I recognize the signs. They’re the same ones I have when I’m close to losing my… Well, anything.
“They’re the same. I promise. I haven’t done anything different. I wouldn’t. I promise.” I feel like the kids think I’m out to attack them but I just stand here in my yoga pants, a long sleeve t-shirt and my hair up in a bun. I rolled out of bed not too long ago to start our Sunday morning ritual.
But I’m burnt out. I can feel it. I can feel the kids are burnt out, too.
And I have no idea how to fix it.
I take a deep breath and replace my frown with a smile. “Okay, how about we go out for breakfast, then? You can have whatever you want.” And I don’t have to cook. For one meal, one day out of the week. Even though I really don’t have the money to go out to eat, maybe it’s a treat we all need.
Dexter’s mouth drops and he seems to deflate. “I can’t believe you would do that.”
“Mom, I don’t want something else. I want crepes.” And there are the tears streaming down Abby’s cheeks. She huffs and whirls around, thundering off toward her bedroom.
“This is so unfair.” Dexter wails, his thirteen-year-old gangly-ness tripping over itself as he disappears into the living room.
I’m left standing in the kitchen with faint tendrils of smoke trailing around me. Wait, smoke?
I spin back to the pan and pull it from the heat, grimacing at the curled edges of the burnt crepe. Great. Now that’s wasted.
I lean my head back, ignoring the floppiness of the bun as it slaps the back of my head. Sighing, I head to the back porch to claim my spot on the Adirondack porch swing. I draw my feet up under me and pull my phone from the self-made pocket between the side of my breast and my bra strap.
Of course, it’s not good to keep your phone there but I do it anyway. I don’t like to spend money on clothes and the last time I bought yoga pants there weren’t any with pockets. Most women’s clothing doesn’t have pockets anyway.
So, I use my natural phone pocket. If I have to wear a bra, I might as well make it do more than just hold my boobs.
Multitasking accessory is what I’m going for.
The mid-morning sun hits just right and I’m warm in moments. I can easily see how much work my backyard is going to be in the next week or two. We had a doozy of a winter and a few shingles from the roof are laying at an odd angle on the ground beside the backsteps.
Maybe this year, we don’t have to put up the large trampoline. That would save me at least one thing I wouldn’t have to pretend to know how to do in front of the kids. Keith did a lot around the house, no matter how much he didn’t do for our marriage. I have to give him that.
I hit my level. I can feel it. I want to enjoy Sunday with the kids but we are all in a repeating cycle of misery. Mine is centered in trying to provide for the family on my own – let’s be honest, Keith’s child support isn’t going to pay much more than the power bill. And he works a seasonal job which makes the checks even more sporadic. Just thinking about it makes my arms itch like I have hives.
And the kids are under their own stressors. Both kids think they’re to blame for their father leaving. They shift between blaming me and then themselves.
All in all, we are an over-stuffed powder keg waiting to catch a spark. Unfortunately, I think we are there and the spark might be the crepes.
Blinking back my own tears, I lean back and push myself on the swing with a toe to the composite deck. Lifting the phone to where I can see it, I swipe up the screen and then thumb out a message to the group.
Me: I’m so sorry to bug you guys. I feel like all I’m doing lately is complaining. I don’t want to complain. We had an incident this morning and I’m just not sure what to do.
Dion: What’s going on? You guys okay? Did the ex show up?
My lips tilt downward.
Me: If only. I think that would help things a lot more actually. The kids haven’t seen him in months. No… I think we just need a break from each other, but I can’t just leave them. I’m gone all week. Today is our one day we have together and I feel bad asking them to go do something. It feels… disloyal.
Me: But I need some time without them. I need a break. Does anyone else feel like that?
Me: I’m a failure for even thinking that. I’m a bad mom. Go ahead and say it.
Alex: You’re not a bad mom. I promise. If anything you’re just not good at taking care of yourself. That’s something all women have a problem with.
Dion: Take care of yourself first. Then you can take care of those kids.
Sara: Don’t worry. Things will get easier. They have to.
I’m not sure what to think, but their words make me feel a little less like a loser and a little more like I have backup support, should I need it.
Me: Thanks, you guys. I needed that. We really need to talk about meeting up.
Alex: I would love that!
Dion: Me too!
Apple: Count me in and you’re not a loser. You found all of us!
Sara: I’m in!
Veve: Sorry, I’ve been gone so much. I’m in and Savvy, you’re not a loser. This is just part of the hard stuff.
Alex: Veve! We’ve missed you.
Sara: We haven’t met, but glad you’re here.
Dion: Everyone needs to check in at least once in a while. That way we know you’re okay.
Apple: I like that idea. I’m in. We should go somewhere with chocolate as the feature. I like treats. All kinds.
I laugh out loud, grateful to have the tension lessened even if only by a bit.
Going inside and facing my children would return the stress to its former glory, but at least I’ve had a small reprieve from it.
I have no idea what I’m supposed to do as a single mom, but I know I’m going to need help.
I just don’t know how to ask for it.
Chapter 8
Knox
My house is empty, but loud with the silence. I climb from the shower and towel off my hair as I stride into the bedroom to find something to wear.
Sundays are a big day at the trailer, but I hired David to work that day. I need one day where I’m not catering to others.
Pulling on some underwear and pants, I glance at my phone sitting on the nightstand of my rustic style bedroom.
Padding across the carpet, I reach for the phone and swipe the screen on the collection of text messages I’ve missed while in the shower.
Savvy is in trouble. She didn’t have to say she was in trouble for her to be in distress. I can feel it. She needs a break and she doesn’t know how to ask for it. Women never do. They always take care of others and rarely look out for themselves.
Maybe I can’t find a partner because I’m too sensitive.
No, that can’t be it. The things the women had declared they wanted from a man weren’t hard to understand or hard to see I’d been dropping the ball on them.
But I was being given a second chance… Not with exes, but with someone new. I had to take this opportunity and make sure I didn’t waste the chance to do better this time around.
I have to convince Savvy I’m the one she wants to be with. I don’t even know when I went from just being interested in the bossy keto trailer owner to being determined to give her a different experience with a committed relationship. But I have.
The shift is definite and I can’t think of anything else that would be a good use of my newfound access to important information.
Savvy needs help. I can do that.
I finish getting dressed and call in a favor to a friend, then hop in my Ford F250. I prefer the extended cab with regular-size bed because I liked to be able to haul people and things. Not one or the other.
Finding Savvy’s place isn’t hard. I wish I could say it was. I wish I could say I hadn’t followed her home one night to make sure she was okay when she seemed particularly vulnerable in December. The roads were icy and her car didn’t have snow tires on them. I’d been worried.
E
ven if she would have killed me for feeling that way.
The drive to her house takes twenty-two minutes. I hit two trains, but I’m chill. I don’t want to lose my Sunday vibe going on.
When I finally pull into the drive of her two-story Craftsman-style home, I hope they’re still there.
I turn the truck engine off and climb from the cab, suddenly nervous she’s going to shoot me down or call the cops for showing up and offering what I’m about to offer.
She’s going to think I’m crazy. She has to. What woman in her right mind would let a man she hates drive off with her children?
And yet, I have to hope she doesn’t hate me as much as she pretends. I mean, she named me Spicy Buns, right? That has to count for something.
I climb the steps to the porch even as a small voice in my head reminds me that it’s my looks she likes. Not me.
I’ve never wanted to be compared to a troll so much as I did right then. If she liked me and I was ugly, I would know it was me she liked.
As it is, the only reason she talks to me at all is because her group of divorced women friends talked her into it. It doesn’t matter that I’m part of the divorced women’s group, too. My masculinity demands I keep that a secret for all time.
I’m at her door before I let my doubts change my mind. I reach out, rapping my knuckles on the white front door, inches below the window and small spring wreath sporting pastel-colored ribbons, flowers, and twigs.
“This is a good thing. I’m just trying to help. It’s okay. I can offer. Not a big deal.” I rub my hands up and down the tops of my thighs and get ready to put a bright but slightly desperate smile on my face. Swallowing, I stare at the door, trying to hear if anyone is coming or making their way toward the door.
What if they left? I pull out my phone and check the group thread. Nope, she never mentioned anything about leaving.
I reach out, ringing the doorbell. That did something. The sound of footsteps coming toward the front door breaks through the silence.
“Come in!” The voice was loud but still from a ways off.
Confused that I’d be told to come in, but unwilling to be weird about it, I press on the door handle to let myself in.
As I open the door, the other side swings open and I’m standing there staring at Savvy with my hand outstretched. My mouth parts and I feel like a fish as she’s scanning my face and then glancing at my hand and back to my features.
Confusion soon mixes with anger and she’s plopping her hand on her hip and narrowing her eyes. “What are you doing? Were you just going to come in my house?”
I straighten up and cock my head to the side. “Sorry, it sounded like you said to come in after I rang the bell.” Heat floods the back of my neck.
She waves her hand in the air, still confused but her anger dimmed. “Oh, no. Sorry, I yelled that I’m coming. Anyway, what can I do for you, Knox?” She leaves her hand on the doorknob and doesn’t motion me inside.
Why would she? She’s a single mother with children she’s supposed to be taking care of. Only a crazy woman wouldn’t be on guard against anyone who might attack her family.
“Yeah, actually, I need help.” I try to remember the things I recited in my head as I made my way to her house. They jumble up as she stares at me with her sapphire-colored eyes. Any woman can be beautiful with makeup. Dang, her for being a woman with natural beauty. She’s a miracle to behold.
I can’t help taking a moment to try to just take her in and gather my thoughts.
She’s not having it, though. “Knox? Is everything okay? You said you need help?” A crease forms between her eyebrows and she steps out of the doorway, peering toward my truck as if she can ascertain the problem by looking at my vehicle. She flicks her gaze back to me, more questions than suspicion in her eyes.
We definitely need to talk about her stepping outside her house with people she didn’t know. Strange men.
I’d have to have that talk with her after I took her kids with me. Maybe we’d talk later that night.
If she agrees to what I want to do.
She stares at me, waiting for me to break my awkward silence. I swallow hard, and run my fingers through my hair. “Right, sorry. I need to ask you for a favor.”
She tucks her chin, studying me with narrow eyes. “Okay.” But the way she says it with a long drawn out “ay” suggests it’s anything but okay.
“So, I have these premier tickets to the monster truck races this afternoon, but I don’t have anyone to go with me. My friends are going and they all have kids. I don’t have any. I need to borrow yours. If that’s okay?” I arch an eyebrow but also try to affect a pleading expression while also trying to appear masculine and strong.
Honestly, trying to be all the things those women wanted is next to impossible. What if they just said they wanted chocolate and wine? I can do that without all the stressors of doing something incorrectly. You can’t get chocolate wrong. Or wine. Easy. Both easy.
Savvy pulls back and it’s the first time I see her shape in the yoga pants and t-shirt. Her curves are insane and my mouth goes dry. What is she doing to me?
She has no idea how appealing she is. Dressing in jeans and loose shirts at work, she hides her true femininity from the world as if she won’t be taken seriously if any of her curves can be seen.
I scan her form, unable to stop myself. I don’t even care, if she notices. Her calves are bare as well as her feet and I glimpse the smallest glimmer of shining silver on her ankle. She wore an anklet. Cute.
And completely unexpected. Anklets belonged more on a teenage girl or on a woman who likes to wear her hair down.
I’ve never seen Savvy’s hair down from a braid or a bun. The current bun is sloppy but still up, stray tendrils softening the normally austere hairstyle.
“You want my kids?” She blinks at me as if she isn’t sure she’s heard me right.
I’m not sure I’ve heard myself right. That was not what I had practiced all the way over. More along the lines of ‘hey, would your kids like some tickets to the monster truck races?’, certainly not ‘I’ll take your kids’. I mean, that’s what I would eventually get around to, but I hadn’t planned on leading with that line.
I spy her son, Dexter, just inside the foyer past his mother and I jerk my chin up in recognition. “Hey, Dex, my man. I’m headed to the monster truck races. You and your sister want to go? That is, if it’s okay with your mom.” I return my gaze to her face and catch the confused surprise dominating her feminine features.
Her full lips are parted just enough I can see her white teeth and the tip of her pink tongue. Her eyes watch me like if I make some sudden movement, she’ll have to take me out. But her petite form would crumple in moments under my size. I’m much taller than she is and forget about the muscle difference. I’d squash her like a bug.
Even though I didn’t think she’d actually consider letting me take her kids with me, I find myself hoping she’ll say yes.
Dexter moves up to stand beside his mom. “Hey, Knox.” I lost count of the times he had gone and helped me a few times at the BBQ truck when his mom was busy and he was bored.
Abby knows me, too. She has no problem answering questions about her mom when I had so many boys her age at my trailer. We all have a mutual respect for each other.
Wrong Text, Right Reply: A Sweet Accidental Romance (An Accidental But Perfect Romance Book 1) Page 7
