this soup smells delish.”
She couldn’t help but crack a smile.
“You want me to bring it over?”
Clare nodded and let the near stranger wait on her. Nova pulled the container from the microwave and ladled the soup into the bowl Clare had placed on the counter.
“There’s enough for two, if you want some.”
“I was going to ask, but I was trying to be polite. I’m starving, and I’m drooling right now at the smell of this. You made this from scratch?” She pointed a spoon at the bowl she was handing to Clare.
Another nod. She had no idea what was happening, but something in her gut said to just roll with Hurricane Nova and see where things went.
When she sat down with her own bowl of soup, Nova peered around the gift basket in the middle of the table. “I shoulda put this on the floor, right?” She eased it onto the tiles and focused her attention back to Clare.
“Wanna talk about it?”
Did she? She had no idea. What could she say other than she’d fucked everything up and felt more alone than she ever had before in her whole entire life? Fuck she was pathetic.
Nova blew on a spoonful of soup before sipping it. “Holy. Fuck. I need this recipe. It’s so good. Wild rice, right? And veggies? I bet it’s healthy. I need healthy.” She patted her non-existent tummy.
“My kid moved out to live with his dad and I feel like a momumental fuck up.” She dropped her spoon before she’d even taken a bite. “I mean monumental.”
“No, mom-u-mental is a pretty good description for the level of mom-guilt we suffer through.”
