Page 32 of The One Timer

“I would love to join you if you’re sure. I mean, I’m…” I was about to say what I’m thinking, that I’m no one to her, not close to her social circle. But then, neither is Mrs. Uvi, and I was desperate enough to think of suggesting her for a millisecond. What’s my real problem?

“Perfect. I’ll arrange for a car to take us to the game tomorrow night.”

“A car?”

She smiles. “You know I use a limousine service, especially when I travel outside of Boston. It’s convenient and quite comfortable. I’ll arrange for food and drinks, too. You’ll enjoy it.”

Confusion and excitement swirl in my head. A limo trip sounds more than enjoyable—more like impossible. But it makes no sense.

“Outside of Boston?”

She laughs. “Oh, I’m sorry, Emery. I should have specified. I was planning for us to go to the next Whalers game in Portsmouth to see my grandson Chase.”

My initial knee-jerk response is elation because I’m a girl who’s smitten, and my heart can’t be denied, not to mention my lady parts. But the rest of me, the sensible, smart, and mature woman, squashes down the excitement and reminds me that I can’t let that happen. It could be disastrous.

I can’t go to Portland with Chase’s grandmother. He’ll see me and know…everything. That I’m a fake, a liar, and a fraud.

And I’ll want him all over again, throw aside common sense, and go wishing for something I can’t have.

Meanwhile, I sit there mute, with my mouth open, and no matter how smart I am, my stupid emotions prevent me from speaking like a normal person.

“I can’t.” I finally say, and search my head for a plausible excuse. “I have to finish a paper this week.” It’s a bald-faced lie, and I feel nauseous. My face heats up like I’ve turned into a liar with my head on fire instead of my pants on fire. What a fuck-up I am. I’m terrible at lying.

But Mrs. W only nods, not calling me on my lame excuse.

“Quite right. We need to make sure you do well on your exam. School is rightly your priority. We’ll plan to go to the game after Christmas on December 28th. That won’t interfere with your classes. You’ll be on break then.”

My stomach sinks, and all I can do is nod and take an unhealthy gulp of hot coffee, then cough.

“Are you alright, Emery?”

“Fine,” I croak out. “It’s a touch hot for me.” Another lie. What kind of person am I turning into—over Chase Whittier—a guy I can’t have? My mom was right.

She told me men were the source of great trouble—she also said they were the source of great happiness, but that’s irrelevant right now—and never to depend on them, to make sure I always depend on myself. Independence is the key to fulfillment in life.

“I hope you don’t mind if we do some Christmas shopping today.”

I must show my surprise because there are so many gifts already under her tree. We spent a good amount of time last week wrapping while singing songs.

“Don’t worry, this is a special gift for a very special young lady, and we can shop right here at home online.”

“Sounds fun. I love doing holiday things with you. We can play Christmas music while we shop.”

She laughs. “Let’s go fire up the computer, and you can help me navigate.”

“We’ll make you a thoroughly modern Molly yet, Mrs. W.” I don’t tell her I haven’t been able to shop online this year because I couldn’t afford it. I plan to give gifts to five people this year—one more than last year—because I’ve added her to my short list of people.

My family, such as it is, including Aunt Bea, Penny, and Petra, plus my bestie Merry, are my perennials. I wish I had more people close enough to include, and I wish I could afford to give to so many others, like the people at the nursing home where I’m doing my practical.

I sigh in relief for the reprieve. I’ll think of some way to deal with the situation later after Christmas.

My semester internship ends on December 23rd, and I’m scheduled to work here on Christmas Eve. I have time.

We finish our coffee, and as I walk with Mrs. W across the kitchen to go to the library where the computer is, there’s a knock at the back door. We stop and turn as the door opens, and in walks Sheryl Foster from next door. I’ve met her before and haven’t forgotten her.

She’s a classic young beauty with straight blond hair down to her shoulders, straight bright teeth, a straight spine with perfect posture, and impeccable style, straight out of the Ralph Lauren showroom.

“Good morning, Mrs. Whittier. I brought pictures of the new baby to show you.” She waves her phone and joins us as we come back into the kitchen to the table. She swipes the screen and hands the phone to Mrs. W, who sits.