Pride & Joie: The Continuation (#MyNewLife)

by M. E. Carter

  Pride & Joie: The Continuation

  A #MyNewLife Romantic Comedy

  Copyright © 2017 by M.E. Carter

  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.

  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

  About the Author

  I take it back. I take it all back. College is harder than I thought it was going to be.

  Yes, I have a 4.0 GPA. Yes, most of my professors know me by name. But I am surviving on caffeine to get everything done.

  Midterms were harder than I expected them to be, and if I want to keep my grade point average where it’s at, I can’t afford to slack off. That means long hours in the library. Studying on weekends. And lots of review groups.

  Like the one I’m in right now.

  Educational psychology may be my favorite class, but it’s also the most intense. It’s not that the content is even hard. I raised a child; I’ve seen most of this before. I just have names for it all now. But it’s so time consuming.

  Initially, we were required to read Pollyanna by Eleanor H. Porter, pick a particular character, and come up with a basic psychological summary that fits their behaviors in the book. That was all fine and good. It was a children’s book, so the reading was easy. And there weren’t deep psychological issues. It was more about pinpointing basic behaviors. But then a similar real-life assignment was sprung on us.

  Twice a week, for an hour per day, with a minimum of four weeks, we sit in a local elementary school classroom, where we have to pick a child to observe and write a case study on them, just like we did with the book. We’re not allowed to put names or identifying features, for privacy reasons obviously, and we can’t interact with the child. Just observe behaviors.

  While I find it fascinating, and I really love getting into the school, the only days I have time for this extra work are on Tuesdays and Thursdays. The days I work. It’s only three hours out of my day, including drive time, but those six hours a week used to be spent getting things like laundry and grocery shopping done. Now that’s all put off until weekends, cutting into my study time, which means I have to study later during the week . . .

  It’s a vicious cycle. Hence, the venti upside-down caramel macchiato I’m nursing at eight o’clock at night. I’m going to be sitting in this conference room chair for several hours, and then I have to drive all the way home. I need the caffeine desperately.

  Tonight, we’re going to go over our case studies as a group and pinpoint any holes or missing bits of information. Basically, a tweaking session before the first draft is turned in. But in true college-kid fashion, not everyone is here yet, so we’re waiting for the stragglers.

  My phone dings with a text just as I take a drink of my java. The name flashes on the screen briefly and lips immediately quirk up. It’s Jack.

  Jack: Late night on campus?

  Me: How did you know?

  Jack: I just saw your car in the parking lot. Do you need anything? Coffee? Snacks? A kiss?

  I bite back another smile and try not to giggle like a school girl. Even though I technically am one.

  Me: PDA probably isn’t allowed in the library. Especially with one of your players in my study group.

  Jack: Let me change the question . . . dinner Friday night? Without a library full of eyes?

  A laugh bursts out of me, and I quickly cover my mouth when I realize how loud it is. I glance around and only a couple people are looking at me, but most don’t even turn their heads away from their phones. Smiling again, now that I know I didn’t draw too much attention to myself, I respond. Because that’s what Jack does to me . . . makes me smile.

  Me: You’re on.

  I put my phone down and Brian Anderson, Isaac’s teammate and fellow brownie lover, catches my attention. He’s sitting next to me, eyeing me skeptically.

  “What?” I glance around quickly to see if he’s really looking at me or just in my general direction.

  Tilting his head toward me, he lowers his voice almost to a whisper. “Who’s the dude?”

  I will my face not to flush. As Jack’s player, the last person I want to fess up to is Brian. Isaac probably needs to know about this first. “What dude?”

  “The dude you’re texting?” He gestures toward my phone.

  “How do you know I’m texting a dude?”

  “The look on your face.”

  I lean in more, whispering, “What does my face look like?”

  He straightens in his chair and holds his finger up so I’ll wait for a minute. Then he turns to Stephanie, who is sitting next to him. She’s a tall, pretty girl. About twenty. I’ve seen her look at Brian with stars in her eyes before. Apparently, he’s noticed.

  Moving in close to her, he flashes her a flirty grin. “Hey.”

  She looks momentarily bewildered but responds with a quiet “Hey.”

  “You look really pretty today.”

  I roll my eyes at how thick he’s laying on the charm. Beyond a few questions and answers in this group, I don’t think Brian has ever spoken to her before.

  “Thanks.” Stephanie bites back a giggle, a blush creeping up her cheeks.

  Brian turns back to me and points over his shoulder at her. “That look.”

  My jaw drops and I smack him playfully on the arm. “I do not! And that was so rude!” I situate my body so I can see around him to address Stephanie directly. “Ignore him and his fake charms. He’s trying to prove a point.”

  She shrugs. “He called me pretty, so whatever.”

  I just shake my head. I don’t understand this age group. They’re funny and energetic and idealistic . . . and I’ll never understand the relationship dynamics they have. Welcome to the generation raised on electronics, I suppose. Always with their faces in a screen. Never having to learn people skills.

  Or I’m just old and out of touch.

  “So anyway . . .” he continues. Crap. I was hoping Brian would be distracted. No such luck. “Who’s the dude?”

  I blow my bangs out of my face as I prepare to do something I normally have a strict moral code against. I lie. “There’s
no dude. And even if there was, it wouldn’t be your business anyway.”

  “Uh huh.” He turns his body toward me and puts his hand on my chair, a smirk on his face. “I don’t believe you, but I’ll let it go for now. As long as you tell me one thing.” I quirk my eyebrow at him, giving him my best mom glare. It doesn’t work. “Does he treat you right?”

  My heart softens at his true concern, and I smile at him. He may be ornery, but he’s a good kid. I saw it in him the day he introduced himself to me and thanked me for the brownies I brought. And he continues to impress me with small things like making sure the man I refuse to admit I’m dating is good to me.

  “I’m guessing Stevens doesn’t know yet, does he?” I crinkle my nose and shake my head, finally admitting what he already knew. “I won’t tell him, because that’s not my place. But make sure whoever the dude is, he knows you have the entire Viking defense backing you up if he so much as looks at you sideways.”

  I pat him on his forearm. “Thank you, Brian. But I promise, that won’t be necessary.”

  He nods at me once then turns back to Stephanie. “You really do look pretty today. That wasn’t just a line.”

  She blushes again, and I shake my head at his audacity. What a little player. I hope Stephanie keeps her eyes wide open with him. He’s sweet to me, but probably because there’s a certain amount of respect that goes with being his mom’s age. And because I bring snacks.

  Suddenly, the door flies open and a disheveled-looking Nick comes racing in, hurriedly throwing his backpack on the table. “Sorry I’m late, guys. I got caught up in band practice.”

  “You play in a band?” Brian asks. He looks impressed by this latest news.

  Nick keeps yanking his notebooks and laptop out of his bag. “Yeah. I play trombone in the Viking Marching Band.”

  Suddenly, Brian doesn’t look as impressed. Somehow his reaction doesn’t surprise me.

  “Anyway, did I miss anything?” Nick sort of fell into the role of leader of the study group. Every time we meet, he’s prepared with a plan on how to get things done and helps the group stay on track. I don’t usually mind. It just means the rest of us don’t have to take on that responsibility and keeps us from just wasting our time being here.

  While waiting for him to settle in, I grab my phone off the table and shoot off another quick text to Jack.

  Me: We’ve been caught. Brian Anderson says to tell you that if you hurt me, you’ll have him and the rest of the team to answer to.

  I look around the room as I wait for his answer. Everyone is finally getting ready for what is sure to be a long night.

  Jack: You tell that little shithead he better watch himself, or he’ll be doing extra frog squats until his legs give out.

  Before I can respond, another text comes through.

  Jack: And then tell him I appreciate him looking after you. But he’s got nothing to worry about. That is, if we really have been outed.

  Busted.

  Me: I’ll pass along the info from my anonymous “dude” if it comes up again. Gotta run. We’re starting.

  I throw my phone in my black satchel and take another sip of my coffee, ready to begin a long night of discussing the development of behavior patterns.

  I knock on the front door and glance around the neighborhood while I wait. I’ve been here before. Several times. But the more I’m here, the more I like the area of town Joie lives in.

  It’s a quaint little community with smaller homes. Well, smaller for Texas anyway. When they say everything’s bigger in Texas, they weren’t kidding around about square footage.

  But I really like it here. She lives on a cul-de-sac, although not in the actual circle. But from this vantage point, I can see a few small kids riding their bikes in the street while their mothers sit on lawn chairs and chat. That’s who seems to live here most. Families with small children who are in their starter home. Retirees who don’t want the upkeep of a larger house also take residence here. The mixture of the two stages of life make for a nice, homey feel.

  The door swings open and Joie greets me with a smile. She’s holding a hand towel and has an apron on. Her hair is held back by a bandana, WWII pinup style. She’s so cute, even when she’s not trying to be.

  “Did I catch you at a bad time?” I ask as I step over the threshold.

  She leans in for me to kiss her quickly. “I’m just cooking dinner.”

  Closing the door behind me, I follow her into the small kitchen. “Cooking dinner? I thought we were going to order in?”

  “We were. But then I realized I have all the ingredients for enchiladas, so I figured we could save the money and eat this before the it all goes bad.”

  That’s Joie for ya. She’s smart. She’s kind. She makes a mean balloon animal. But she’s also practical. I admire how much tenacity she has, but how she balances it with a forgiving heart. She really is the whole package, and as I watch her cook dinner for the two of us, I can’t help but remember how lucky I am that she gave me a second chance after mistaking her for some psycho, looking to date a coach.

  The thought alone makes me wince. In all honesty, I wouldn’t have blamed her if she told me to hit the road after that clusterfuck. I jumped to some pretty harsh conclusions with no evidence to back it up. But instead of writing me off as just another meathead, she handled herself with grace and maturity . . . and made me find her to grovel. The fact she knows her worth and wasn’t about to put up with my shit made me like her even more.

  And now she’s making me a home-cooked meal. Could I get any luckier?

  “Seems like you’re going to an awful lot of effort just to feed me.”

  She doesn’t look up as she continues stuffing some sort of chicken mixture into a tortilla, rolls it, and places it in the baking dish. “You would think. But seriously, this is the world’s easiest enchilada recipe. Mix shredded chicken with cheese and salsa. Slap it in a tortilla. Voila! Homemade enchiladas.”

  “It’s not something authentic your mother taught you how to make?”

  That causes her to glance at me with a smirk. “I guess I never told you I was adopted. My parents are as white as white bread can be. I’m lucky my mother knows how to cook macaroni and cheese from a box.”

  “Oh, I didn’t know. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to bring it up.” I rub my hand down my face, hoping my face doesn’t reflect the embarrassment I feel. She shoots me a quizzical look.

  “Why are you sorry? It’s not a big deal. It’s just the way my family came together.”

  I scratch the back of my neck, trying to be careful as I proceed. “So it’s not like, a secret or anything?”

  Finished with the tortillas, she dumps what looks like a whole jar of green salsa on top of the enchiladas and begins sprinkling cheese on top. Okay, that’s not a sprinkle. That’s a deluge. Just the way I like it.

  “What is this, the 1940’s?” she asks, and I chuckle at the reference, considering the bandana she’s wearing would have anyone confused about the decade we’re in. “Adoption isn’t a shameful thing. I mean, mine wasn’t exactly ideal. Anyone being adopted out of child protective services has been through the ringer. But it doesn’t minimize who my family is to me.”

  “Do you ever . . . um . . . I mean . . .” I feel my face flush. There’s so much I want to ask, but I don’t want to open any old wounds accidentally. Why was the state involved in her childhood? Was she hurt? Does she remember it? None of it is my business, but I can’t help my curiosity.

  “You can ask me anything, Jack.” She opens the oven and carefully slides the baking dish in. “I’m pretty much an open book. Not much offends me.”

  “I know. I just feel like a dick asking these questions.”

  “You mean like how I feel when I ask about your wife’s death?”

  I stop and look at her. “Huh. I guess it’s kind of the same thing, isn’t it?”

  She tosses the hand mitts on the counter and leans back against it, shrugging. “If by that, you mea
n it’s a just a thing that happened, not a thing that controls your life, then yes.”

  I nod once in understanding. “Okay. Well then, I’m just wondering if you ever thought about looking for your birth parents.”

  She turns toward the fridge and opens in, reaching to the back and pulling out a bottle of wine. I can’t help but wish the wine was in the very back so she could stay bent over a little longer. That’s a nice view.

  “When I was a teenager, I thought about it. I thought about it a lot,” she says as she grabs and corkscrew from the drawer and tries to screw in it in the top of the bottle. She’s so short, though, I can already tell it’s going to tilt and slide off the counter if she presses down too hard. “In hindsight,” she grunts as she continues to fight with the bottle, “I think I used my adoption as an excuse to be a jerk to my parents, to act out on all my hormones. But then when I had Isaac, it sort of hit me.” She’s continuing to struggle with opening the wine so I finally take it out of her hands to help her out. “Thanks.” She shakes her hands out like she hurt her wrist in the process. “Anyway, it hit me that I don’t really want to know them. Child protective services doesn’t pull kids into the system unless something is seriously wrong. They don’t have the manpower. They don’t have the beds. They don’t have the time to harass innocent families.”

  “You don’t think so?”

  She thinks for a second. “Let me clarify that. I’m sure somewhere out there, in all of the thousands of caseworkers, there’s one who has a vendetta against someone else and would use their position to go on a power trip. Stranger things have happened.” I nod in agreement. “But that’s the exception to the rule. I’ve read my paperwork. My birth parents were horrible people. When the caseworker picked me up, I was filthy and malnourished. They found a dead roach in my diaper. How gross is that?” I grimace because, yes, that’s really gross. “So short answer, I got lucky. I got really, really lucky to have the parents I have. They took in a frightened, underdeveloped toddler, stuck with me through my rebellious teenage years, and supported me as a very young, very stupid single mom. I know how blessed I am.” A grin crosses her face. “Even if my mother is a horrible cook.”