Of course, Leona appears out of thin air. “I’ll do it!”
“I heard that,” Reid says.
Christ. My stomach rumbles . . . and I end the call quickly and run to the free bathroom.
The next afternoon, I knock on Andi’s door with a bigger gift than she’ll like sitting by my feet and a quart of store-bought soup in my hand. For a moment—one or ten seconds—I know I’m in over my head. Single mom, adorable daughter, and everyone’s sick, including me. This is not my life.
“Hi.” Andi opens the door in leggings and an oversized T-shirt.
This is my life.
“Hey, how are you feeling?” I lean in to kiss her cheek, and she pulls back.
“Sick. Germs.” She waves her hand in front of her body à la Vanna White.
“Same germs.” I wave my free hand in front of me in the same way.
She laughs, and the awkwardness is forgotten.
“Come in,” she says, and I hand her the soup.
“For you, chicken and rice from the deli. Just made today, they told me.”
“Thanks.” She takes the soup, and I hoist in the gift. “I don’t even want to ask,” she says while I trail behind her.
Soup on the counter, she twists her hair up in a messy bun and opens the fridge. “Ginger ale? Coke? Bourbon?”
“None of the above.”
“Oh shit, let me take your coat.” She notices I’m standing in her kitchen, still in my puffy coat and boots.
“Andi, it’s cool. I know where to put it. I’m just having a quick look at you. Missed you.” I wink. A bit much, I know, but who cares? Not me.
“Reid!” Gabby runs into the living area as I’m hanging my coat on the rack.
“Hey, Gabbs. How you feeling?”
“Much better.” She twirls around the room in a tutu, something fluffy in her arms. I look more closely . . .
“Is that a real live animal in your hands?”
“It is. This is Reese’s! Leona got me a cat. Look at how sweet she is.”
With my eyebrow raised, I turn and look at Andi, and she nods.
“It’s true. There was nothing I could do. One minute, I was barfing over the toilet, and the next, Leona had already shoved the thing in Gabby’s arms.”
“Well, let me see this furball.” I turn back to Gabby and reach for the orange kitten.
“I love her so much, so so so so so much.” Gabby rattles on.
“Looks like she’s taken to you too,” I say, thinking a full-grown cat isn’t going to love being spun around like a ballerina in Swan Lake. “I have a gift for you too, although now I’m thinking it’s a bit underrated next to a cat.”
“Oh, I want it!” After depositing Reese’s on the floor, Gabby leaps to the couch.
I peel off my boots and pad to the kitchen, hoisting the gift over to Gabby. Andi follows, no doubt rolling her eyes.
Gabby rips off the paper and is dancing again. “A machine like at FunZone. Yes!” There’s a lot of fist bumping and turning the enormous box around so she can read the details.
“Can we put it together?”
“Gabby . . . thank you?” Andi prompts her.
“Reid, I love it!” Gabby hops into my arms and throws her arms around my neck.
While I wish it was her mom and we were alone and naked, I find myself liking her embrace. Not in a sicko way, but a proud moment or some shit like that.
“Come on,” I tell her. “We’ll set it up. Let me run down to the car. I brought some tools because I didn’t know what your mom had.”
“Did you not think of anything?” Andi jokes.
She pokes my side when Gabby runs after Reese’s, following her to the hallway.
“Thanks,” she whispers. “Obviously, you know her better than me. The knee socks and long underwear I got her were a tad underwhelming.”
“Oh, come on. Everyone loves knee socks.” I wink, but now I’m on to knee socks and Andi and certain fantasies that have no place in our G-rated situation.
Back up in Andi’s place with my tools, I tell her to sit. She’s the last to get the bubonic plague, and I’m sure she probably needs to put her feet up.
“Here, hold it like this,” I tell Gabby, her blond curls falling in her face. I place her hand on the corner so the two pieces fit flush, and I screw it together.
Immediately, she’s bouncing and clapping and jumping.
For a second, I think I’m going to be sick again, but I remember this is Gabby and smile. If I’m going to be around, there’ll be a lot of jumping.
When it’s finished, Gabby sets about playing nonstop.
This is my time with Andi, and I make her a cup of ginger tea and sit down next to her. “Excited for New Year’s?”
“You better hope I don’t wear my robe.”
“Fine with me.”
“Ha-ha.” She jests, but I mean it.
“I made a reservation at a small Italian place in Lawrenceville. It’s a BYOB place, and no special menu for New Year’s Eve.”
“Mmm,” she says, taking a sip of her tea.
“I can cook, if you prefer, but it could be fun to go out.”
“Sounds great. I just need to table any food talk for the moment.”
“Christ.” I bang my forehead into the top of the sofa. “Of course.”
She continues to drink her tea. At least I did one thing right.
“So, blogging?” I ask. “It didn’t work out for you?”
A small cough escapes her throat.
“You okay?” I ask, smoothing some hair from her cheek behind her ear.
“It’s okay. I’m good. Yeah, it didn’t work.”
“You never said.”
Her brow furrows, and I apologize for putting her on the defense.
“No, no, it’s just yours is so successful,” she says.
“Well, I still would love to hear about yours. You know, it’s only been a short while with us, but I think when you survive the combined stomach bug with someone, it’s like six months in relationship time.”
She laughs, and I mean it. We’ve only been getting to know each other for a short while, and maybe it’s because I don’t have a lot of family around, but I’m a fixture in her world now. Why does it matter? I feel compelled to tell her the truth.
“I want to be honest; I’ve been consulting with a female on my blog. It doesn’t mean anything. I don’t know anything more than her name is Andrea.”
Poor Andi coughs again.
“Why don’t I get you some water?”
“I’ll get it.” She rushes to the kitchen and comes back guzzling a large ice water.
Watching her throat move as she swallows, I’m strangely turned on. “Slow down, cowgirl,” I tell her, and then I turn serious again. “I wish you would’ve told me. I don’t want there to be secrets. That’s why I’m being transparent about Andrea. She’s helping me identify where I want to go with the blog. She’s some big web expert, but blogs anonymously.”
All Andi does is nod.
“Is that okay?”
“Of course,” she mumbles, but I wonder if she’s hurt. Maybe it’s because she’s still not feeling one hundred percent?
I’m thinking I’m right when she sits up straight and says resolutely, “Totally okay.”
“Good.” I take her hand. “Now, tell me about yours. Your blog.”
She rolls her eyes. “It’s stupid.”
“Nothing’s stupid when it comes to you.” Our fingers intertwine, and I run my thumb along hers.
“I had one of those mom blogs, peddling cute baby pictures for free diapers, but I wanted to be one of the bigwigs. I kept trying to improve my numbers, increase my page views, write better content, but it didn’t happen for me.”
Waiting for her to continue, I don’t interrupt.
“I decided to go to one of those blogging conferences to learn from the ‘best.’” She puts the last part in air quotes, separating our hands. When she deliberately twines her han
d back with mine, I feel like King Kong. Christ, is that a thing?
Luckily for me, Andi interrupts my self-doubt.
“Delia took Gabby for the weekend. She was two at the time. It was such a nice respite, getting to go to Florida for a long weekend. Now, keep in mind, I was a single parent from day one, so I didn’t have the time to run every day back then, and I nursed for a long time, so the baby weight was slow to come off. I worked as a librarian part-time and ran the blog and took care of Gabbs . . . I was strapped for time.”
“You had too much on your plate. You didn’t have time to make the blog what it needed to be.”
“I guess. Anyway, I went to Florida, and there was this chic party, poolside, put on by some appliance company. I wore a new maxi dress, trying to fit in—you probably don’t even know what that is. It doesn’t matter. I was trying to mingle and meet other bloggers. Of course, the popular crowd stood out like a big bright shiny diamond ring, and I was desperate to rub shoulders with them. I don’t know why. It’s not really like me. Who cares now?”
“I do,” I told her, squeezing her hand.
“Well, they had zero interest in me. Basically, they pretended not to see me when I introduced myself, and when I walked away, they whispered all about me. How I looked awful, fat, still carrying baby weight, no one would want to see my pictures.”
“Shit,” I say. “That’s ridiculous. Wow, women are mean.”
“How do you know?” she asks, pulling her fingers away from mine.
“I have a sister, remember?”
“Right. Well, it’s a closed subject now. I stayed for one more day and came home early, took my blog down, and got back to my life.”
“It doesn’t mean you can’t start over.”
“Eh,” was all she mumbled.
“Let’s talk about New Year’s. It’s way more interesting.”
And we did.
The whole time, I felt bittersweet. A sense of relief had settled in my bones over telling her the truth about Andrea, but how could I not feel bad her blogging dreams were quashed?
Dear Petunia Pickles,
Lordy, Lordy, look who’s FORTY! If it isn’t Pretty Petunia (aka Nicola Bella).
I’m so happy you traveled extensively in your thirty-ninth year to celebrate the momentous occasion. Utah, Mikonos, Idaho, Venice, and San Fran! And such a beautiful mix of skiing and sightseeing to usher out your last year of your thirties, if I must say so myself.
Love how your twins were outfitted in Calvin for Kids everywhere you went, and you only stayed in the best of accommodations where the champagne flowed in equal proportions with the milk and cookies.
Forgive me, but Mr. Petunia is looking mighty dapper for a silver fox. You’re lucky he’s on board with your nonstop photo shoots and looking audacious and glamorous for the camera.
As I prepare for the New Year and make my own resolutions, I’m thankful for people like you. People who ignore political strife and natural disasters. Who think everyone lives in New York City. Who just go about their lives with rose-colored glasses firmly planted on the bridge of their nose.
(Forget the struggling single dad or the couple working two or three jobs to pay their heating bills.)
I do love your travel reports; they make me want to go to these places. They allow me to dream of another life or greater possibilities, and I suppose that’s doing me a favor, allowing me to dream.
But there’s reality, Petunia. Reality that includes a sink full of sticky dishes, a busted washer and dryer, and kids needing new shoes for function, not fashion.
Happy birthday, darling. May you find peace in the coming year.
In celebration of ringing in the New Year, I started a fund for retired school crossing guards—you know those lovely men and women who safely help our children cross the street in the rain, snow, sleet, and sun.
Follow this safe link to donate.
Happy New Year!
The UnAffectionate Blogger
New Year’s Eve. A night I’ve largely spent alone for the last seven years.
Leona came over a few years ago to watch movies and eat popcorn. Usually, I make homemade pizza with pepperoni, dance around with Gabby, and we’re both asleep by nine p.m.
Not this year.
Leona’s coming over. To watch Gabby.
Reid’s going to be here soon. To take me out to the cute Italian place where he made a reservation.
I’m freaking out, even though he’s seen my kid and me at our absolute worst. He even knows I used to be fat, which means at any moment, I could blow up again. Not likely, but still. And don’t think I’m one of those Oh, I’m fat, wah, wah ladies. I’m not. Only stating the facts about what happened when I went to Mom Bloggers Unite.
Never again would I go to one of those. Bet they’d love to have UAB as their panelist, so they can pick my brain and then light me on fire at the stake.
Tough shit, mommy bloggers.
As I stand in front of my closet mirror in a black dress, a red heel on my left foot and a tall gray suede boot on my right, Gabby pops in my room.
“Mom! What’re you doing?” She plops on my bed in striped leggings and a silver shirt, dozens of strands of beads wrapped around her neck, looking a thousand times better than last week.
“I’m trying to decide what shoes to wear.”
“The red ones are like Snow White shoes. Wear those.”
“Right. The boots are better suited for me, though, baby.”
She gives me a weird look, and I kick off the stiletto and slip into the second boot.
I pinch my cheeks and grab my lipstick.
“Can I have some?” Gabby asks.
“Sure, why not? It’s New Year’s Eve.”
“Leona said we’re going to eat a sickening sweet pretzel in the morning.”
“She’s being silly.”
“No, she said I could sleep over, and you could sleep in or do other things. That’s what she said.”
I’m going to kill her. “Well, I’d like to be the first one to kiss you good morning in the new year.”
“Awww, Leona said the pretzel has this really goopy icing.”
I’m going to hurt her before I kill her. “It’s a New Year’s tradition for good luck. Don’t you want me to share that with you?”
“I’ll save you a piece. Promise.” She rolls onto her back and plays with her necklaces.
“I’ll talk with Leona,” are my last words before the doorbell rings.
In walks Leona, hanging on Reid’s arm, her eyes lit up like the Fourth of July.
Instantly, I know she planned the whole scenario. In fact, she probably told Reid she’d babysit before he even asked. Maybe they texted?
Crappity, cripe.
“Hi,” I say instead, smiling at Reid, glaring at Leona.
“Wow, you look great.” He winks but doesn’t touch me, keeping it G-rated in front of our audience.
Gabby runs over and says, “I helped Mom pick her shoes.”
“You look great too. Love the sparkles,” Reid tells her.
She doesn’t observe any physical-space rules. Jumping into his arms, she yells, “Thanks, Reid.”
Gotta hand it to the guy; he doesn’t even flinch. He takes my daughter in stride.
“I’m a college professor. I’m used to shrieking girls,” he says, reading my mind.
“Ready, Gabbs?” Leona is ready to bolt. “I have fettuccine alfredo on the menu and cherry cheesecake for dessert. Tomorrow’s a new year, a new day.” She winks at Reid and shimmies her hips.
“Oy.” I can’t help myself. It slips out.
“Don’t you oy me,” Leona says, joking with me, then tells Gabby, “Say ’bye to your mom and let’s roll.”
After I give a hug and a kiss to Gabby with promises for more tomorrow, they leave.
The door closes, and Reid moves in close, slides his arm around me, and whispers, “Now I can say a proper hello.”
He’s not wearing his glasses,
so he gets super close to my face and rubs his nose along mine. I smell his cologne—Gucci for men.
I know because I asked when we were at Lumberjax. As we were leaving, I said, “You certainly don’t smell like you were throwing axes,” and he simply replied, “Gucci for men.” I made a mental note then and there to buy a bottle and spray a few drops on my pillow.
Now his lips meet mine, his cologne long forgotten. We kiss slowly, softly, our mouths closed, hinting at what’s to come in the new year. It feels hopeful, like when a rainstorm is passing and the sun is beginning to peek out once again.
In this moment, I vow to tell Reid the truth. It’s my New Year’s resolution. But not tonight. Tonight isn’t the right time. Tonight is about us and feeling good, ushering in a new year and new experiences.
As my tongue enters his mouth, seeking his, my mind wanders. I hope my story, the one about the bitchy bloggers, softens the ultimate blow when sharing the truth. I didn’t make a syllable of it up. That really happened. Of course, I omitted coming home and starting a parody blog, one that poked fun at the livelihood of others. At the time, it felt smart. Even sane.
Now I know it’s wrong, but I’m too far down the rabbit hole. How else will I support Gabby?
“If we don’t go now, we’re not going,” Reid says, knocking me out of my worried fog.
“Let’s go,” I say, adding silently, and hurry back.
Sitting in the back of a hole-in-the-wall restaurant, with exposed brick behind us and voices and the scent of tomatoes and garlic swirling around us, it feels right. Not perfect, not wrong, but right. Here at Piccolo Piccola, a converted house turned bistro, I feel like a queen. A checked tablecloth covers the table, a bottle of cabernet sits in the middle, a basket of fresh bread and olive oil with gorgonzola to its left, and Reid to my right.
“Cheers,” he says to me, clinking his glass against mine.
The waiter tells us the specials, and Reid says, “We’re not in any rush. It’s a special date night, got a sitter and all that jazz.”
My heart is swept in a wave of emotion until the server says, “Your son or daughter, I’m sure, is having a great night. Enjoy yourselves.”
“Um . . .” I feel as if my body’s been swept underwater, caught in the riptide, and I’m unable to breathe. Do I need to explain? The waiter is confused, but does he need to know the truth?
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