Cutie and the Beast: A Roommates to Lovers Single Dad Romance (Cipher Office Book 3)
Page 23
“I love you too.”
That’s the last thing she says before hanging up the phone and leaving me stunned and speechless with that damn Wii still playing in the background.
Chapter Thirty
ELLIOTT
Elliott-
As you know, I have concerns over the living arrangements you have made for Ainsley. Without my prior knowledge or even asking if it was okay with me, you moved her into a house occupied by a single man in his thirties.
Despite my reservations and brushing aside statistics showing personal trainers and bodybuilders have a significant increase in the use of performance enhancing drugs that can lead to symptoms like mood swings, irritability, and aggression, I didn’t say anything. I trusted your judgement that this co-worker wasn’t a danger to our child and that the home environment you have provided to our daughter would be safe.
In light of the circumstances of April 8, I no longer believe that to be the case. I’m sure you can understand how receiving a phone call that my daughter’s permanent front tooth has been knocked out would be jarring. But to find out she’s been kicked in the face while left unsupervised by her mother is cause for additional concern and warrants potential revision of our current custody agreement.
Additionally, I have seen the bill for Ainsley’s emergency dental appointment and, given the circumstances, do not believe I should be held responsible for it. Had she been properly supervised, it would have never happened. This incident occurred while Ainsley was in your home and under your (lack of) care, and therefore, I believe the burden of paying for the resulting treatment rests solely with you.
I trust you will find suitable alternative housing or move back in with your mother to ensure our daughter remains safe and to prevent an incident like this from ever happening again, and that I won’t receive a bill regarding this matter.
Thank you,
Derrick.
Clicking out of my emails, I stifle the urge to panic and cave to my anxiety over his ridiculous email. He always claims to have “concerns.” Whatever. We all know what he’s trying to do is create a paper trail that makes him look like a saint should he ever need to refer back to it. What he neglects to remember is I also have a paper trail that includes time and date stamped texts, and information on actual behavior, not just “concerns” that usually coincide to incidents where money is involved.
And he looks like a douchebag for always putting a period at the end of his name. Seriously. Who does that? Is it a subtle reminder that it’s his way or the highway? “Derrick—period.” How obnoxious.
One of these days, I’ll find enough nerve and tell him to shove it. The problem is finding the guts to say the words. To be honest, the idea that he could get custody of Ainsley scares the crap out of me. It’s not that he’s a bad dad; he’s just not a good one. If I was filling out one of those surveys, I’d click on the bubble that says “fair.” That’s about where he falls. I don’t worry he’s going to beat her, but I also don’t trust he’s going to nurture her beyond the bare minimum of keeping her alive.
Not to mention, my job affords me the ability to be home with her most of the time. His doesn’t. If she lived with him, she’d go to daycare when it opens at six, then to school, back to daycare, and not get home until dinnertime. Forget activities during the week. And Derrick has proven time and time again that weekend activities are out of the question because he needs his “rest.” What kind of life is that for a little girl when she can have so much more by living with me?
But half the time, instead of fighting it out with him and telling Derrick he isn’t allowed to make me feel anxious anymore and I’m taking back control, I let it go. And by “let it go,” I mean suffer in silence.
How’s that for irony? Here I am, droning on and on to Abel about how he needs to be better about teaching Mabel to not be a mean girl, while letting the man I divorced crap all over me on a regular basis. On top of that, I’m hiding out at my mother’s house and she’s already driving me crazy.
“Do you want some help?”
Speaking of the she-devil, Mom comes into the kitchen as I’m pulling out the ingredients for Ainsley’s lunch—a super delicious strawberry and banana smoothie with chocolate protein powder and vanilla almond milk. Hey, we may not be staying at Abel’s house right now, but there’s no reason to lose some of his healthy habits.
“There’s really not much to do,” I respond, while snapping the blender together. “Unless you want to start peeling a banana for me.”
“I can do that.” She grabs the most overripe banana on the bunch. Good choice. Once it’s blended, Ainsley won’t know the peel was starting to turn brown, which means I won’t have to buy more as soon. “I’m glad you came back home, Elliott.”
I take a deep breath and try really hard not to roll my eyes. It’s already beginning. I don’t need her to try and fix this for me. Plus, I’m not sure she really wants to. As much as she claims to want her single life, I think she’s lonelier than she admits. And I’m no longer sure she ever grieved the loss of my dad; instead, she used us living here as a distraction from all the inner turmoil.
And there’s more irony for you: Abel’s been preaching to me about how Mabel is still struggling through her version of grief after the loss of her mother, which is part of her issue, and all I do is bitch about my mother, who is processing the loss of my father.
You know what sucks? When you’ve run away to your mother’s house and suddenly realize you’re a pot talking to a kettle. I hate when that happens.
“I knew it was a bad idea to move in with that man,” my mother continues. “You never know how people are going to be behind closed doors.”
I take it back. I’m not the pot. I’m the kettle. And I swear, if my mother doesn’t stop with this crap about how I always make poor choices, steam is going to shoot right of my head and my top is going to blow off.
“He lets that child run wild and do whatever she wants.”
Grabbing what I need and slamming the knife drawer closed a little more forcefully than necessary, I find myself defending Abel. “He does not, Mother. Both girls disobeyed. They both knew they weren’t supposed to play that game.”
She pauses and purses her lips. I know she’s trying really hard not to say anything else, but this is a battle we both know she’s going to lose. If she can get the last word in, she will. “And yet Ainsley is the only one who got injured.”
“Well, it was kind of hard for her to kick back when she was screaming.”
Pretty sure I just made things worse, but I don’t want to talk about this with her. There’s a reason I haven’t told her about Derrick’s email. She’d go off on a rant about how he’s doing so much emotional damage to Ainsley and say something like, “Seriously, Elliott, I don’t understand why you even let him see her until he gets his act together. Who cares about something silly like contempt of court and jail time for not adhering to a court order?” I can practically hear it now.
There may also be a tiny part of me that is afraid she will agree with him and pressure me to move back in. I don’t know what we’re going to do or where we’re going to live, but I really don’t want it to be here. I love my mother, but I prefer loving her from a distance.
I need to think about my options and the best course of action, and I can’t do that with so many people chattering in my ear all the time about which direction is the best to go in.
Dumping the strawberries and the rest of the ingredients into the blender, I wait for the banana so I can finish making this drink and have an excuse to get out of this kitchen. Taking her sweet time, Mom finally walks over to me.
“I know it was an accident, but it’s something you need to consider.” Finally, finally, she puts the banana in the blender so I can pop the lid on. “This could be indicative of a bigger iss—”
Whiiiiiiiiiiiiirrrrrrrrr
I cut her off with a press of a button, the blender at the fastest speed so there is no way I can hear her.
Most effective when a child is being a little shit and knows it, the mom-glare incites a combination of guilt and fear, with a dash of the desire to stop whatever you’re doing to shape up or ship out. Turns out, the mom-glare never loses its effectiveness and can also be used as a weapon against forty-two-year-old women who behave like brats, as I suddenly have the urge to keep my eyes downcast and apologize for being rude.
Or my mother is just that good and I have a lot to learn.
Regardless, part of me is hoping this smoothie never blends, so I never have to turn it off. Alas, the wonder of engineering works against me this time and I press the off button.
“That was really immature, Elliott.” Mom’s not mean about it, just factual. That’s almost worse than if she’d yelled at me. At least then I could say she’s crazy and not have to take responsibility for acting like a child.
Like I said, driving me bonkers or not, I’ve got a lot to learn from her.
“If you don’t want to talk about it, you can just say so.”
Pouring the now blended drink in a cup, I avoid her gaze. “I don’t want to talk about it. I need to think and process, and I can’t do that if I’m talking about it.”
“Fair enough. Now that you’ve told me, I’ll leave you alone with your thoughts until you need to talk it over with someone.” She turns and walks away, leaving me with my mouth agape.
What was that? Has it always been as easy as just telling my mother how I feel? I don’t think so, because the few times I’ve tried before, it hasn’t really changed anything. That’s why I started biting my tongue in the first place. It wasn’t worth wasting my breath.
But maybe she’s had a come-to-Jesus of some sort?
Shaking my head, I also shake off this strange turn of events. I still have a child to care for and the liquid diet isn’t exactly filling her up. Which means she eats, err, drinks more often than normal. Plus, she’s not getting sidetracked playing video games for the time being. That might actually be a bigger part of her hunger—boredom.
After popping a straw in the top, I make my way to the living room where Ainsley is camped out. I’m not sure how knocking her tooth out hurt her legs enough that she can’t climb stairs, but she’s made herself comfortable on the couch. Now that I think about it, I bet the kickboxing is why she can’t climb stairs. Nothing good ever comes of exercising that hard.
Ainsley, meet Karma. If you’re not careful and don’t listen to your mother, you’ll become the best of friends. But Karma is a back-stabbing bitch, so you really don’t want to know her well.
I don’t say that out loud. My child has had enough discussion about natural consequences to last her a while, I hope. Instead, I take the nice mom route. “Hungry?” I hand her the smoothie and quickly inspect the inside of her mouth. Everything looks good, although her gum is still a little bit swollen. Dr. White said that was to be expected for a couple days after a trauma like this to the area. I was a little ticked when he used the word “trauma” in front of Ainsley. She latched onto that word and now, everything is about the “trauma” she went through.
Honestly, the biggest trauma of the whole thing is the ding to my checkbook from the co-pay.
Taking a huge suck on the straw, Ainsley moans with approval. She licks her lips and smiles at me. “That’s really good, Mom. Is it one of Abel’s recipes?”
Hearing his name is like a stab in my heart. I miss him. It’s only been a day, but it doesn’t feel right to not have him here, laughing and throwing his personal brand of sarcasm around. I miss hearing him cuss at his coffee maker, although he doesn’t really do it anymore since I got him the new one. I miss listening to him tell me all the benefits of some other healthy vegetable I’ve never of that he’s making for dinner. I miss him sneaking kisses and pats on the butt when the girls aren’t around. I miss him. And I still don’t know what to do about it.
“Sort of.” I stroke her long hair and try to school my features and cover the hurt in my heart so she doesn’t know how hard this is on me. “I didn’t have any avocado or veggie greens, but it’s kind of the same.”
“I like it.” She takes another drink and shifts down a little farther on the couch. “When are we going home, Mom?”
It takes me a second to realize where she’s talking about. It hasn’t felt like we’ve actually had a home for a few years. Like we’ve been drifting through a long period of transition. At least, that’s how I feel. I had no idea Ainsley had gotten so comfortable so fast in the townhouse.
“I don’t really know, baby,” I answer honestly. “Abel and I have some things to work out first.”
Ainsley nods sadly and looks at the TV. Some Disney movie is showing, but somehow, I don’t think she’s really watching. I recognize that look on her face. I have a picture of myself from years ago making the same one. Derrick took it one night as “proof” that I don’t always listen to him. In actuality, I was sorting through my thoughts after we’d had a fight. If she’s anything like me, that’s what she’s doing right now.
“Mom.” She says it so quietly, I barely hear her. Turning my head to look at her sweet face, I nudge her as way of acknowledgement. She swallows and looks back at me, sadness written all over her little features. “It wasn’t Mabel’s fault.”
“Oh baby. It was an accident, I know that.”
I settle in closer to her, my arm around her shoulder, trying to convey my support and appreciation for her desire to make this right.
“No, Mom. It was an accident, but…” she pauses, and I see a lone tear slides down her cheek. “Mabel didn’t want to play kickboxing. She said we’d get in trouble. But I was tired of playing WipeOut so I made her.”
I suck in a breath and find myself blinking rapidly a few times before I can say anything. “What?”
“I’m sorry, Mommy. I know you said we couldn’t play it, but I didn’t listen, and then I ran in front of Mabel when you called us, and then she got in trouble, and I don’t want to not live there because it’s all my fault.” The words come out as fast as her tears as she bears her soul. Has she been carrying around all this guilt since yesterday? I didn’t have to give her the mom-glare, which means this must have been eating her alive. No wonder she’s stayed on the couch. I bet she has a horrible nervous tummy too.
“I think you did the right thing telling me,” I say, trying to stay in mom-mode and not veer off into my own guilt. And I have lots to feel guilty over. I never once listened to what Mabel was saying. I assumed her defensive behavior immediately meant she started it. I let myself believe that because she is mouthy and defiant toward me the next believable step would be physical violence toward her best friend. I made assumptions that fit my own bias as to what the situation should be instead of gathering all the evidence.
I did the exact same thing Derrick does to me all the time. I may as well sign my name with a period.
The shame I feel over my own behavior renders me almost speechless. I basically accused Abel of being a terrible father and his daughter of being the worst kind of kid, when mine is the one who caused this preventable accident in the first place. And now I don’t know how to fix it.
“Mabel isn’t going to get in trouble, right?” Ainsley’s innocent question brings me back to this moment. I’m kind of grateful because I don’t know what to think of the rest of it.
“I don’t know the answer to that. That’s Abel’s decision to make.” Not mine. Because I’m not Mabel’s parent, and no matter how crazy his lackadaisical parenting style makes me, Abel isn’t wrong to recognize there is more going on than just Mabel being a brat.
But I am.
Ainsley turns back to the movie. “Tell him she didn’t do it. It’s not fair for her to get in trouble for something I did.”
Like it’s not fair I made unfounded assumptions.
L
ooks like I have a lot more learning to do than I realized. I don’t think here, with my mother, is where it’s going to happen. It’s going to have to be at our house with the rest of our little ragtag family. I’m just not sure we’re welcome there any longer.
Chapter Thirty-One
ABEL
The sweeping lights through the living room indicate my ride is here. Balancing the human burrito in my arms, I reach down to grab everything else.
Mabel’s school bag—check
Mabel’s clothing bag—check
My workout bag—check
Our lunches—check
Haven’t dropped the child yet—check
I stabilize everything precariously as I step out the door, trying not to slam it too hard behind me with my foot. I fail, but what else is new? I’ve come to rely on Elliott so much, even the basics like leaving the house are difficult without her.
Or maybe I got spoiled with her here because she picked up so much of the slack I now have to do again. I fumble with my keys, partially from carrying so much stuff and partially from being distracted, wondering if she misses me as much as I miss her. Does she still need me to pick up Ainsley from school? Who will give my tiny dancer a snack and let her burn off some steam when she gets home?