by M. E. Carter
Table of Contents
Title Page
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Epilogue
Preview of Pride and Joie
Acknowledgements
About the Author
Balance Check
#MyNewLife Series
Copyright © 2017 by M.E. Carter
Smashwords Edition
ISBN-13:
All rights reserved.
Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of the author of this book.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of various products referenced in this work of fiction, which have been used without permission. The publication/use of these trademarks is not authorized, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owners.
Smashwords Edition License Notes
This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to your favorite ebook retailer and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author
Table of Contents
Title Page
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Epilogue
Preview of Pride and Joie
Acknowledgements
About the Author
“Ooof!” I drop the world’s heaviest box next to my feet, which happens to be next to the world’s largest industrial shredder. Ok, not really. But holy crap that box is heavy.
I really should get rid of my paperwork more often, but sometimes I get so caught up in my work that I procrastinate until it overflows.
Fine, that’s a lie. I’m not getting caught up in my work. I’m getting caught up in the gossip at work. It can be juicy behind the scenes at an elementary school.
I’ve only worked here for a couple of months, but so far, I like it. I’m at the same school as my girls, so I get to have lunch with them sometimes. And I’m interacting with actual adults throughout the day. Not that Callie isn’t an adult, even if she acts like a twelve-year-old boy half the time. But I’m expanding my horizons. Or so I tell everyone.
Going back to work was a hard decision to make. It was another life change to push through, but a necessary one. When Greg moved away nine months ago—and yes, I'm still keeping track—we made it a point to text and call almost daily. Eventually, he got busy with his new job and, frankly, the distance got too hard on me emotionally. I wondered constantly when I would get the text that he’d moved on and was dating again. It threw my anxiety into overdrive.
A couple of months after he left, I realized I was back-peddling. So I cut it off completely. It was one of the hardest things I’ve ever done. But my insecurities and doubts about my own worth were rearing their ugly heads, and I couldn’t go back to where I had been. I just couldn’t. Greg said he understood and we had, yet another, emotional moment full of tears. But he stayed true to his word and let me go.
This, of course, led to a lot of soul searching. First thing on the agenda was licking my wounds. Once Callie and I realized licking the ice cream spoon that went along with those wounds was bad for the waistline, I pulled myself together and began looking for ways to improve me. Finding a job was priority. If I was going to move forward, I needed to stop isolating myself. And while it was nice staying home with the girls, realistically, the bank accounts would run dry at some point if I didn’t go back to work. And so would my sense of well-being.
Obviously, being a flight attendant again was off the table because… kids... but I’m still pretty good at customer service. So dozens of applications later, here I am, the front desk receptionist at Woodman Elementary School.
Mostly, my job entails answering phones, signing kids in and out, delivering gluten-free, GMO-free, flavor-free birthday cupcakes to various classrooms. But occasionally our principal, Betty Windham, gives me a project or two, and that’s when my shred pile stacks up.
That, and when this same principal begins bitching to me about interoffice politics.
“Why, why did they think this wouldn’t get out?” she huffs as she pours her third cup of coffee for the day.
Yes, my industrial-sized shredder, that is actually really fun to operate, is in the breakroom. It’s annoying for those on break. But for me, it comes in handy. When I have a huge pile to shred, I will see and hear way more than on an average day. Do I spread the gossip? Hell no. I don’t want to be in the drama. I just like knowing all about it. Sue me.
I hand Betty two creamers and a sugar. I was given a head’s up by the previous receptionist how Betty likes her java, and how much easier things would be if I made sure we always had supplies handy.
She was right. The one day the regular sugar ran out and we only had Splenda, I thought for sure Betty’s head was going to explode. She’s not a bad person to work for… just an addict. No judgement from me. That mint chocolate chip ice cream is sitting in my freezer for a reason.
“Thanks.” She snatches the packets out of my hand and begins doctoring her cup. “First of all, interoffice dating never works out. We all know this. We all should know this. But do my mid-life crisis teachers ever remember that? No. They begin humping like bunnies, and then I have to field phone calls from the scorned spouses.”
Jerry Camperly and Maggie Ray. It’s common knowledge they began a torrid affair last year after Jerry’s wife had her implants removed. Somehow that tidbit plays into the story, but I haven’t quite figured out how, and I’m not asking. Jerry’s a great fifth grade teacher. Very good with science and math. Not a great husband.
Maggie, on the other hand, is a total nitwit. Don’t get me wrong, she rocks the skinny jeans and three-inch heels she wears every day, never even so much as twisted an ankle while chasing those second graders—but she’s not the sharpest knife in the drawer. Thinking this affair would stay under wraps is proof of evidence number one. Especially when the principal sees and hears all, and is the biggest gossip of them all. Even if she doesn’t mean to be.
“Who called this time?”
“Maggie’s husband. Wants to have a meeting or something to hash it all out.” She waves her hand around as she gets riled up. “I told him, ‘I am not a marriage counselor. What happ
ens off these school grounds is not my business, and you will not drag me into this.’”
“Good for you. How’d he take it?”
She sighs. “He cried.” She takes a long sip of her cup of joe and moans before getting back to it. “I’m sympathetic and all…”
No, she’s not.
“… But this isn’t my first go-round with Maggie. I’ve been at this school for fifteen years and this is the third affair of hers that I know of.”
“How is that even possible? We don’t have that many male teachers.”
She shrugs. “Who says it’s always a teacher?”
I grimace. Surely she’s not talking about old Mr. Northman, the janitor who’s been here since the dinosaur age. He’s nice and all, but with his bug eyes and bad teeth, I don’t even want to visualize someone kissing him. A shudder runs through me as I shake off the thoughts.
“At some point, Maggie’s husband needs to get a backbone.” Betty pivots and walks away, grumbling about missing her calling as an author because “you can’t make this shit up.”
Turning back to my shredder, I gather some files and let the paper massacre commence. There is something satisfying about shoving these papers through a row of razor blades, determined to chop it all up into unidentifiable pieces, never to be put together again.
It’s possible I may still be harboring some anger from the last couple of years’ events.
The door opens as I enjoy the tiny little screams of tree fibers and Tripp Mackey walks in.
Our school seems to be an anomaly when it comes to the number of male teachers we have. We have four. FOUR. Jerry the cheater, Coach Thompson who teaches P.E., Mr. Reed who runs the science lab for all of the grade levels and Tripp Mackey.
I barely have enough time to look away before I blush. Tripp Mackey is very, very pretty. And by that, I mean he is panty-dropping hot. Tall, dark, handsome. With the right amount of scruff and a smolder he must have perfected in college, he has been the star of many a teachers’ fantasies.
Setting his looks aside, the fact that he teaches third grade reading, writing, and social studies makes him truly swoon-worthy. It’s no wonder almost every woman in the building has a crush on him. Probably most of the men, too. He’s practically perfect.
He’s also very, very young. He graduated with his teaching degree only a couple of years ago.
That’s why most of us look but don’t touch. No one wants to be tagged as the dirty old woman of the school. Ok, maybe some of us wouldn’t mind it so much.
“Hey Elena.” Tripp flashes me a perfect smile full of perfect teeth and a perfectly wicked twinkle in his eye. I may be a tad dazzled by him. Just a tad. “I see the office gossip has you backed up on your shredding again.”
If I wasn’t blushing before, I am now. It’s no secret that I hear a lot on the job. I suspect we all do. And I suspect we all hear it from the same person, too.
“I wish that was true,” I lie because I will never confirm the things I’ve heard. “But this is my own procrastination. A little too much Candy Crush, I suppose.”
“Sure, sure. So I was thinking…” He leans against the counter and crosses his arms. I try not to watch how the movement makes his biceps flex, because if I don’t pay attention to what I’m doing, I’m likely to cut off a finger. There’s nothing sexy about spewing blood all over the breakroom floor from an accident with the office supplies. “Would you like to go to dinner with me sometime?”
I freeze, still holding onto the paper that’s being gobbled up by the machine, until it makes a nasty groaning sound.
“Oh, shit!” I exclaim when I realize I almost forced the gears to go in reverse. That wouldn’t have been good. “Um… I… I’m sorry, did you just ask me out?”
I’m so flustered that I grab too much scrap paper, shoving it into the machine and immediately jam it. Shit.
Tripp chuckles and scoots me out of the way, popping open the top, and unclogging the jam. “Sorry. That was my fault. I should have had a better lead in.” A slam of the top once the paper is cleared and we’re back in business.
Turning to look at me, he is apparently going to give me a lead in this time.
“So I think you’re really nice. And you’re really funny. And I know I’m a bit on the young side, but I’m hoping my life experience makes up for my age.” Gotta love Tripp, he actually looks kind of shy and vulnerable in the moment, not his normal bravado. “And I’d really love to take you out on a date.”
I blink once. Twice. Three times, as my brain swirls with way too many thoughts to process at once.
Am I ready to date? That’s the big question. It’s been nine months since Greg left. I like my life. I like where I’m at. Am I ready to open up my heart again? And maybe even the bigger question is...
Do I want to open up my heart to a teeny bopper?
Physically, the answer is yes, of course. Good lord it’s been way too long since I’ve had Greg’s mouth on mine, his body on mine, his hands on me…
And right there is my answer. If the first thing that pops into my head while one man asks me out is thoughts of another man, clearly I’m not ready.
Taking a deep breath, I open my mouth to respond, but Tripp cuts me off with a hand to my forearm.
“Think about it. You don’t have to answer me today. Or even next week. Just think about it. I’m not going anywhere.” Then he turns and swaggers out the door. Literally swaggers. Puts his hands in his pockets to make sure the seat of his pants pulls tight as I watch him walk away.
Damn that kid. He just used his best asset to make sure I didn’t say no.
He’s good. He’s real good.
The house is coming together pretty nicely, considering I bought it “sight unseen.”
I guess that’s not totally accurate. I’d seen the outside of it before and the floor plan is pretty standard for the area. I’d just never stepped foot inside this particular house until I backed the U-Haul into the driveway this morning.
It hasn’t taken long to get everything unpacked. Joie, my sister, came with me to help and she’s the most organized person I know. Almost obsessively so. When we were kids, it used to annoy me, but every time I’ve moved, her color-coded boxes have come in handy for getting things where they need to go.
There are more boxes with purple labels than anything else. That was Peyton’s color. She’s going through a phase and everything has to be some form of lavender. Sheets, pillows, stuffed animals, clothing, even her toothbrush. I don’t mind. Peyton probably has the most stuff, but being that she’s not yet three, everything is fun-sized anyway. Even her furniture.
The hardest part of it just being the two of us was maneuvering my sofa through the front door. I had no idea those little block legs on the bottom of the couch would make it so hard to get through a standard doorway. Thankfully, Joie had the exact right tool we needed in her giant bag. She calls it her purse. I call it a “Mary Poppins bag.” There is no telling what kinds of shit she carries around all day long. Seriously. I noticed a loose heel in one of my loafers while we were packing up the other day. Joie pulled a portable shoe repair kit out of that bag. Who the hell carries around a portable shoe repair kit?
My big sister, that’s who.
“I have to admit, this place is way nicer than I thought it would be,” she calls out while breaking down another cardboard box with a giant yellow label. She said yellow was the color of sunshine and a kitchen should always be bright and airy, hence, why all the kitchen boxes have a yellow sticker on them. I don’t understand the logic, but I don’t ask. She has been a godsend during this move. The first thing she started unpacking was the eating area, which we both know is the most important room to me. I, on the other hand, tackled the re-assembling of furniture. Between the two of us, it’s taken a few hours, but it’s starting to look like a home in here. “When you told me you were going to buy it without seeing it first, I thought for sure you’d end up with a money pit.”
I grab
two beers out of the fridge and hand her one. “You don’t have a lot of faith in me.”
We clink bottles and both take a drink before she speaks again. “Wrong. I don’t have faith in almost everyone except you. I still think the seller is hiding something. But I guess it’s too late to worry about that now.”
“Relax, Sis. There’s nothing wrong with this place. The old guy who used to live here kept the lawn meticulous. It’s reasonable to assume he kept the inside meticulous, too. Did you see how clean the hot water heater is? And look at this place.” I open my arms wide and gesture around me. “So far, I’m right, right?”
Sure, the three-bedroom, two-bath brick house needs some updating. All the counters and cabinetry are original, but the big things have been updated and painstakingly cared for over the years—A/C, flooring, appliances. Even the pergola in the back yard was updated a couple of years ago.
“Yeah, but the price…” she maintains.
“Joie…” She looks at me and sighs, knowing what I’m going to say before the words even come out of my mouth. “If you inherited your grandfather’s house, a house that was totally paid off, would you want to waste time bartering for a better deal, or want to unload it before you had to pay all the taxes on it?”
“I know, I know. It’s just so hard to believe. Especially for this neighborhood.”
“It was a once in a lifetime deal,” I admit, walking to the window and pulling down the blinds to see out.
Joie comes to stand next to me and we look out on the quiet street. My new neighbor across the street is mowing the lawn. Someone from down the way is pushing a stroller. She waves at a jogger and her dog as they pass by. There hasn’t been much traffic since we’ve been here, which will be great when Peyton spends the weekend. And I’m sure she’ll want to play with the girls that live next door. We’ve missed them.
After three long years of waiting, Peyton’s weekend visits will start up next month, the weekend after her birthday. Because of our divorce decree, she hasn’t been able to spend the night up to this point. I understood the decision when it was made. She was only a baby when Libby and I got divorced and was really young to be separated from her mother. But knowing her mother isn’t the one that’s normally cared for her for the last few years, it’s been her grandmother, it makes me even more excited to share all the moments I’ve been denied until now. I can’t wait to spend four days or so a month making her breakfast and reading her bedtime stories. We’ve done all those things before. But it feels different now.
