by Raquel Belle
“He’s got his ego wounded. Someone else finds your desirable. And Tate is sexy and masculine and cocky. It’s intimidating, I’m sure. Especially for someone who probably thought he was the only game in town when it came to you.”
“He was,” I say. “I mean, sometimes guys flirted at the bar, but I was always pretty oblivious.”
“So what happened with Tate? Why the change of heart?”
“I don’t know. I still don’t know if it’s a change of heart, though I do think he’s got a story. I think all that bravado is like a front. He got hurt, too.”
“Well, I wish you well, my friend. I live vicariously through you these days so please make Friday story-worthy.”
We hang up, and I head back into the house. I have to work my day job in the morning, and I am totally exhausted. I toss and turn, though, unable to sleep. I hate how things ended with Rob. It’s so raw, and I really miss him already. I haven’t even tried to tell the kids anything yet. I guess I’m hoping he’ll come back around.
Still, it nags at me, what Meredith told me. I haven’t heard rumors about a professor sleeping with students but, then again, I don’t talk to the university set too much. Sometimes I chat with folks at the bar, but usually, I’m outside of that social group. Still, that doesn’t seem like something Rob would do.
I decide to text him to check in.
Hope: Hey Robbie. I’m so sorry about the other night.
Rob: Me too.
Rob: Should have ended this “friendship” long ago.
Hope: Ouch. You don’t mean that.
Rob: I do. I’ve held out hoping you’d finally realize you loved me, but I was an idiot. Shame on me.
Hope: I need you in my life, Robbie.
Rob: No. You need a babysitter for your kids. You need someone to help you mow the lawn and get you off when you need it. You don’t need me. Anyone with a dick can fill the role.
Hope: That’s not true.
Rob: Just go to hell, Hope. I said I’m done, and I mean it. Go find Tate McCullough and jack each other off. You two assholes deserve each other.
I don’t text him after that, but I read and reread his texts. I have never known Rob to be so cruel. Not in all the years I’ve known him. It’s jarring, really. And while I probably deserve all the things he’s saying, I still don’t expect them from him.
It’s a long time before I fall into a restless sleep. I’m practically a zombie when I force myself out of bed in the morning, get the kids dropped at school, and stagger in to my desk at work.
Roger, my boss, is a man stuck in the eighties. He wears those big, gold, engineer-looking eyeglasses, parts his dark hair too far to one side, and wears shirts that he’s probably had since he started in the business. He’s not a nice man, so it always confounds me that people come to him for any kind of advice at all, but I suppose he is good at managing money. He’s frugal as hell, anyway.
As soon as I sit down, he’s calling me, telling me to make a pot of coffee and work on copying the packets for his client presentation this afternoon. I’ve tried again and again to tell him to invest in an online portal that will allow us to keep everything in a secure location online, allowing clients to log in and see their materials any time they want to, not just when we make copies for them.
I make the coffee and the copies, delivering them to his desk. He doesn’t bother saying thank you, but has me sit down.
“Hope, I’ve decided to invest with a company called DataBrand. It’s primarily a new database system. The sales guy said our data is at risk because our current system is out of date.”
Well, duh. I resist the urge to roll my eyes and say that. “Well, that’s good news. Does it come with any online portfolio management tools?”
“I didn’t ask.”
“Well, should I call the rep to see what tools it comes with? Maybe familiarize myself with the system and give you a tutorial?”
He wrinkles his nose. “Well, I guess you’d better, because you’re going to do whatever it is that’s needed to move our current records to the new system.”
“Wait, what?”
“They wanted to charge us thousands to move everything. It can’t be that hard. You can do it.”
“You want me to do a whole system migration?” I ask. “On my own?”
“Yes, so that means you’ll need to work extra hours because I want everything set and ready by the end of June.”
“Sir,” I say, “I did some process mapping in college but it’s been some time since I’ve been inside a system like that. I could certainly pull together a project plan and timeline, but we should hire someone …”
“No,” he says. “I’m not paying some shyster to do what I know you can do for me.”
“I just … I don’t have anyone to help with my kids. Working late is …”
“Figure it out, Hope. Or find a new job.”
He goes back to his computer, effectively dismissing me. I’m left dumbfounded, feeling the sickness of anxiety worm around in my belly for the rest of the day. After talking to the DataBrand rep—who confirms that my boss did, indeed, decline a very nice installation and service package—I feel a tiny bit better. He tells me he’ll review my process map and project timeline. Part of me is excited to have the opportunity to do something different, but most of me is pissed I’m not getting paid extra for this, while also being worried about how I will accomplish this and manage the needs of my kids.
At the end of the day, I’m deep in thought when Roger ambles out the front door without so much as a “Goodnight.” I look at the clock and realize I will, again, be late to pick up the kids. With a few choice curse words, I save, shut down, and turn off all the lights before locking up and making a run for my car.
Of course, this is the day that my beater Honda decides it wants to issue a death rattle as I try and try to get it started. I manage to get it going and then, as I’m backing out, someone flies behind me so I have to slam on the brakes, causing my morning coffee to fall from its perch on my dashboard and onto my lap. Wet lap, just what the doctor ordered after a fully crummy day, I am telling you.
I drive like a bat out of hell to get to the community center, but I’m twenty minutes late. No one is left but my kids and Tate and as I burst in, I’m sobbing.
Some kind of nonsensical apology happens. I’m too frazzled to even try to be articulate. The kids keep asking what’s wrong, and I just tell them my boss gave me a big project and I spilled my coffee and I’m just really, really tired. They hug me and Tate watches, his brow furrowed in what I think is concern but, who knows, could also be annoyance.
I’m finally able to pull it together enough to stand up and say, “I’m so sorry, Tate. I’m sure you have other things to do. I just … my boss …”
He puts a hand on my shoulder. “Hey, I was just going to go shoot hoops with some buddies in the gym. It’s no big thing. Sounds like you had a hell of a day. Can I take you and the kids out for dinner? My treat?”
“I don’t … that’s not …”
Tate shakes his head. “It’ll take the pressure off for a minute. Give you time to cool down. Let me do this for you.”
I let out an epic sigh and nod, wiping tears from my face as Tate locks up and ushers us out to his car. The kids are thrilled, of course, to ride in his mustang. It has a rumbling engine and leather seats, and he guns the engine on purpose to make the kids squeal with delight.
He takes us to Pizza Pete’s. I never take the kids to this place because it’s a total money-sucking germ-fest. It’s one of those places with a bunch of video games, a ball pit, and a climbing wall. Oh, and the worst pizza on the planet. Somehow, though, it serves as fine dining in the eyes of children, particularly mine. They just don’t get to do things like this very often.
We place an order for two pizzas and some salad, and Tate gives each kid ten dollars to play games. This seems excessive to me, but Tate insists and when the kids run off to play, he tells me it was to give us time to talk.
“My boss, Roger, is really cheap,” I tell him. “He’s also really old-school. He wears clothes from the eighties. His haircut is from the eighties. His glasses are from the eighties.”
“Okay, so he’s got bad fashion sense, too,” Tate says with a laugh. “Got it.”
“He pays me twenty-eight thousand dollars a year,” I say. “It’s below poverty level, Tate. And he makes two-hundred-thousand-dollars a year. Where he puts it, who knows, because he drives a car as crappy as mine, and he certainly doesn’t invest in new clothes or anything.”
“That is a pretty paltry wage,” Tate says. “I mean, I make twice that running the community center programming.”
“Right!” I exclaim. “And he wants to forgo having the company he picked send an actual expert to do the database conversion just to avoid having to pay for it. But I get to do it, outside my own work time, and with no extra pay. It’s ridiculous!”
“I can’t say I disagree with you there.”
“I hate that place,” I say. “There are two other people who work there, but they’re ancient and they don’t want to talk to me. I have no one to complain to, no human resources manager or anything. And I can’t just quit, because I have kids to support. I mean, a shitty job is better than no job, right?”
“I suppose, yes, in this case.”
“Ugh,” I groan. “It’s so stupid. There’s no one to even ask for help with this big-ass project he wants me to do.”
“Can you handle it? The project he gave you?” Tate asks. “I mean, data migration is a big task. I’ve seen it get really messed up in the military before, and it can really wreak havoc for a long time.”
“I’m fine with the project itself. It’s pretty much the most interesting thing I’ll probably ever do in that stupid job,” I say. “I did projects in college that required detailed project management, and I’m not a dummy. I can figure it out.”
“That’s not what I’m inferring,” Tate says. “I’m just saying it’s a big job for one person.”
“The guy at the DataBrand company took some pity on me, I think,” I say. “I think he’ll help me. They don’t want their product to get a reputation for being garbage, so they’ll still help me with integration questions along the way.”
“That’s good, I suppose. But why do you stay in that job? I mean, I see other jobs that would suit the degree you have in the paper all the time. Have you thought about applying for something else?”
“I don’t know,” I say with a sigh. “I can’t just quit, as noted, but things can’t stay like this, either. I’ll never get ahead. But I also don’t have a ton of time to sit down and redo my resume. Or go through the search process. Or interview. I can barely dress myself most of the time, let alone put myself together enough to impress a potential employer.”
“Well, I’m no life coach, but I think you should find the time. This guy is taking advantage of you big time. He isn’t paying you enough to do your regular job, let alone an additional one that requires specific technical knowledge.”
Letting out another groan of frustration, I sit back in my chair. The waitress delivers two beers and our salads and we dig in while we continue talking.
“Any major life change threatens to upset the balance, you know?” I ask.
Tate shrugs. “Life is messy. We just have to keep going, rolling with the punches.”
“I guess I’ll just have to work the extra hours for now,” I say. “But you’re right. I’m going to have to make the time to dust off my resume and get some applications out. I can’t stay in this environment and, frankly, I really need to make more money. My extra hours at the bar help a little, but it’s not a big enough dent to help me out of the hole I’m in. I’ll figure it out. In the meantime, the kids will just have to come back with me after I pick them up. Do their homework at my office. At least until the project is done.”
“I hate to state the obvious, Hope, but this sounds like a short-term project. A month or so, at most, right?”
I nod. “Yeah …”
“Well, then I’ll take the kids home after the program ends. I’ll help with the kids until you’re done with what you need to do.”
My mouth hangs open. I think I forget to breathe. “Oh, Tate. No. No, I couldn’t ask you to do that.”
“You didn’t,” he says. “I’m offering.”
“No way.”
“Why? You don’t trust me with them?”
“That’s not it at all,” I say quickly. “I mean, though, I don’t know you that well.”
“They do, though. They’ve known me for two years.”
“Let me think about it. I haven’t yet processed this whole situation. Not really. But I really appreciate the offer. And dinner. And that you’re listening.”
As the pizzas get delivered to the table, the kids emerge, each with an armload of toys from the prize counter. Eric talks animatedly about how he played a game where you spin the wheel, and he got a jackpot. Amy had a similar situation on another game. They both walked away with stuffed animals, candy, and other trinkets, and they jabber on and on about how fun this place is, thanking Tate in every other sentence.
We finish dinner, and Tate returns us to my car. As the kids load in, I face Tate and thank him for a nice evening.
“The kids needed something like that,” I say. “I just … we can’t always afford things like that.”
“Don’t be ashamed of something dumb like that. This janky pizza place probably feels like the Taj Mahal to most kids, even the ones who have money. There’s something magical about pairing pizza with video games and a ball pit.”
“Oh, god, the ball pit. I probably need to disinfect them before bed.”
Tate laughs. “Might be a good idea. It is a bit of a germ factory, I’m sure.”
I nod, biting on my top lip. “Well, they clearly thought it was the greatest, so …”
“I promise not to spoil them with things like that,” Tate says. “I just wanted them to be occupied, so you could process your day.”
“That was thoughtful,” I say. I lean against my car and rub my palms over my tired eyes. “I guess we’d better get home.”
Tate puts a hand on my car, leaning in. I can see on his face that he wants to kiss me, but I just can’t. As he leans in, I duck away, opening my car door and slipping inside. I roll down the window as I pray the thing starts up for me. It does, and I thank Tate again and tell him I’ll call him later.
As we drive off, he watches. He watches until I can no longer see him in my rearview, and I’m pretty sure I don’t let out the breath I’d been holding until he’s fully gone.
I feel uneasy about my life lately. And Tate’s role in it.
Chapter Ten
“But, Mommy, I need all the things on this list tonight!” Amy whines, as we finish doing the dishes from our very late dinner. The kids have been going back to work with me after pickup each day, forced to do homework while I spend at least two more hours a night working on the database project.
“I don’t get paid for three more days,” I say. “I just paid part of Eric’s hospital bills, so I’m not sure what kind of cash I have.”
“But I’ll fail the biography report if I don’t do it just the way the paper says,” she cries.
“Amy, you should have told me about this weeks ago, so we could plan. You know you’re supposed to put big projects on the family calendar.”
“I forgot, Mommy. I need all these things, though. Miss Allen said.”
I roll my eyes. “I guess let’s load up and head to the store, then. We’ll see what we can do, but we may need to adjust some. Get creative.”
We all load into the car and drive back into town, Amy whining the whole way. It gives me a headache, honestly, and I’m honestly pretty sure there is no money in my bank accou
nt right now. Here’s hoping.
We gather up all of the stuff and add it all up in our heads. It’s going to cost thirty dollars, and I’m anxious as we ring everything up. My card, of course, gets declined. Red-faced with embarrassment, we step out of line and I read through the instructions again, making suggestions to Amy where we might make substitutions or use things we already have at home. I dig in my purse and find my emergency twenty, telling her we need to get the cost down below. She argues with me and tells me it sucks that we never have any money, but then takes my suggestions and whittles away the items until we’re under budget.
She doesn’t talk to me the rest of the way home.
I want to tell her I’m sorry that I never have any money, that we have to make compromises like this. Girls in her class have expensive, name-brand clothing. They go on fancy vacations and have over-the-top birthday parties. She’s a pre-teen, and she’s starting to notice these things. It’s really hard because I know how it feels. Those things shouldn’t matter, but they do. And I am helpless to fix it for her right now.
She told me last winter that four girls in class had Ugg boots. She really wanted a pair and, of course, I couldn’t afford them. So I bought her a similar-looking pair at Wal-Mart. She wore them proudly to school the next day, but came home in tears because the other girls noted that they were generic, not the real thing. They looked the same, she pointed out, but they did not have the Ugg name on the back and therefore did not count. She never wore them again. She would wear her Nike tennis shoes every day because at least they were name-brand.
All of this swirls in my head, as I get the kids ready for bed. After I tuck them both in, I sit on my couch feeling sick, fretting over how the hell I can get my life in order.
Desperate to talk to someone about this, I’m compelled to pick up the phone and call Rob. It rings and rings but goes to voice mail eventually. I guess I’m not surprised, considering the last message he sent me. He said he was done, and he meant it.
