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“Oh, hi, Tabby.” I open the car door to politely indicate I can’t stay and chat.
“You can call me Tabs. It’s short for Tabitha.”
“Cute. I don’t have a nickname.” And that right there was my error. I should not have volunteered personal information. She goes on to tell me their son doesn’t have a nickname either and the process by which she and her husband landed on the name Wilder.
I’m halfway in my car when I get a word in. “I’m going to be late for work, but we’ll have to catch up some more soon. Maybe get the boys together for a playdate.”
My inner and outer worlds don’t quite match up, but I’m trying. Trying to be nicer, more outgoing, and not the sassy, sharp-tongued brat that I’ve been known as by certain people from my past. My sisters didn’t deny this when questioned, so I know it’s something I need to work on.
“That would be great. I was also going to ask you if you’ll bring homemade applesauce to the ABC Party on Friday. All the other parents signed up for a task.”
The car is on. I flash the one-minute signal and close the door, but lower the window a few inches. I have to go. “Yeah. Sure. No problem at all.”
I don’t know exactly what I just said yes to, which is kind of what got me into this situation, to begin with—not that I regret it, because Luke is the light of my life.
The short-lived era with Troy Givens was the opposite. More like a dark period. One I do my level best not to think about. I’d be grateful if he wanted anything to do with Luke, but when he found out about “the bump” he dumped me. During our whirlwindthree months of dating, we failed to discuss whether we wanted a family. We got married andboom!
Baby!
“You’re amazing. You girl boss. Balancing it all. How do you do it? I have Shane and barely get through the day,” says Tabby? Tabs? Tabitha?
One, she knows I’m a single mom.
Two, I don’t balance it all. There’s no such thing as balance unless I’m on a balance beam—I did gymnastics when I was a kid. Some days, things don’t get done. I lean on God.
Three, I lean hard.
But I don’t say any of this. Instead, I call, “Applesauce. Friday,” and pull away.
I say another prayer because I’ll need to hit every green light between here and the Gastrodome. Otherwise, I’m going to get a warning for being late twice in a sixty-day period. I take the risk even though the low-fuel light plays on repeat. Can’t lose this job.
I hold my breath until I punch my four-digit code into the Gastrodome service terminal exactly on the hour.
The first half of my shift passes uneventfully. Because I cover lunch, most of our customers take it easy on the “suds” as the menu calls the beers on tap. But every once in a while, we get a rowdy crew. Hopefully, today is not that day.
“Hey, hey. What’s good here? Oh wait, that would be you,” says a guy with shaggy dark hair at table twenty-two.
Apparently, today is that day.
My smile is tight. My pants are too and he hasn’t been discrete about looking at my backside every time I walk by.
His gaze flicks to my hand. “I see you’re not married.”
“No, sir. But I am mothered.”
He glances at one of his buddies when he laughs.
“Told you all the good ones are taken.”
“What do you mean, mothered?” Shaggy asks.
“I’m a mom, meaning I’m not looking.” Not interested either.
He lifts and lowers his eyebrows. “I’m looking and I like what I see.”
Ew. Gag. Stop.
But I don’t say that. Instead, what I do tell him might be worse, insofar as my tip from these guys is concerned. “I’m especially not looking to have another child unless I meet the right man.”
