by Mara Wells
“You know, from zero to zing. Here, I’ll help you.” He added another column to her spreadsheet. “Date number one. Give me a rating.”
Carried folded her hands over her belly. “If zing is a five, then Mr. One was a zero.”
Lance dutifully entered the number in the appropriate column. “That bad, huh?”
“So bad.” Carrie giggled. “It took Farrah hours to talk me down. Then she said I had to get back on the horse, so to speak, and set up number two for me.”
“And what’s his rating?” Lance hovered his finger over the zero.
“Mmm, four?”
“Four? And you didn’t go out with him again?” He typed in the four, but he wasn’t happy about it.
“It was only date number two. I was still hopeful that a full zing was in my near future.”
He wanted to say he knew where she could find some zing, but he clamped his lips down on the words that wanted to escape. She wasn’t some girl he’d just met. She was the mother of his child, and if he wanted a relationship with Oliver, then he had to keep his relationship with her a good one. And that meant playing it cool for now, building her trust, proving he was serious about being in Oliver’s life. Because he was. He’d never wanted anything as much as he wanted to be Oli’s dad.
Once that was straightened out, maybe then he and Carrie could explore this zing that still electrified the air between them. Their first date would’ve blown her zero to zing scale to smithereens. Their first kiss? He still remembered how she’d tasted like the pink wine she’d ordered with dinner and how she’d melted against him like her body was made to be part of his.
Really, zing was too tame to describe the early days of their relationship. He smiled, remembering how happy he’d been finding a long, dark strand of her hair on his pillow after she left for the day. Man, he’d had it bad back then.
Or maybe he was the only one feeling that special something that made him super aware of every inch of her exposed skin. Carrie’s deep breathing indicated she’d nodded off while he’d been strolling down memory lane, alone. He left his foot where it was and patted the space between them. Beckham jumped up, twirled in a circle a few times, ending up with his rump pushed against Carrie and his head resting on Lance’s thigh. Lance stroked the Jack Russell’s short, coarse hair and listened to the crackle of Oliver’s baby monitor, letting time flow around him like it sometimes did. Eventually, Carrie would wake up and kick him out, but for right now, in this moment, he was precisely where he wanted to be.
Chapter 14
Carrie repositioned the bud in her right ear and let the left one dangle. She liked a strong beat when running, but with Oliver in the racing-striped running stroller and Beckham galloping along beside her, she liked to keep one ear open for emergencies. Both boy and dog were accustomed to the nearly daily routine, so she split her attention between the drum solo in one ear and the swoosh of the stroller’s wheels with the other. Each time her foot hit pavement, Carrie pushed herself harder. Even though they’d had perfectly nice visits to Fur Haven the past few days, she planned to skip the park today.
When she’d woken up on the couch last night, her face cozily snuggled against Lance’s firm chest, her soft cable-knit throw pulled up to her neck, she hadn’t wanted to move. Hadn’t wanted to gently wake up and send him on his way. And that scared her. She’d been fine without Lance for years. She didn’t need to rush to the park so Beckham and LouLou could run the fence and Oliver could hunt for bugs to watch in the grass. She especially didn’t need to see Lance again so soon, not when the gentle feelings of last night were still so close to the surface. No, some distance would be good. Friend zone boundaries must be maintained, if not for her own sake then for Oliver’s.
Her morning run kept Carrie sane, a time when she sorted through her thoughts and planned her days. It was also crucial to help Beckham exercise some of his Jack Russell energy. She varied the route daily, to keep it fresh for both her and the dog, and today’s run had taken them down a side street filled with single-family homes built in the 1940s. She couldn’t help but imagine how life would be different on a street like this—basketball hoops in the driveway, carefully tended roses climbing the trellis over the front walk, parking in the same place every night. A Shady Lady black olive tree grew in the front yard of one her favorite houses, a Mediterranean one-story with mosaic tilework at the roofline. She sighed over the For Sale sign standing proudly in the front yard of a well-maintained midcentury ranch-style home with an old sea grape tree sprawled across the lawn. A few more clients like Dimitri Orlov, and her dream of Oliver growing up with a backyard swing set would be much closer.
“Someday,” she said to Oliver, who she couldn’t see because she had the sunshade pulled out on the stroller but whose weight she could feel with every step of her run. He clapped his hands with such force that a Kermit cup took a flying leap to the sidewalk. Beckham picked it up, carrying it like a bone, and Carrie let him keep it. She’d have to wash the thing anyway when they got home. Might as well let the dog enjoy himself. Motherhood had taught her to choose her battles.
She pounded through the neighborhood, running numbers in her head. Down payments, mortgage and hurricane insurance, yearly taxes. Lots of variables to figure out, but no matter how she cut the pieces of her income pie, making an offer on a house simply wasn’t feasible. Not yet. Rounding the corner to her street, Carrie saw her mom’s silver Corolla parked by the curb. She slowed to get the stroller through the gate and maneuvered it up the front stoop to her condo door.
“My babies!” Sherry stooped down to kiss Oliver but pulled back at the last moment and merely stroked a hand down the back of his head. “I’m feeling a lot better today, but I don’t want to take any chances. Germs, you know.” She coughed into the crook of her elbow a few times. “Looks like you had a big walk this morning.”
“Run.” Carrie was a bit winded, so she bent at the waist to catch her breath. “These two should be worn out enough that you should be able to rest most of the day.”
“Don’t I wish.” Sherry helped shepherd the stroller into the condo while Carrie unleashed the dog and headed to the kitchen to freshen his water bowl. The number of small bugs that drowned themselves in the bowl every night was a mystery. One dead bug, she understood, but shouldn’t the others see the first guy and run away in fear? No, they did not. She dumped the day-old water, complete with bug corpses, into her hard-to-kill rubber plant.
“How’d the date go last night?” Sherry’s voice was a bit nasally, but she otherwise seemed her usual pushy self. She pulled eggs, cheese, and milk out of the fridge, turning sideways to pass Carrie by the sink in the narrow galley-style kitchen, nearly tripping over the dog, who followed close on her heels.
In her no-children days, Carrie would’ve opened up the kitchen, but she’d had to choose between creating more space in the kitchen or making the junior bedroom for Oliver. Obviously, Oliver’s room had to take priority on her then-tight budget, but she still dreamed of knocking out a wall, or at least a half wall, into the living room, even if it did wreak havoc with the condo’s layout. She refrained, knowing how crucial a sensible room configuration was to resale value, and reminded herself daily that it wouldn’t be too much longer until she had enough saved for a down payment on a real house—maybe by the time Oliver started first grade, especially if jobs kept piling up like they had this week. Adding the Dorothy as a client would definitely challenge her time-management skills, but Kristin’s bathroom, Dimitri’s restaurants, and the Dorothy’s remodel were all on different schedules. If she juggled things right, it would work out. She hoped.
Carrie grabbed frozen strawberries out of the freezer and loaded them into the blender. After a few more trips to the fridge for pineapple, mango, and ice, she had everything she needed for her morning smoothie. She added flax and pumpkin seeds to her concoction, eyeballing the measurements.
“What’s with the silent treatment? You don’t want to talk about the date? Just say so.” Sherry cracked eggs into the skillet while Beckham watched with rapt attention. When Sherry paused to cough, covering her mouth with the long sleeve of her shirt, she rewarded Beckham’s patience with a bite of cheese.
Carrie flipped on the blender, not sure how or if she wanted to answer. Though Beckham shook with terror at the roar of the blender’s motor, he bravely held his sentinel position at the stove, hoping another scrap might accidentally or intentionally fall his way. Carrie upped the speed, reliving the warm glow of the night before, but it hadn’t been from the date. Oh no, Lance’s citrusy scent still hung in her nostrils; the slow thump of his heart still rang in her ears. She’d fallen asleep hugging a pillow, pretending that she wasn’t alone.
How did the date go? She barely remembered the date.
“Well? I know you heard me,” Sherry said as soon as the blender turned off. She sniffled, and though Carrie knew it was from the virus, it still made Carrie feel guilty.
“It was fine.” Carrie’s standard answer. She really didn’t want to talk about her love life with her mother, guilt or not. They’d never had that kind of relationship. Before Oliver, they’d barely had a relationship at all, but when in her sixth month of pregnancy, she’d told her mom about the baby, Sherry’s response had surprised her. She’d joined AA that day, collecting sobriety chips a month at a time and pledging her support to her grandson.
Surprise was too mild a word to describe Carrie’s reaction to her mother’s sudden wholehearted support. After her parents’ divorce when she was in kindergarten, she’d learned to raise herself. Dad’s participation in her life was sporadic, and Mom would rather be out with her friends, drinking. Or home alone, drinking. Or in bed, recovering from a late night of drinking. At first Carrie’d been suspicious of her mother’s change of heart, but day by day, her mother had proved her commitment was real. Carrie’d thought she could handle being a single mother, but the truth was, she’d never have been able to quit her job at the firm and start her own business if her mother hadn’t been there to help with Oliver.
“Just fine?” Sherry cracked a few more eggs and adjusted the heat on the stove. “Thought it was a hot date, the way you begged me to babysit for you. Maybe even second-date material, you think?”
“Not really.” Carrie gave the blender another blast, wondering why her mom was suddenly so interested. When Carrie first told her about signing up on a dating app, her mom had predicted death by serial killer or, at the very least, some new and untreatable type of venereal disease as a result. What changed her mom’s mind? She couldn’t ask her mom for personal information if she was unwilling to give up details of her own.
“What? All that drama for another going-nowhere date? Honestly, Carrie, I don’t understand why you’re so obsessed with these online guys lately. Did you at least get home early enough for Addison to get to bed at a decent hour?” Sherry grabbed a paper towel off the roll and blew her nose. Her color darkened.
“Addison wasn’t available.” Carrie laid the back of her hand against her mom’s forehead. Cool to the touch. “She’s so busy with drama club lately.”
“I’m fine.” Sherry bustled away from Carrie’s touch. “I wouldn’t come over if I were still contagious.” She searched the drawer next to the stove and pulled out the cheese grater. She created a rhythm, three shreds to the skillet, one to the floor for Beckham to eagerly lick up. The dog was such a cheese hound. “Then who stayed with Oliver? You didn’t leave him alone, did you?”
Considering how much of her childhood Carrie had spent alone, she bristled at the question. “Of course not.”
“You took him on the date?” Sherry shredded cheddar into the skillet, faster and faster, the flakes falling like snow, dusting the eggs, while Beckham scarfed any that fell his way. Red stained her cheeks. If not a fever, it could be exertion. She was going at the cheese pretty hard. “I can’t imagine that went well.”
“Mom, please. Lance watched him.” Carrie considered the other possible explanation for her mother’s flush. She’d never been a good liar.
“Lance? Ooh-la-la. Tell me all about it.” Sherry was definitely lying. Now that she was watching for it, Carrie noticed the signs. Forced gaiety, no eye contact, fake French, and of course, the guilt blush.
“Tell what? You already know he was here, don’t you?” Carrie pointed a smoothie-dripping spatula at her mother. “Spill. What happened?”
“Nothing.” Sherry flipped the omelet a bit too aggressively. “He needed a bit of advice is all, and he didn’t want to bother you.”
“He should’ve called me, not you.” Carrie shook the smoothie spatula, flinging a flaxseed across the kitchen. “And you should’ve told me.”
“I did. Just now.” Sherry flipped the omelets again, whether they needed it or not. “Don’t know what you’re so worked up about.”
Why was Carrie so worked up? Secrets, that was why. “I’m Oliver’s mother. You can’t keep things that impact him from me, Mom.”
Sherry hugged her arms around her waist and turned red-rimmed eyes on Carrie. “Fine, I’ll call you every time he falls, every time he gets a boo-boo. Every time he burps. Would that make you happy?”
“Yes.” Carrie yanked the top off the smoothie and dipped her finger in for a taste. Not quite sweet enough. She added a few more strawberries. “He’s my son.”
“Stupid cold.” Sherry wiped at her leaking eyes and blew her nose. “Look, Carrie, no one’s saying you’re not the one in charge. But I am his grandmother. I can handle him on my own, too.”
“Because you did such a great job with me.” Carrie waved her spatula.
“I’m a different person now.” Sherry sniffed, long and loudly. “You said you trusted me. When I was working my steps, you said you forgave me.”
“I did.” Carrie’s shoulders slumped, and she leaned against the counter. “I do. It’s hard sometimes, seeing how you are with him. Wondering why you weren’t like that for me.”
“Oh, baby.” Sherry wrapped her arms around Carrie, holding her in a tight hug. “I’m so sorry I wasn’t the mother you deserved. I’m trying to make up for it now. Can’t you tell?”
“I know.” Carrie sniffed, and it wasn’t because she was getting a cold. Tears filled her eyes. She swiped at them with the back of her hand. “You’re doing great.” She hugged her mom back with all her strength.
“Uh-oh!” Oliver’s exclamation interrupted their moment. “Eggs!”
“‘Uh-oh’ is right.” Sherry turned off the stove, but it was too late. The omelets were burned to an inedible degree. She let out a watery sigh and reassembled the ingredients from the fridge to start over.
“I’m hungry!” Oliver complained from his seat in the high chair. Usually content to wait until food was served, he fidgeted and fussed with the straps. Breakfast was taking longer than usual, but Carrie couldn’t regret it. So often she danced around her feelings about her mom. It felt freeing to have said the words aloud finally.
“Sorry, Oli-Oli-oxen-free.” Sherry slid the ruined omelets into Beckham’s bowl. “I’m afraid the first round goes to the dog.”
Beckham, that tiny trash compactor of a dog, gobbled up the omelet remains like they were an expensive delicacy.
Oliver smacked his hands on the tray. “Okay, but I’m first next, right?”
“Absolutely. You will be the second first one to eat.” Sherry cracked more eggs into the skillet.
Oliver subsided, content with her answer. He liked to be first, even if he didn’t fully understand the concept yet. He returned to pushing buttons on Carrie’s old iPad, the one without internet access and preloaded with kid-friendly content for him to discover.
Sherry slanted a look at Carrie. “So how’d it go with Lance last night anyway? Any old sparks flying?”
“No.” Ca
rrie returned her attention to the smoothie, adding more ice to compensate for the melting that happened while she and Mom were sharing a moment.
Sherry shook her head, auburn hair brushing her jawline. “I don’t believe that for a second, but I suppose you’re allowed your secrets. For now.”
Carrie ignored her mom’s jibes and took her time testing the smoothie—consistency was as important as taste—and hit the blender for another blast. Except she’d forgotten to put the top back on, and smoothie bits immediately sprayed her in the face. She slammed the blender off but not before smoothie smacked the ceiling overhead and slid down the white cabinets in lumpy streaks.
“Careful!” Sherry spun, hand to her mouth to cover the laughter that quickly turned to a cough. “Here.” She handed the dish towel that usually hung on the oven handle to Carrie. “I have one question.”
“What?” Carrie hid her face behind the checkered towel, mopping smoothie off her face.
“Why all these dates?” Sherry flipped the new omelet, butter hissing. “It’s not for fun because you don’t seem to have fun at all.”
Carrie swiped at the countertop. The cabinets and ceiling would require getting the stool out of the hallway closet, so she saved that task for last. Scrub, scrub, rinse, scrub, scrub.
“Come on, honey. What’s the rush?” Sherry sliced the omelet in two with the spatula and plated the halves—one half on one of Carrie’s bamboo-etched dinner plates and the other on a bright-orange plastic toddler plate.
“Mom, enough. Not in front of Oliver.” Carrie wrung out the towel in the sink perhaps a tad too aggressively. It was one thing for Mom to help with her own grandchild, but it was too late, in Carrie’s book, to act like a mother to Carrie. Sincere regret or not, that ship sailed freshman year of high school when her mom spent all of the winter break skiing with a new boyfriend in Colorado, and Carrie opened her presents alone on Christmas morning. Her mom acted surprised when Carrie cried on the phone, saying, “I thought you’d go to your father’s,” forgetting that Carrie’s father was also out of town for the holiday. Business, he’d said. She could’ve gone to Farrah’s house—she was always welcome there—but she hadn’t wanted to admit that her own parents had forgotten her, not even to her best friend. Carrie’s grip on the towel tightened even more at the memory. “Oliver doesn’t need to hear this stuff.”
