Model Behavior

by Carter, M. E.

  Matthew’s eyes light up again. “Oh, he’s little!”

  I snort a laugh. “You have no idea.”

  “Sorry. Continue.”

  Feeling a burst of confidence, I decide to just go for it. Like I said before, I may never see him again anyway, so who cares what he thinks of me?

  “Listen, Matthew. I think you’ve misunderstood some things.”

  Now he looks confused. “Like what? You’re not a foster mom?”

  I bobble my head. “I am. Sort of. But not the way you think.”

  “I don’t understand. At all.”

  Sighing, I pull my phone out again and pull up Jamie’s text. “I’ll show you his picture but promise me you won’t laugh.”

  “Why would I laugh at a child?”

  Enough. Time to set the record straight. I flash the phone his direction and see it the moment the pieces come together. He looks at the picture, his face takes on sort of a contorted look, like he’s not sure what to feel. Then he looks at me, back at the phone, back at me, a couple more times until he finally points at it and speaks.

  “That’s a squirrel.”

  At least he’s not laughing.

  Clicking off my phone, I drop it back in my clutch. “Yes, he is.”

  “So you don’t have a baby. You have a squirrel.”

  “A baby squirrel. I do wildlife rescue. Someone found him when he was a newborn and brought him to me. His name is Luke, and I’ll raise him until he’s old enough to go back out into the wild.”

  “So you have a squirrel.”

  I give him my best “eat shit” look. “You can stop saying that like it’s the weirdest thing you’ve ever heard.”

  “But it just might be.”

  “No, the weirdest thing you’ve ever heard is Donna Moreno whistle that she loves Hawk Weaver.”

  He opens his mouth to argue but thinks better of it. “You got me there. This might be a close second though.”

  “Well then, it’s a good thing I don’t care what you think.”

  I turn back to face the bar and take a quick sip of my whiskey. It burns from the back of my throat all the way to my stomach, which is a welcome feeling to the embarrassment I’m trying not to focus on. But really, it’s not my fault Matthew jumped to these massive conclusions.

  “You’re right.”

  Is he still talking? I thought for sure he’d have ditched me by now. For the life of me I can’t figure out why he keeps coming back for more.

  “It’s admirable that you take these defenseless creatures and raise them to go back out on their own.” He slides onto the recently vacated stool next to me. “It took me by surprise is all.”

  “Usually does,” I say, still refusing to make eye contact with him, and tossing back the rest of my drink. Of course it throws me right into a coughing fit.

  I have to give Matthew credit—he doesn’t seem fazed by my lack of couth, instead patting me on the back while I practically convulse on the bar. “Geez, Carrie. Drink slower next time. Are you okay?”

  I nod and take a few more seconds to pull myself together. When I can finally speak through the burn, I grab my clutch and stand up. “Thanks for the drink, Matthew, but I have an early morning flight so I need to run.”

  He looks confused, but at least he doesn’t try to stop me. “Um . . . okay. It was nice talking to you again and good luck with that little guy.”

  With a curt nod, I turn on my heel and hightail it to my room.

  My intent is to pack and hit the hay. But as soon as my face is washed, there’s a knock on the door.

  Furrowing my brow, I see someone from room service through the peep hole. Weird. I didn’t order anything.

  I open the door and she immediately hands me a small, but hefty package. “Delivery for Carrie… Mibooks?” She looks up at me, confused by my blogger name, then shrugs and leaves without giving me time to tip her.

  Huh. Who could have sent me a gift? I pull the small note card out of the envelope and read.

  Please accept this as my apology for embarrassing you earlier. I love that you love your baby. And I hope Luke likes his gift.

  -Matthew

  Inside the package is the last thing I expected to see—

  It’s a bag of walnuts.

  Damn that Matthew and his charm. Now I have to like him.

  Chapter 1

  Matthew

  Somewhere in the country it’s the perfect fall day. Leaves are turning various shades of yellow, orange, and red. The breeze is light but crisp, making everyone shiver and reach for a coat. That somewhere is not here.

  Nope, here in Texas, it’s a cool eighty-three degrees with the sun high in the sky and my skin already damp with sweat. Off on the far end of the house I can hear the sounds and frustrated groans of my little girl scouring to find her sandals before school.

  Miss Independent refuses to accept my help, and like every other morning I let her stomp around searching every corner of the house for whatever it is she can’t find. Yesterday it was her favorite pink hair clip. Today it’s her shoes. If I were a betting man, I’d say tomorrow will be her favorite leotard for ballet. Which is why I know exactly where it is—in my room until tomorrow when I’ll place it on top of her bed while she’s at school. I’ve learned a few things as a single dad and the number one on that list is being one step ahead of her. Of course, that knowledge only came after an epic meltdown over missing ballet slippers. The same slippers that are secure in her little gym bag currently behind the seat in my truck.

  That’s a move I like to refer to as “kicking this dad thing’s ass.”

  Slicing half a banana into small chunks and dropping them in the blender with my protein powder and ice, I chuckle as she shouts “Victory is mine” from her room. I assume her declaration means she’s found her lost shoe. The whir of the blender fills the quiet of the house, but it’s not enough to keep me from hearing Calypso enter the room and climb up on the stool at the counter. With deep sighs, she shakes her head from side to side, impatience evident.

  “Are you ready for some breakfast, Sprite?”

  “Pancakes?”

  “You know we save those for Sundays. How about an egg and piece of turkey bacon?”

  Sighing dramatically, her dark curly hair bouncing as she does, she groans, “I guess but can you make them with extra love?”

  Tapping the end of her nose I nod and go about scrambling her eggs and pouring them into the hot pan while she picks up her tablet and pulls up a cartoon to watch while I cook. When she was a baby and I would rock her back to sleep in the middle of the night, I made declarations to myself on all the things she wouldn’t be allowed to do. No screen time during meals, no refined sugars, no dating until she’s thirty. I’ve swayed in my resolutions on the first two but her dating is non-negotiable. Even if my own mother thinks I’m ridiculous. Little does she know what men are like these days. That would mean letting her in on some of my own escapades before Calypso came along. Hence, why I let my mother live in her state of ignorant bliss on that topic.

  When the eggs are almost done, I sprinkle cheese on top and hit the start button on the microwave. The bacon snaps and pops a few times before the machine dings its completion. Scooping the eggs onto the plate, I slide it in front of Calypso. Without taking her eyes off the screen, she lifts her fork full of eggs to her mouth. Clearing my throat, I catch her attention. Brow raised, I take a sip from my protein shake and wait for her to dig deep for those manners I know she has.

  “Thanks, Daddy. You’re the best and so are your special eggs.”

  “You’re welcome. Don’t get too distracted by your show. We leave in fifteen minutes and you still need to brush your teeth.”

  Nodding her head, curls bouncing from side to side, she smiles and turns her attention back to the screen. Battles and wars is what my mom always says. Choose the battles but fight the wars. I have a strong suspicion the teenage years with my little girl are going to give the most epic wars a run for th
eir money.

  While she finishes her breakfast, I head outside to make sure Olaf has eaten some of his own breakfast. Calypso’s birthday gift from my parents is running around the backyard chasing a bird that I think is winning whatever game they have going on. Glancing down to his food bowl under the covered patio, I note half the food is already gone and head back into the house. Plate and tablet abandoned, I hear the water running in the bathroom and thank God that my daughter is obsessed with brushing her teeth. It makes our mornings so much easier, and we’re able to get out the door on time.

  “Daddy, look!” Calypso squeals with excitement on our way to the truck. Excitement over the little things isn’t unusual. The question is, what is she raving about today? A rolly polly? A broken rock? Ants eating a French fry? There are well over a million possibilities. And one I never expected.

  “It’s a fossil!”

  Taking two steps toward her I look at the treasure in her hands. “Oh wow. That’s really cool. But I don’t think it’s a fossil.”

  “Yes, it is. My teacher showed us a real one at school and it looked just like this. See the mark right there?”

  Oh, I see it all right. “Honey, that indentation was left by rebar under the street.”

  She purses her cute and sassy little lips at me, because how would I know things? I’m not in first grade science class. “That wouldn’t leave a fossil in a rock.”

  “Because that’s not a rock. That’s broken concrete probably from when the city dug up the sidewalk a couple months ago to fix a broken pipe.”

  Whipping her backpack off quickly, she unzips and carefully places her treasure inside. “I’m going to take it to show my friends. They’ll be so excited I found a real fossil!”

  I don’t bother correcting her. I’ve met some of those kids. Calypso is the sharpest one in that class, which means there’s no hope for them to figure out that’s concrete.

  •••

  Morning drop-off was surprisingly easy after our treasure hunt. I think everyone has finally settled back into their daily routines now that we’ve been back at it for a couple months. The long days of summer and no pickup and drop-off lines a distant memory. Tapping the garage opener, I sit in my truck while the door rolls up, enjoying the air conditioning for as long as possible. Slipping out of the seat, I trek into my home gym and flip on the large fans and cue up my playlist before heading inside to drop my keys on the counter and fill my water bottle.

  My gig as a part-time cover model requires me to work out daily, pushing myself just to the limit to keep my almost thirty-year-old body in prime condition. The competition is tough and the younger guys are slowly pushing us older guys out of the way. My mom has been teasing me that soon I’ll be featured on a few covers dubbing me a “silver fox.” I didn’t have time to respond because my dad jumped into the conversation demanding the title for himself. As much as I hate to admit it, she has a point.

  The calls from photographers still come, but the length between those calls is getting longer as the years ticks by. Thankfully, modeling isn’t my primary source of income, it’s just a way for me to build up my savings and Calypso’s college fund.

  And I do still have a small fan club of neighborhood women that strategically schedule their morning walks for this time of day and this path of the neighborhood. Strange how someone always has an untied shoelace directly in front of my garage.

  Honestly, it doesn’t bother me. A little ego boost never hurt anyone. Plus, having a few gawkers stroll by forces me to keep my focus. I don’t want to look like a slacker for them.

  Tugging my T-shirt over my head, I toss it in the washer before heading out to kick my own ass on the treadmill and weights before I have to shower and head to my day job. With each drop of sweat that falls from my head, I let my mind clear as I fall into the rhythm of my feet hitting the rubber surface. With five miles complete, I hit the free weights and wave when my fan club walks by. Finally, I crank out two hundred sit-ups as I close out my workout and hit the shower.

  Dressed in a pair of dark gray shorts and collared shirt, I slip on my flip-flops and head out to face the day. A day that will be full of telephone calls, estimates, and dodging questions about my love life. You know, the typical. The drive to work isn’t long, and as I turn into the driveway of my childhood home, I smile at the nostalgia. The trees are bigger and the flowers more vibrant than when we were kids, but it’s still the same brick home I spent my youth in, building memories.

  The only thing that’s really different is the size of the hill it sits on. I swear it shrunk. We used to do log rolls down the dip in the front yard. Now? Now it’s one tiny dip I wouldn’t even notice if I stepped over it. I asked my mom about it once, wondering if the house was somehow sinking or if it needed to be leveled. She laughed and told me it’s always been that size. I just got taller.

  Then she said there was a lesson in that—perspective is everything. I’m sure she’s right, but so far I haven’t had to put that into real life use.

  I let myself in the front door and head straight for the kitchen where I know my mom is brewing up a fresh pot of coffee. One of the perks of working with my dad is spending my workdays in the home where I spent my childhood instead of a stuffy office. When my dad suggested we move the business into the home office, I thought he was crazy. Like everything else in my life, he was right and I was wrong for doubting him.

  “Morning, Mom,” I greet with a kiss to her cheek as she dries her hands on a towel.

  “Hey, honey. How was my amazing granddaughter this morning?”

  “Sassy as always. I swear every gray hair on my head is because of her. I imagine every hair on my head will be white as snow by the time she starts high school.”

  Laughing, Mom hands me a cup and slides the creamer over toward me. Leaning my hip against the counter, I take a tentative sip and nod toward the island.

  “Are you ever going to get rid of that?” I ask, motioning to the kitchen island and the lopsided pot that she treats like it’s coated in gold.

  “Nope. Calypso made it, and it’s important to her, therefore it’s important to me.”

  “Well you may need to find a place to store it. Calypso found a new treasure this morning and chatted the entire drive to school about how she can’t wait to put it on your table.”

  “Ooh!” Mom’s eyes light up with delight, like only a grandmother’s can. “What did she find?”

  “Concrete.” She cocks her head, the unspoken request to continue. “She thinks it’s a fossil, Mom. Unless dinosaurs were made of rebar and had concrete poured over them, it’s not.”

  Stepping toward me, my mom cups my cheek and smiles up at me. “Matthew, let the child believe. When you were her age, you insisted you were invisible. I never once disagreed. Imagination is a wonderful thing. Besides, you’ll need ammunition when she hits those teen years and wants to date. A concrete fossil is a good place to start.”

  Barking out a laugh, I raise my cup to toast her before heading to the office and settling in for a day full of phone calls. The life of a financial advisor—still using my superpower of invisibility to help guide my clients toward financial security. One phone call at a time.

  Chapter 2

  Carrie

  “Good morning, Lukey Dukey,” I singsong and carefully open the cage door.

  My fur baby immediately climbs out of his nest of rags and flicks his tail at me, letting me know what a big man he is. He’s not wrong. He’s well into his adult years and by all accounts, should be back out in the wild. Unfortunately, nature doesn’t always have the same plans I do.

  And now I have a pet squirrel who can’t survive in the wild.

  “Don’t make that face at me,” I chide gently, also careful to make my moves smooth around him. I’m not worried he’ll attack me or anything. I just don’t like scaring him if I don’t have to. Regardless of if he’s been hand-raised, a squirrel still naturally falls on the “prey” side of the animal kingdom. Skit
tish is ingrained in him.

  “I have some fresh pecans for you.”

  That gets his attention. He climbs through the opening and on to the top of the cage, balancing on his hind legs as he takes the nuts from my hand one by one and munches away. Pecans are his personal favorite. Followed closely by walnuts and acorns.

  You know what he doesn’t like? Peanuts. Of course he doesn’t. Because they’re cheap and I can afford them. But no. He’d prefer to starve to death than eat something that stays within our food budget. Leave it to me to end up permanently housing a rodent that has expensive tastes.

  This is why I don’t date much. I’m too much of a sucker. With my luck, I’d write my date’s rent check if his story was sad enough.

  I spend the next several minutes cleaning out the bottom of his cage and changing out nest rags while he jumps back and forth from the cage to my shoulder and back again. It’s like I’m his personal tree. I don’t mind. It’s kind of cool to have a squirrel climb all over you. How many people can say that?

  What I do mind is when my phone rings just as he lands on my shoulder, scaring him so he runs off.

  “Dammit. Luke! Come back here!” I admonish while swiping the answer button. “Aren’t you supposed to be on the road already?” I say to my other best friend and fellow blogger, Celeste.

  She coughs, sniffles, and wheezes before answering me. That’s not good. “Should be. But I have stupid luck and woke up this morning with a one hundred two fever and a body that won’t stop shivering.”

  “Oh no!” I exclaim as I bend down and look for Luke under the couch. Where the hell is he? “So you can’t go?”

  “And infect my celebrity crush?” She takes a minute to power through another coughing fit. She sounds horrible. But I’m betting whatever virus she has is a cakewalk compared to the disappointment she feels.

  Celeste is my blogging partner and focuses on the performance arts while I stick with word art—also known as books. Real name, Celeste Pumperkin, she’s known as Celestial Starr by the theater community around the country. Well, those that follow us, anyway. She’s built up quite a fan base with her reviews on various musicals and stage dramas, partially because she doesn’t discriminate on the level of productions she sees. As a backstage manager by trade, she’s heavily involved with bringing stories to life on stage, and that means taking in as many shows as she can, from Broadway productions to off-off-Broadway start-ups, even a few college plays.