Like You Mean It

by Jillian Liota

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  I head into The Steam Room the next morning for my first day at work. Jones was a little emotional when I dropped him off at daycare, but I reassured him I was going to my new big girl job and that I’d be back to pick him up in a few hours. Once his friend Tyler – excuse me, his best friend Tyler – walked up, he ran off and forgot all about me.

  I arrive about 30 minutes early so I can get a decaf coffee and go over the ideas I drafted up when I couldn’t sleep last night. It was the only thing I could do to keep my mind off of what happened.

  How I fell and could have really hurt my girl.

  How Cole had to save me again.

  How he looked at my lips like he wanted to kiss me.

  I shake off that last thought and take another sip, settling into one of the comfortable armchairs that look out on the street.

  It will do me no good to focus on that brief millisecond of time. Cole is… well, whatever it is I thought I saw, I probably misread it, or misunderstood. He can’t possibly have… I mean, I’m this big pregnant lady and he has Jess. No way would he be thinking about…

  But then, my mind is weak, sometimes. And I find myself picturing, for just a second… just one second… what it would be like if Cole was mine. And Jones’. And someday soon, the guppy’s. What that could be like.

  I see me with a baby wrapped around me in one of those ergonomic baby carriers, sitting in a chair on the patio watching Jones and Cole playing in the pool.

  I see Cole coming home from work and us making dinner together, me doing a shitty job and him teasing me about it, while my daughter sits in a high chair and Jones tickles her feet.

  I see me crawling into bed after a long day of balancing time at the coffee shop and taking care of the kids, and Cole crawling in after me, on top of me, inside of me.

  My eyes fly open, my face feeling like it’s on fire.

  I feel like a horrible person, sitting here lusting after a taken man. Wishing I was on his arm instead of Jess. I’ve never been particularly prone to jealousy. But damn if Jess doesn’t bring it out of me in waves.

  I fan myself with a napkin for a second, then set my coffee aside and crack open my notebook. I need to focus on work. Not Cole.

  I spend some time going over the list of ideas I have for making some much needed changes to The Steam Room’s marketing structure. As far as I can tell, the only marketing being done is the continued use of their Facebook page, which have very few likes in the first place, and almost no content. There is also no attempt at building relationships with neighboring establishments, which is the primary customer base they should be seeking, considering their location in the middle of a bunch of 9-5 businesses.

  There also isn’t a focus on the nearby high schools or community college, which is a huge mistake. College and high school kids are obsessed with coffee and coffee shops. Especially ones that are Fair Trade, like The Steam Room. It fits their hipster desire to change the world without really having to do anything.

  Okay, that’s pretty cynical. It fits their desire to change the world by putting their money towards socially-minded organizations.

  There, that’s better. I should use that in a marketing campaign or something.

  The Steam Room also hasn’t tried to do small-scale coffee and pastry catering, which I hope is something Carly will be on board with. That idea might take some more time, and may require hiring another employee in the future, but I at least want to put the idea on her radar.

  “You’re here early!” Carly’s chipper voice pulls me out of my thoughts. I see her tying an apron on as she walks through the swinging door that separates the front from the kitchen and back offices.

  “I was surprised you weren’t already here,” I say on a laugh. I think I thought we would be the only two employees besides Lonnie.” I add as she makes her way over to me.

  She laughs, her eyes flicking over to Jet, a very young barista who looks like the quintessential unhappy food service worker.

  Then Carly rolls her eyes and plops down on the armchair across from me.

  “I didn’t want to open at 5am every day, so I hired this kid to do it.” She shrugs. “Perks of being the boss.”

  I laugh at that.

  “I hope its okay I’m here early. I’m just having some coffee and going over my list of ideas.”

  She nods and takes a sip of her own coffee. “No problem. Honestly, the hours we set should be considered flexible. As long as you actually do something, and I can tell you’re working, we’ll be fine. I just want things to get better around here and I don’t know how to do it myself.”

  We chat for a few minutes about casual stuff, and then I launch into my ideas for making some changes. She seems really on board, and really likes the idea of both reaching out to neighboring businesses with discounts, as well as the catering.

  So, she heads to the counter to relieve the kid that looks like he’d rather jump off a cliff than be here, and I continue working in my notebook, making a plan of action.

  “Thanks for being so encouraging,” I tell Carly around noon, as I’m packing up my stuff to head to Jones’ daycare. “It’s nice to be in a working environment where I’m getting built up rather than torn down.”

  She gives me a sad smile. “I’ve been in that environment before,” she says. “It can tear you apart. I’m glad you feel welcome and happy here.”

  With a final smile and wave, I head through the back out to my car, climb in and head off to pick up Jones from daycare.

  On my way, I get a phone call. A smile breaks over my face when I see it’s Lindsey. I click answer and turn it on speaker so I stay hands-free. It’s hard enough to drive with a stomach this big in my way. I’m not trying to do any ninja maneuvers with my phone and the steering wheel.

  “Hey girl!” I say. “I’m so glad you called!”

  “Hiiiiiiiiiii!” she answers, breaking into a laugh. “Just checking in to see if we are going to get together soon.”

  I sigh. “I’m sorry I haven’t called you yet. Things have been a bit overwhelming recently. Are you free this weekend?”

  “I’m working Saturday, but Sunday I’d be free to do something. My feet are crusted within an inch of their life and could use a little attention. Wanna head to the nail salon and fab up our toesies?”

  I laugh. “That sounds absolutely perfect.”

  Lindsey and I finish making plans to get pedicures together this weekend and say our goodbyes just as I’m pulling in at Jones’ daycare.

  I head in, find my boy, wave him over, and we head home.

  He babbles on and on for the entire drive home about how much he loves Miss Rachel and Miss Jenna and how much fun he has with all of his friends. He tells me how his best friend Tyler just painted his room green.

  “Can I paint my room?” he asks.

  I think it over for just a second. Sure, it’s a rental. But, so what? Paint can be covered up. It’s not like I’m demolishing a wall.

  Instead of pulling into the driveway, I roll right past our house, turn around in the cul-de-sac, and drive back out to the main road.

  “Mom, you missed our house!” he says.

  “You want to paint your room, right?”

  His little eyes go wide and he gives me a huge smile.

  “Lets go pick a color.”

  Sometimes, giving your kid what they want, and not always having to be the No Man, feels really, really good.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  COLE

  Today has been, without a doubt, one of the shittiest days at work that I’ve had in years. Parts are missing. Paperwork isn’t filled out completely. The schedule was double booked.

  I don’t even know how half of this shit happened, and I’m pissed that I had to go in on what should have been a vacation day to handle it.

  My parents got back last night from Florida and I was supposed to head over and help my mom with a few things. But of course, the one time I choose to actually
take a vacation day, I have to go in and handle things that shouldn’t have been problems in the first place.

  The good news is that Jess has to work over the weekend because their bank is being audited and everyone is getting paid overtime to work Saturday and Sunday. So I’ll at least get a weekend all to myself to recharge a bit.

  I shake my head as I pull into my driveway at 6pm. What the fuck is wrong with me. I shouldn’t be glad when my girlfriend is too busy to head out.

  I turn off the bike and kick down the stand, letting out a sigh of relief that I’m finally home and not dealing with work anymore.

  “Cole!”

  I turn at the little voice and see Jones sprinting towards me, covered in what I can only assume is an entire bucket of paint.

  “Can we work on your bike? I can wash my hands.” He does what looks like the pee-pee dance as he steps back and forth excitedly between feet.

  I let out a laugh, then turn when I hear Annie’s security gate creaking open.

  “Jones! Don’t get anywhere near his bike!”

  And there she is, looking exhausted but radiant in a pair of sweat pants and a massive shirt that does little to hide her swollen belly.

  “I’m not!” he shouts to her as she approaches, her hands and shirt also showing traces of paint. When he turns back to look at me, he rolls his eyes, and I can’t help but laugh.

  Annie looks at me. “Sorry, Cole. We were supposed to be painting just Jones’ room, but then when we bought the paint yesterday I decided to do the living room too. And it has been a bit more of an ordeal than I thought it was going to be.” She laughs a little bit, her eyes twinkling with a brightness that I know she doesn’t show very often.

  And I just can’t help myself.

  “Need some help?” I ask.

  There’s a pause where I think she’s considering it. I really shouldn’t have offered in the first place. But when I look at Annie, covered in paint and her hair up in a messy bun, looking frayed and tired and still smiling in spite of everything, I just can’t help it.

  “Oh no, that’s okay. We did Jones’ room yesterday, and today we’ve got one wall down. Only two more to go, right, Jonesie?” she adds a sing-song to it at the end, taking Jones’ hand in hers and swinging it, making him laugh.

  I should accept her kind refusal of my help. I’ve heard her say she doesn’t want me to just be rescuing her all the time, and I need to respect that.

  But fuck if I can’t help but want to be around her as much as possible.

  “Well, two more shouldn’t take that long. Let me just change and I’ll be in to help.”

  She smiles at me, a real one this time, and I know I’m helping them paint.

  “Okay.”

  Twenty minutes later, I’ve changed into a white tank and a pair of scrubby jeans I wear when I work on my bike or other dirty projects around the house, and I’m standing in Annie’s living room, rolling gray paint onto the top half of one wall while she and Jones use smaller brushes to paint the bottom half.

  If I’m honest, that first wall she and the kid did together looks pretty shitty. But she looked so proud of it that I couldn’t help but smile and tell her it looked great.

  We work in companionable silence, with Annie and I both responding to Jones’ weirdo kid questions. If I have two eyes why do I only see one thing? If I eat green vegetables, why is my poop brown? How do people fit in the TV?

  I can’t help but laugh at most of them. Jones asked me weird questions like this when we were working on my bike last week, too. I don’t remember what it was like to be that young, and my sister is only a few years younger than me, so I don’t really remember her having weird questions. Probably because I didn’t think they were weird at the time. So Jones is my only real reference for weird kid stuff.

  I keep rolling on the paint, contentedly listening to Annie and Jones gabbing back and forth. Once I finish the top half of the wall, I rest the roller on the mat and pick up a brush to help with the lower section. It might be less efficient than the roller, but I don’t want to muck with how Annie and Jones are doing things.

  “Hey Cole?” I hear from my right as I’m trimming around the windowsill.

  “Yeah?” I turn to look at Jones and he swipes some paint on my face.

  My mouth drops open and so does his. He looks almost more surprised that he did it than I am. His face breaks out into a smile and he shrieks and runs away from me.

  Apparently, this is the cue that has me launching after him with my own brush. I wrap one arm around him and lift him up in the air, his laughter and cries of hilarity echoing through the house.

  “Gotcha!” I shout then grab his brush and swipe it on his face, as if that should make a difference when he’s already covered in the stuff.

  He keeps laughing, but his little body seems to sag against me, and his arms wrap around my neck. I turn to Annie with a smile on my face, but it drops slightly when I see her watching me with wide, glassy eyes.

  I want to ask her what’s wrong, but as Jones continues to laugh softly and snuggle closer into my neck and chest, I think I get the picture.

  She turns quickly and squats down to the ground to paint along the baseboard lined in blue tape. Jones leans back and looks at me with a smile, so I bop him on the nose with the brush again and he goes careening into another fit of giggles.

  “Alright, little man. Lets help your mama get this thing finished, okay?”

  He nods enthusiastically, and I put him back down on the ground. We all jump back into painting again, the silence continuously disrupted by more of Jones’ questions and a full review of… well, of everything and anything. He just babbles on and on.

  Twenty minutes later, just as I’m finishing up with the top half of the second wall, and preparing to ask Annie if she wants me to do a second coat on her other wall – because, I’m not kidding, it looks horrible. But I can’t tell her that.

  “… and that was when daddy brought home Amber when mommy and I were taking a nap. And mom kept sleeping but I went and found him and they were in the shower doing adult things but I didn’t…”

  “Jones!” Annie shouts from across the room.

  My stomach clenches, my mind playing his words over again, wondering if he’s remembering correctly. But kids always seem to have perfect memories about stuff they’re not supposed to see, right? It’s like when my friend Amy’s daughter overheard her uncle on the phone, and all she could repeat over and over for weeks was “that fucking prick” and “he can shove it up his ass.”

  So if the words that fell out of Jones’ mouth were accurate, that means Annie’s ex was cheating on her? That’s just…

  “What?”

  “I told you not to talk about that, remember?”

  Jones just stares at her. She takes a deep breath, seemingly collecting herself, and then kneels down in front of him with a soft expression on her face.

  “Remember how mommy said that when you talk about dad, you should only talk about the fun things we did together?” Jones nods slowly. “Because the people who didn’t get to know your dad want to hear about how much fun you had.” She waves her hand in the air. “They don’t care about his friends. They care about you.” She pokes him in the stomach and he giggles. “So tell them about when you guys went swimming in the pool. Or when daddy took us on Lake Michigan on his boat. Yeah?”

  Jones nods again, Annie’s outburst seemingly forgotten.

  “Or how ‘bout the time when we all rode the Ferris Wheel at Christmas? It was so cold!”

  She laughs and he follows suit. “It was so cold.”

  Jones prances off with his paintbrush and starts painting again, as if the conversation never happened, his happy thoughts bubbling over like a fountain and filling the room with joy.

  A joy that Annie clearly needed after his comment about her ex. I turn back to the shitty wall and give it a once over. It’s fucking perfect.

  “Looks like we’re almost done,” I say. “C
an I give you a hand over here?”

  She smiles at me, but it’s strained again. “You know, I think Jones and I can wrap this up pretty quickly. Thank you so much for your help, though.”

  I swallow, my eyes searching her face. “You sure? Won’t take me a few minutes to help you finish.”

  She shakes her head, some of her hair falling loose from some crazy clip in the back, shielding her face partially from me. And she looks a bit glad to hide from me, if I’m honest.

  “Don’t worry about it.”

  Her eyes stay glued to my shirt, not straying in the slightest until I bend down slightly and capture her eyes with mine.

  “But I am worried,” I say. And for the life of me, I can’t say for sure exactly where those words come from. My head or my heart or my gut.

  Her eyes well with tears, just briefly, before she tries to bat a few away with her paint covered hand, leaving behind a streak of gray on her cheek.

  “There’s nothing to be worried about,” she whispers. Then she turns and heads to the front door, opening it and standing at the side, indicating it’s time for me to go.

  I let out a sigh and walk towards her, setting my hand on her shoulder once I get to her side.

  “There’s always something to worry about,” I say. “The good thing about talking to someone else is that you have help carrying the burden that worry puts on your shoulders.”

  I give her arm a squeeze for just a second before I turn and walk out the door.

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  That Sunday, I relish in my free day, since my attempt at taking vacation on Friday was shot. I hop into a routine I’ve been missing for a few weeks. I run, I eat breakfast, I play ESPN radio and I work on Chloe.

  When I hear female laughter out front, I lift my head and peer out to see who it is. Or at least, that’s what I tell myself. I can tell from the sound of the laughter that one of the women is Annie. And she laughs freely so rarely that I can’t help but look when she does.