Man Flu

by Shari J. Ryan

  Whatever the case, she’s not going to school. I leave her room and climb back into my bed like the child I wish I could act like. Maybe I can’t act like a child, but I can hide under my covers and play Words With Friends for a bit. I open the app, wishing there was a new game request from Dickle, but I’m almost positive the fun from that game has passed. But hey, Aunt May wants to play another round.

  This is what my life has come to. That, and Rick’s living his happy little fantasy next door, blissfully unencumbered by his parental responsibilities. Mom thinks Rick cheated on me because I didn’t try hard enough to please him, and Dad won’t admit it, but I’m nearly positive he still likes Rick because he’s an “old-fashioned kind of …” douchebag “who wears a suit and tie every day.” Plus, divorce wasn’t part of Dad’s grand plan for me. As far as they’re both concerned, I probably should have been more understanding of Rick’s desires, apparently including his desire to sleep with more than one woman.

  When has it ever been acceptable for a man to cheat on a woman and carry on like it was nothing? It makes me wonder about Mom and Dad’s marriage. If that crap is cool with them, great, but I don’t want to know. I’m a monogamous type of person, and I don’t think it’s too much to expect the same out of a partner.

  I need to figure something out … something I don’t want to figure out. I rip my pillow out from beneath my head and smother it over my face, pressing firmly into my eyeballs, which causes little black circles to swim in front of my darkened vision.

  Just get it over with.

  With a toss of my pillow, I blindly reach for my phone and search for the name Douche Nugget Rick. The phone rings once. You’re a douche. Twice. You’re a douche. Three times. You’re such a damn douche.

  “Hannahbananna, how are you, ex-darling?”

  “Really?” My voice couldn’t sound flatter or less affected by his insults if I tried.

  “What’s going on?” I hear a blender or something in the background, which strikes me as funny since Rick would never eat anything green or something that had a natural source of vitamins in it when we were together. He was a “meat and potato” kind of guy because that’s still a thing and all, and it made him feel more like a manly man. As a result, I ended up making three dinners every night. Cora inherited his limited tasted buds but hates meat and potatoes. She prefers only pasta, and I can’t eat like that every night, not at my thirty-three-year-old, post-child state of life. So, three meals it was, and not one, thanks. Ever. Now … now Rick drinks green smoothies for breakfasts and enjoys “cleansing his palate” with a nice hearty salad before lunch and dinner. Why? I almost laugh out loud while thinking my atrocious thoughts. Because Tiana is a size negative zero, she only has one chin, and she has make-up tattooed onto her face, so she never wakes up looking like a freak like the rest of the goddamn population. Oh, oh, and the best part, yeah, the best part of it is she has this Cuban, silky dark hair that makes a hair model look like they stuck their finger into a socket. There isn’t a flaw to this chick, so Rick watches every calorie now. He needs to make sure he can remain suitable to be her arm candy or else— “Hannah?”

  “Uh, yeah, um, are you busy today?” I sound caught off guard even though I’m the one who called him. This happens often. My anger is still present a year later, but thankfully, that’s the only emotion I have left for this man.

  He chortles at my question, which enrages me more. However, Rick could pleasantly say, “Good morning, how are you?” and I’d still hate him enough to want to kick him repeatedly in the nuts.

  “Yes, I typically work during the week.”

  He doesn’t even ask why. Why else would I be calling him unless it had something to do with Cora? He’s not asking “why” because he knows what this is about. He knows I call in sick way more often than he does, and he’s the boss of his own penis—I mean company. Same thing, really.

  “Cora is very sick, and I basically lost a sale yesterday because I had to bring our daughter to work for a few hours. Is there any chance you can have someone fill in for you today? I’m sure it has to be hard finding someone to lean all the way back in your desk chair and casually rest their feet on your desk for eight hours while you smile at every double D secretary that walks by, but I could use a hand.”

  “A hand?” Yes, that is all he took from that long-winded attempt of a slam. “You have a drawer full of vibrators the last time I checked, so I’m sure you’ll be just fine.”

  “I swear to God, Rick, I will come over there and dump your green shit-drink all over your five-hundred-dollar shirt if you don’t stop dicking around.”

  “Easy, easy, settle down now.” I’m not a dog, Rick. It’s not worth it. It’s not worth it. “I think I have a solution that will help us both.”

  “No. No, that’s not a solution. No.”

  “Hey, Titi!” That’s t-e-e t-e-e, not titty like I prefer to call her.

  “Rick,” I grunt. “No, she is not watching Cora today.”

  “Hannah, she’s home all day other than her online spinning class.” I hate the way he says my name as if I’m a child who’s begging for ice cream.

  “No. Plus, what would she do with Cora during her spinning class?”

  “I’m sure she’d skip it for a day.”

  “No,” I keep saying, while also realizing I probably have no other choice.

  “What’s up, babe?” Tiana shouts from wherever, sounding obviously out of breath. Does she ever stop working out? Screw her and her nice body.

  “Will you stay with Cora today while Hannah works? Cora’s pretty sick, and Hannah can’t afford to take any more sick time at her office.” He just air-quoted the word office with his fingers. I know he did. I can tell by the way he said the word, and I can picture it in my head, just like he always did when I made mention of my job being as important as his. I was bringing in at least thirty-five percent of the household income, but it wasn’t fifty-one percent, so I wasn’t as important as mister C-E-freaking-O.

  “Umm,” I hear Tiana thinking out loud in the background.

  “Hannah would really appreciate it, babe,” Rick adds in. Not that he could make mention of Cora being his daughter too, and that it would essentially help him out. What Rick seems to forget is that our child support agreement was nearly in his favor since I bring in a decent salary. If I were to lose my job, Rick would be forking out a lot more dough, but he doesn’t look at it that way.

  The thought has crossed my mind. Just quit, live off my ex’s alimony and child support, and bam, have it made, but my ego is too big for that. However, that doesn’t mean I can’t drop a hint and play the game.

  “You know what, I’m just going to call in today. Cora needs me,” I tell him.

  “Didn’t you just call me up all damsel-in-distress like because you’re afraid of getting in trouble at work?” he retorts, just as I hoped he would.

  “I did, but you know what, it’s just a job right? What’s the worst that can happen?” I continue.

  “Well, you could get fired,” he says with a guttural belly laugh. Though, the laugh does end abruptly, almost as if my brilliant ex-husband realizes what would happen if I got fired.

  “I see what you’re doing,” he says.

  “Oh,” I play along with a high-pitched sigh. “You do, buddy?”

  “Jesus, I’ll stay home with her today.”

  “My hero,” I lament. “Come get her.” The second we divorced, Rick appeared to take on the role of a babysitter. Even when Cora stays at his house on the weekends, Cora plays on her Kindle for hours, or in between the time it takes Tiana to paint her nails whatever bold color she’s chosen for the week.

  “Yes, your hiney,” Rick says before the phone disconnects. There’s something unsettling about a child watching a child. I think Cora is more mature than Rick, and I’m not thinking that out of hate or distaste. She might be more responsible too.

  I clamber out of my bed again and greet my full-length mirror with a sn
arl. No wonder he chose Tiana. I run my fingers through a bird’s nest of hair standing at attention like a creature from Whoville.

  I kind of stopped caring about the way I look a long time ago. I was comfortable in my marriage, and I guess I was stupid enough to think Rick loved me for what was inside rather than the way I looked when I woke up or came home after a long day at work. After all, I birthed a child and distorted my body into a dome house for nine months, leaving behind white zebra stripes on both sides of my torso. I thought a man was supposed to find it sexy after his woman went through the most brutal pain in the world. Instead, I ended up with the man who looked at me as damaged goods after childbirth. After Cora was born, he never wanted to sleep with me. If I took my clothes off in front of him, he’d turn around. I got the hint but had no desire to try much harder. He made me feel hideous, and now that’s what I see in the mirror—small age lines, dark circles, dull hair, and a matching complexion. I’m hot stuff.

  I look over at my alarm and figure I have at least ten minutes before Rick meanders over here with his stainless-steel juicing cup in hand.

  I’ve gotten good at taking five-minute showers. There’s no time for closing my eyes and glancing up into the shower head as I run my fingers through my hair. Nope. I step in before the water is completely heated, pump a handful of shampoo into my hand, lather for thirty-seconds, rinse, repeat with conditioner, and scrub a bar of soap over my body while the conditioner does its job for two minutes. Then it’s rinse and rinse, run the razor over the important spots with very few strokes, and grab a towel. Done.

  I drag a brush through snarls, feeling individual hairs plucked from my scalp since I don’t take the time to spray in any product. A swipe of mascara and four lines of black liner, lipstick, perfume, and deodorant make my bathroom time complete in nine minutes.

  The only good thing I do for myself is set out my clothes for work the night before and hang them on the back of the bathroom door. I can literally walk out of the bathroom fully clothed and ready to go.

  I’m aware I could wake up earlier. It would solve my issues, but I’m so freaking tired that the thought makes me feel sick.

  Just as I pluck the last button through the hole on my blouse, the doorbell rings. Maybe he could have considered that his daughter might still be asleep because she’s sick. Though, he’s never been around when she’s sick. Leaving for the office before she wakes up and coming home a half hour before she goes to bed left Rick little time to get to know the day-to-day details of his daughter’s life.

  I take one quick look in the mirror, approving the improvement of my just-awoken look, and trample down the stairs to the front door.

  I’m sure it’s completely normal for a person to feel a need to punch their ex right in the teeth when they see him or her first thing in the morning, but why does he have to smile like he owns the whole goddamn world? “Cora is sick. Maybe you could take your perkiness down a notch.”

  “A smile always cheers people up, Hannah. Even the most miserable people can feel a little brighter when someone smiles at them. It doesn’t seem to be working for you, though.”

  “Is that what this is?” I ask him. “You’re trying to brighten my day with a smile?”

  “Well, you do look a little miserable,” he adds in.

  “Our daughter is sick. Unlike you, I would rather stay by her side all day and feed her soup and keep her wrapped up in her favorite blanket.”

  Rick holds his hands up as if I offended him. “Whoa, whoa, who said I didn’t want to do all that?”

  I cross my arms over my chest and shake my head for a moment. “Rick, when have you ever done that?”

  His smile fades into a straight line as he walks in and past me like he still lives here. “Come on in,” I mumble sarcastically as I close the door. He pokes his head into the family room and then the kitchen, finding that Cora’s not downstairs. “She’s still asleep.”

  “Eh, kids like to sleep,” he says while heading up the stairs.

  “No, Rick. No, they don’t.” I follow him upstairs and pass by him to give Cora a quick kiss on the head before I leave. “Let her sleep,” I whisper as I pass by him.

  “I know, Hannah.” Yeah, I’m sure you were just going to stand here and stare at her sleeping.

  I shouldn’t feel nervous about leaving Cora with Rick all day. He’s her father, but he’s so incompetent and self-centered that I feel I might be better off leaving her with Tiana. I don’t know who’s worse.

  I have a little extra time this morning since I don’t have to get Cora to the bus, so I’m skipping the bagged coffee and going for the real stuff. Two mornings in a row … another miracle.

  * * *

  Like yesterday, there’s a short line of people waiting to place their order, and I could stand here all day inhaling the roasted scent of fresh coffee, and whatever pastry smells like heaven. The chalk-written menu blurs into a colorful swirl as I daydream of a life where I could have just twenty minutes to myself every morning, but my daze is interrupted when a hand lands on my shoulder. “I think you’re next,” a man says. I shake my head around, clearing up my vision. Oh my God, how long was I daydreaming? “Hannah?”

  I turn around as I take the few steps forward, finding Batman, the temp—Logan—behind me. “Logan?”

  He turns and glances over his shoulder as if I were talking to someone else. “I think I’m the only Logan here,” he responds with a chuckle. “Are you okay?”

  “Yeah, yeah, of course I’m okay. Are you okay?” Why am I asking him if he’s okay? He’s obviously okay. I’m the one standing in the middle of a coffee shop looking like a lost child.

  “You’re still next,” he says.

  “Right,” I hop up to the counter, facing the annoyed teenage girl with piercings lining her lips and eyebrows. Where is my normal girl whose name I can’t remember? She knows what I want more often than I do. “Can I have a—” I look back up at the chalk writing, deciding between the hazelnut coffee and chai tea. I’m in the mood for something different today.

  “We literally only have coffee and tea,” she says, sounding bored, monotone, and stiff. When did I become so uncool? I used to work in a Starbucks, you little twerp.

  “Thank you for clarifying,” I tell her. “I’ll have a medium hazelnut coffee.”

  “Sweetened?” she asks, looking around as if I’ve been thinking about this decision for an additional twenty minutes.

  “Please,” I tell her.

  “That’ll be four dollars,” she says. I give her a ten, and she drops six bills down on the counter and pushes it toward me. Kill with kindness. It almost never works, but I still try. I put the six dollars in her tip jar, hoping she’ll lighten up a bit. Why a girl her age could be so miserable is beyond me. I’d like to tell her what being a single mother is like while my ex lives next door with Barbie, but no one wants to hear my sob story. In fact, I’m sick of hearing my sob story.

  She doesn’t thank me for the tip or give me another second of her time. I toss the straps of my purse back up to my shoulder and slide down the counter to the pick-up area where a few teenage boys are hustling around to prepare the orders.

  “That was rude,” I hear Logan say.

  “Rude?” the cashier giggles. She giggles at him but snarls at me. Do I come off as a bitch? Is that my problem and no one is telling me? Maybe my misery is rubbing off on other people. That’s kind of sad, I suppose.

  “Yeah, that was rude. She just gave you a nice tip for no good reason. Why not at least say ‘thank you’? Has no one ever taught you any manners?”

  “Guess not,” she says with a shrug of her shoulders and a stupid smirk. “Hey, aren’t you that baseball player? You look familiar. Logan Grier, right?”

  “I get that a lot,” he says. “I’ll have a large black coffee.”

  “You are him, aren’t you?” she says, ignoring his order.

  Logan looks over at me, probably wondering what I’m thinking. He’ll be happ
y to know I’m wondering the same thing. I had no clue how big of a deal he was because I pay absolutely no attention to baseball, or any sports for that matter. I’m sort of a moron when it comes to anything with balls … clearly.

  “Did you get down the large black coffee?” he asks.

  “Can I have your autograph?” the cashier replies.

  Logan seems to be getting slightly agitated. He leans forward and says something to the girl I can’t hear, though I’m quick to figure it out as she slides down the counter across from me and says, “Thank you for the tip, and I’m sorry for acting rude.”

  “Apology accepted,” I say. “Thank you.”

  She spends little time in front of me before running back down to where Logan is standing. She presses a button on the register, and a stream of white paper unravels from the top. With a quick tear, she whips a pen out from below the counter and hands it to Logan, who signs his name. “Please, the black coffee before I’m late for work. My boss might kill me if I’m not there at nine.” He peers over at me and winks. Smooth. Real smooth, Logan Grier.

  “Your boss?” the girl laughs while punching in his order. “Aren’t you your own boss?”

  “Nope,” he says without further explanation.

  He hands her the money she didn’t ask for, but she pushes his hand away. “It’s on the house.” He drops the money anyway and moves down the counter to where I’m waiting.

  “These kids act like they’re so privileged nowadays,” he says to me.

  “How old are you?” I ask him. I’m sure that’s against another corporate policy, but I’m not at work, and I’m curious.

  “Ms. Pierce,” he addresses me. “I’m pretty sure that’s a human resource violation.” He’s grinning, so I don’t think he’s serious.

  “You’re right. I don’t know what I was thinking. I need to get going,” I say, pointing to the door.