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I am on my hands and knees, gathering the remnants of the Play-Doh Matthew has dispersed into the rug. I know I should just toss it out. But like the iPad, it’s one of the few last-ditch remedies at my disposal when I need to steal a few minutes to myself.
Sean insists that our son have a very hands-on mother. Sean insists on a lot of things. It’s not that I disagree about the kind of mom our son should have. It’s just that I live in the real world, and in the real world someone else isn’t doing all the work, and occasionally it’s nice to go to the bathroom by yourself.
Speaking of which, I walk over to my son and take his hand in mine. “Let’s play the cleanup game.” We walk around picking up toys…a truck here, a Lego there, tossing them in a basket to be hauled upstairs. He sees a toy he thinks he’s forgotten and is instantly teleported somewhere else, somewhere where it isn’t clean up time. I let him go. To be young again.
As I gather the last of the toys, I consider what I might wear tonight. Ordinarily, with Sean out of town, I wouldn’t bother to pick everything up, not until after Matthew’s gone to bed. But once his golf game concludes, he’s liable to turn on the nanny-cam, and I learned my lesson the last time.
My phone chimes. Speak of the devil. A text from my husband. Tonight. Marcia Louis. See email for details.
I want to write back that I’m two steps ahead of him, but there’s no need to complicate things. I assume Adam called and gave him the details. I have no idea why Adam doesn’t just call me directly except for the fact that he doesn’t trust me. That’s the way this game works.
Still, I find myself smiling. Initiation night is always my favorite. Something to look forward to. Payoff for all the hard work I put in. A party for salespeople, if you will—a celebration for meeting my quota.
Unless, of course, I don’t.
In that case, it’s like a dropkick to the stomach. Quotas are an unspoken rule. Not like the rest of them.
Tonight, though, I have won. Tonight I start again. To mark the occasion, I think I’ll wear something casual but elegant. Feminine and understated. Taking a mental inventory of my closet, I catalog a short list of choices.
Then I remember what I shouldn’t have forgotten. “Matty,” I say. “Let’s make a video for Daddy.”
Thankfully, he doesn’t protest. He drops his toy and toddles over to me.
I hold my phone up and hit the button to record. I look at us on the screen, and it isn’t right. Not yet. I set the phone down and tickle my son. When he’s happy and squirming, I pick it up again. “Say I miss you Daddy…otherwise, the tickle monster is going to come out.”
He laughs. I angle the camera to get us both in the center. “I miss you, Daddy.”
“We miss you, Daddy,” I add, pressing my tongue behind my teeth. They say this makes you smile with your eyes.
I hit send.
Sean replies immediately. Have fun tonight. Make it worth her time. I’d like a photo, if you don’t mind. Adam says she’s a looker.
Chapter Six
Elliot
In the state of Texas, a temporary restraining order lasts fourteen days. Fourteen days may not seem like long, but I assure you, it’s an eternity. The good news is I survived, and also, Emily hasn’t extended it, which is a sure sign she sees this for what it is, just a simple misunderstanding. With a bit of effort, I’ll make her see. She was right. I did work too much. I wasn’t around as much as I should have been, and now I’m ready to make up for that.
I’m seated at my desk, strumming my fingers, wondering how long after a restraining order has expired that it’s appropriate to send flowers when I see the line on my office phone blink red.
I pull up Flowers.com and type in “roses.” But then I think maybe I should go with something…less obvious. I keep scrolling. My assistant chimes in over the intercom, which causes me to jerk the mouse a little too hard. A not-so-neat stack of files topple to my office floor. My father likes to say, if you leave things to chance, you shouldn’t be surprised when what you get is chaos.
“Mr. Foster is on line seven. He says it’s urgent.”
“Of course he does,” I say, surveying the small office. I should probably clean the place up, or have someone else do it, but there’s a method to my madness. I’m usually in the lab anyway, and in a little over a month, I won’t be here at all.
“Mr. Parker?”
“Tell him I’m in a meeting.
”
When I hear the intercom click off, I return to the flowers. After I’ve scrolled three pages of every flower imaginable, I come to my senses. Better not to look too eager. Emily likes a little self-control. She needs to see I’m trying, so I close the browser and refresh my email instead. Instantly, I feel deflated. There’s nothing new, nothing interesting—just the usual stuff plus another one marked urgent from my attorney.
He wants answers I can’t give.
When he doesn’t get the reply he wants, and when I refuse his call, he reverts to text: Hold off on making any decisions. There’s someone I want you to meet.
