Monday Afternoon—it should be Friday by now …
“HANNAH, HOLD UP, I need your signature on something,” Nick, our head sales manager shouts over to me as I have one foot outside of the office door.
“Nick, can’t this wait until tomorrow?” I need to leave now, or I won’t make it to the bus stop on time.
“It’ll really just take two-seconds. Come on.” He’s shoving the papers at me without a pen. “I need to get this in to the vendor by five.”
“Well, why did you wait until just now then?” I push his hand back and move toward the elevator.
“It’s two forty-five! The day isn’t exactly over.” For me it is. I work from home from three-thirty to five, and I’ve been doing so since the beginning of the school year.
“Thank you for that reminder, but I’m going to be late to pick up my daughter, and by the looks of it, you don’t even have a pen on you right now. Oh—look, the elevator door just opened.”
“You don’t have a pen anywhere in that massive purse of yours?” Nick asks, looking down at my “mom-bag.”
“I’ve got a pen,” a voice chimes from around the corner.
Logan jogs over to the elevator and hands me his pen. While I should be thankful for his considerate gesture, I was happier not signing the paper. Nick knows when I leave. He just likes to make it known that it’s disruptive to his schedule.
Nick hands the paper back to me and puts his foot against the elevator door to hold it open.
I press the paper against the wall and sign the damn thing before shoving it back into Nick’s chest. “Now, please move,” I tell him. As he’s grinning at me with a shit-eating smile, I hand Logan’s pen back to him. “Thanks, Logan. I appreciate it.”
“You’re a doll,” Nick says with what he thinks is a charming smile. Little does he know, his smile only makes me want to punch him more. He’s one of the pink wall painters, a real guy’s guy who believes women don’t have a place in the corporate world. Also, I was promoted ahead of him, which makes sense since I have five years on him here, but it annoys him. He and his counterpart, Taylor, are thorns in my side, oh, and golf buddies with Rick, of course—just a side effect of one of our company holiday parties a couple of years back when our spouses were invited. I should have known better than to bring Rick.
Logan slips into the elevator just as it’s closing, and I’m suddenly barricaded in a life-size box with the scent of cologne I can nearly taste. It’s like spicy rum and a sweet mango, mixed with a hint of sage. God, he smells good.
“Are you making a run for it already?” I ask him. I would be if I had the chance.
He gives me a quick chuckle and focuses on the blinking numbers above the door. “Nah, Human Resources wants to see me. I guess there’s some transitional paperwork from the temp agency I need to fill out.”
“Those agencies really like to make things challenging for us,” I tell him, watching the same numbers slowly tick down toward the lobby.
“Where are you off to?” he asks. I suppose I should have told him I leave early three days a week. I obviously have this boss thing down, like a boss.
“I completely forgot to tell you, but I leave early and work from home in the later part of the afternoon.”
“Ah, are you moonlighting?” That’s not very professional to ask a boss. I wonder if moonlighting has a different meaning than the one I’m thinking. I think he’s asking if I’m working a second job. Not that it matters.
“No, I have to pick up my daughter at the bus stop,” I respond with a grim smile, knowing I just made myself look about fifty years older to this attractive man-temp.
“Oh, sweet!” He’s more enthusiastic than I would have imagined, although I still know this attraction is only one-sided; therefore, it wouldn’t matter if I had one kid or four. He probably has his choice of arm candy. “What’s her name?”
How long is this damn elevator ride? I hit the lobby button again, but the door opens on the third floor, welcoming no one onto the elevator. I swear there is some asshole running floor to floor, chasing elevators all day, ghosting buttons just so we have to stop at every other floor to find no one waiting to get on. “Cora. She’s five.” Maybe that makes me sound a little younger than fifty.
“That sounds like fun,” he says, glancing over at me, though I only notice through my peripheral vision because I’m too busy staring at blinking numbers to avoid his good looks that will surely be burned into my head for the rest of the day.
“She’s definitely a barrel of monkeys and keeps me on my toes, but I love her.” More mom talk, how cute. “Do you have any kids?” Of course, he doesn’t have kids. He’s the picture of single-manhood, plus he doesn’t have a ring on his finger. Not that I noticed, but—well, he went to press the button just as I did and—okay, I noticed. However, I’m not wearing a ring either, yet I have a daughter. I should stop assuming.
“Unfortunately, no.” Unfortunately? What single guy says that? Wait, no, what single guy who looks like him says that? He can’t be real.
“Well, kids are worth the wait.” Saying that makes me consider the thought of what my life would be like without Cora. If I had waited, I would have been left with nothing and alone after Rick’s dick move, so I’m glad I got something out of that marriage, even if she is a bit of a challenge for one person.
The door finally opens after the world’s longest elevator ride, and Logan presses his palm into the door, waving his other hand for me to walk out first. “Have a good night, Hannah,” he says.
“You too,” I reply breathlessly, as I jog toward the doors in my click-clacking heels.
I run outside through the pouring rain and hold my briefcase above my head to salvage what’s left of the curl I tried to put into my hair this morning. I double click the key fob in my purse, and the doors to my minivan unlock. I jump across a puddle and duck inside, falling heavily into my seat.
Thankfully, the lack of traffic makes up for the extra two minutes I spent in the elevator. However, with the rain downpour, there’s a line of five minivans parked against the sidewalk, and I’m the very last one, which means it will take a full minute to reach the bus stop. I won’t be able to see the bus until it arrives—mothertrucker.
I dig around under the passenger seat for my umbrella, finding nothing but a bunch of crumpled drawings Cora smashed under there last week.
Mom, I need to borrow your umbrella for a minute. The memory of her saying that hits me as I jam my fingernail into whatever is metal and hard under the seat. Dammit to hell.
I look like death anyway; might as well just get this over with. I hop out of the van and trudge through the puddles, soaking my feet and legs. There is nothing better than wet feet inside of peep-toe pumps. As soon as I make it up the hill and over to the bus stop, I realize my paper clip has gone missing. How long has it been gone? I don’t want to know how long my stomach has been visibly showing between the perky buttonhole and hanging thread of my blouse.
I clutch my shirt together, squeezing water out at the same time. Now seems like a good time to up the rain-factor too. Instead of just pouring, it’s now flying in horizontally with the wind, as well.
With a quick glance down at my watch that shouldn’t be getting as wet as it is, I see it’s already a minute past the time the bus normally arrives. Thankfully, I’m here, but not so thankfully, I’m standing here like this.
Ten minutes goes by before the bus rounds the corner. Each of the other moms step out of their cars with their umbrella and a second one for their child. Not me, nope. No umbrella here. Fabulous mother alert.
As the bus empties out, Cora is the last one to jump off the bottom step right into a puddle, splashing me, as if I weren’t already soaked to the bone. The joke isn’t on me this time.
“Hi, baby-cakes, how was school?”
She tilts her head from side to side, her bouncy curls swaying with her movement. “It sucked.”
“Cora!” I snap. As if she were using a megaphone, the other moms turn around and glare at me like I was the one who said the word “suck.”
“Just saying it how it is,” she chirps.
“Well, we don’t use that—”
Like I needed icing on this freaking cake, a sports car flies by, hitting the unnecessary, massive drainage hole in the middle of the street, and drenches me from head to toe. I shield Cora, of course, but that mothertrucking bitch has got to go.
“Oh, it’s Tiana!” Cora shouts.
Tiana, like the Disney princess, except she is no freaking Disney princess. She’s Rick’s peach-cake.
I click the button on my key to make the sliding door of the van open for Cora, and she hops in and closes the door behind her before I reach my door. I can take a guess that while Tiana was flying by, soaking me with rain and sewer water, she was taking a selfie that will somehow show me in the background, taking her wrath like a beaten, wet rat. That shit will appear all over Instagram tonight because that’s what this twinklette does. She’s a fitness guru with a side gig of promotion yoga on social media. They have those sorts of jobs now. To add insult to injury, she probably gets paid more than I do.
I drive around the block until I pull into our driveway, watching Tiana as she slowly pulls into her garage next door.
“Mom, why can’t we pull into our garage? I don’t want to get wet,” says my princess who stood outside in the rain for less than thirty-seconds.
“Because, sweetie, all your dad’s junk is taking up the space in there, so there is no room for our car to fit inside,” I tell her.
“Minivan, mom, not a car,” Cora corrects me. Thank you for the reminder.
Cora hops out of the vehicle and runs through the rain she was just complaining about, crosses over the small patch of grass between the houses and disappears inside of their garage. “Cora! No!” You have got to be freaking kidding me. “Cora Taryn Pierce!”
Now, running through the rain as I glance down at my watch, I confirm that I have five minutes before I’m expected to be on that call, and Cora is not in this garage. I’ve told her not to do this, yet it’s like I’ve never said it at all, as with most things that come out of my mouth. I open the door that leads into Rick’s kitchen and storm inside, searching for Cora.
I find her seated at their kitchen island, eating a cookie. “Do you want a cookie?” she asks me.
“Get over here right now,” I seethe through my clenched jaw.
She hops off the stool and brings herself to where I’m standing. “Hannah, you look like you’ve been standing in a hurricane,” Rick says with a snarky chuckle.
“Well, I kind of was, Rick. Actually, you kind of look like you’ve been through a hurricane too.” I point to my ears, signaling at what I mean. “The hairs in your ears are sticking out … too much thinking today? A little brainstorming? You must have too much wind going on in that head of yours,” I say, sounding like the bitter ex-wife that I am.
He takes a cookie from the plate on the counter and chomps half of it down. With his mouth full, he redirects his attention to our daughter. “Cora, you know you’re only supposed to be here on the weekends, sweetie. I know it’s fun here, but we have to follow the rules, okay?”
Cora rolls her eyes and crosses her arms over her chest. “This is stupid. You two and your stupid rules. Why can’t I go where I want to go, when I want to go there?”
Rick and I look at each other. It’s the only time we have any mutual understanding for one another. Not that the divorce was my idea, but he was kind enough to make the decision for the both of us. Oh, and then he was kind enough to move in next door with his mistress.
“It’s just the way things have to be, sweetie,” Rick says to her with a loving smile.
“Can’t you just come home now?” Cora asks again, just like she does every time she sees him. She doesn’t understand what divorce means, or the whole “forever,” thing for that matter. Rick is never moving back in with me, and we will never be together as a couple again. It’s easy enough for me to understand, but still painful for Cora to comprehend.
“I’m afraid that isn’t possible,” Rick continues.
“It’s because you fucked Tiana, isn’t it?” Cora asks calmly and so surely, it steals every ounce of air out of my lungs. Oh, awesome. Unfortunately, Cora’s last babysitter was a tremendously horrible influence over her, and now I’m trying to bring her newfound sixteen-year-old attitude back down to one of a typical five-year-old.
I grab Cora by the arm and drag her and her cookie out the door we came in. “Thanks a lot, Hannah,” Rick says as I close the door behind us.
“Oh, you’re so welcome. You’re lucky that’s all she said.” I don’t say another word until we’re next door in our house, and I sit Cora down on the couch.
“First, we don’t say the word fu—that word. Second, thank you.”
“What does that word even mean?” Cora asks.
I inhale a slow breath of air and swallow the explanation I would like to give her instead of, “It means Tiana is a better friend to him than I am.”
“Hmm, weird,” Cora says. “Can I get up now?”
Before I answer her, she bounces off the couch and runs upstairs to her bedroom.
And … my meeting with Brett started five minutes ago.
I run upstairs to my office-loft and dial in as I start up my laptop. Of course, you need to do fifteen goddamn updates. This machine is as done as my marriage, and I need a new one. I need a lot of new things.
“Thanks for joining, Hannah,” Taylor says. “You’re only five minutes late today—it’s like a mom miracle, right?”
Something inside of me snaps when the smugness of his voice lingers in my head for a second longer than it should. “You know what, Taylor?” I spew his name as if it were the worst cuss word I’ve ever used. “Not only am I soaking wet from head to toe from the downpour I stood in for ten minutes waiting for my daughter, but then I needed to go drag her out of my ex-husband’s house. As I’m sure you know, he lives right next door to me. So, yes, I’m five minutes late today. Any other comments you’d like to start this fabulous sales meeting with?”
There’s silence on the other end of the call for a long pause. “This is our staff meeting, Hannah, so why don’t we hold our private conversations until later, okay?” Alan speaks up.
Mothertrucker. I scroll through my phone, opening my calendar to see what the hell was on the schedule for today, and yeah, of course, it’s a staff meeting. I swore it was a sales meeting.
More silence follows Alan’s lovely statement until I hear Brielle’s voice peep up. “I’ll start by introducing Logan, our new temp. He’ll be working with Hannah and me for the next few months while we hash out the new Anti-Hover-Mother segment.”
“Nice to meet you all,” Logan says.
Well, now my temp doesn’t need to wonder about my personal life because I just vomited it out to everyone on the team, including him. This is my life.