Tuesday: Don’t be fooled, it’s just an extension of Monday
MY ALARM—THAT I haven’t heard in months— blares “Hit Me Baby One More Time” by Britney Spears. I sit up in bed, frantic that I haven’t already woken up. Where’s Cora? Oh no, not today. I can’t today. I have a meeting with a new advertising rep, and Cora cannot be sick.
I pull myself out of bed and push my hair away from my face. Why can’t it be Saturday? For once, I’d love for someone to wait on me hand and foot, have breakfast waiting for me, and maybe even do my hair before I leave the house. That will most definitely never happen, though. I suppose I should try to appreciate that I now have one less person to get ready in the morning because Rick can be Tiana’s problem for as long as she’ll take him.
As I drag my heavy feet across the hall, I hear a cough echo from behind Cora’s closed door. Silently, I cry. Screw you, gummy vitamins. You’re just candy with a label tricking me into believing you’re boosting my kid’s immune system for eight bucks a bottle.
I open the door and find her hiding under the covers. “Cora, sweetie, are you okay?”
She moans and pulls the covers from her head. “I think I’m sick.” I reach over and press the back of my hand on her forehead, but I don’t feel much heat. There’s an ounce of hope, followed by another cough.
She runs her arm under her nose and pulls in a loud, wet snorting sniffle. “Can I have a tissue?”
I jog into the bathroom, grab the box of tissues and bring it back to her. “I’m sorry you’re sick, sweetie.”
She rips the covers off and hops out of bed. “It’s okay, but I can’t miss school today. A farmer is coming in to teach us about cows.”
Holy crap, someone in heaven is watching over me. “Are you sure?”
“Yeah, I’m sure,” she says. “There’s no way I can stay home today.” Ditto, kid.
“Well, let me take your temperature, and if it’s normal, you can go. Deal?”
“Deal,” she says, following me downstairs into the kitchen.
I run the thermometer over her forehead and get a green smiley face on the display, telling me this girl is going to school today. “Yay!”
“Okay, go get dressed quickly, and I’ll make your lunch.”
Cora runs upstairs, coughing along the way, and I put her lunch together while firing up the coffeemaker. I’m going to need so much coffee to get through today.
By the time Cora comes downstairs, she has green boogers dripping from her nose, and her face is flushed. “You look miserable, sweetie.”
“Can you just do my hair, so we can get out of here?” she asks. Cora never wants me to touch her hair. She’d rather leave the house looking like whatever the Lion King would give birth to.
I pull her hair up and tie it into a ponytail, sparing myself the horror movie screams I’d endure if I braided it.
“Cora, I need you to listen to me,” I say while kneeling in front of her. “If you think you’re well enough to go to school, I need you to try and stick it out for the day.”
“I’ll be okay, mom,” she says with a sniffle.
I do the whole dog and pony show, dragging her to the bus stop and shuttling her onto the bus before finally hopping into my super-hot, gray minivan. Why do I have a minivan for one daughter? I was supposed to have three kids, but kid two and three will probably end up in Tiana’s uterus now. It sounds way more depressing than it is, but really, it’s a blessing. What would truly be a blessing, though, is if I could lose six seats in this God-forsaken spaceship.
I speed into the parking lot of Coffee Me and burn a little rubber while pulling into a front spot.
I jog inside, stopping behind the woman who’s next in line. She turns around to see who’s standing behind her, and of course, we recognize each other. “Hannah, how are you?”
Gill Sanford. Gill, as in Jill but with the twenty-first-century type of spelling, is a twenty-first-century type of mom. We met at a playgroup when Cora was six months old, and her daughter was about eleven months old. We tried to become friends, but it didn’t work out. We live two very different lives, and our parenting techniques are slightly contrasting, to put it mildly. Every time we were together, it felt like the battle between the working mom versus the stay at home mom. We moms should be on a united front, but it isn’t always like that, and it never has been with Gill.
She stopped talking to me when she found out I was going back to work after taking an eight-month maternity leave. I tried to keep our friendship intact, but she had no interest in talking to me at that point.
I’m not even jealous that she wears yoga pants every day, or that she somehow has time to spend at least an hour or more on her hair and makeup. She purposely looks sexy and cute, but like she just came from the gym where she could not have broken a sweat. Oh, and we can’t forget about the tan with no lines and a smile with no flaws—the face of a mother without a hint of worry. I want to ask her how, but I don’t want to hear the answer.
“I’m good, Gill, how are you?” I ask, sounding as exhausted as I feel and look.
“Are you sure you’re good, honey?”
I wave her off with a snort that bellows deep within my throat. “Oh, I am finer than fine.”
“I heard about the divorce.” She just dives right in. It’s been a year, but I was so good at hiding the secret that word didn’t spread about Rick and me until a few months ago when Cora started school.
“So, anyway, how is Celli enjoying first grade?” I abruptly change the subject.
“She’s just great. All straight A’s, captain of her soccer team, and student president. I couldn’t be prouder.”
Yeah, they don’t have captains in soccer at this age, nor do they have student presidents. Oh, and I’m almost positive a check mark on paper does not equal an A, but what do I know? “Wow, you must be so proud,” I coo, placing my hand on her shoulder.
Her smile widens, but just enough that I can tell it’s fake. “Can I help the next person in line?” Thank you, barista chick.
“Oh, and by the way, my daughter, you know, Cora, she can now wipe her own butt after she goes number two. I’m really proud of my little girl, so I totally get the pride thing.” She looks at me like I’m speaking a different language and turns to face the barista. As if I can’t see her, she twirls her finger beside her ear, calling me crazy without saying the word out loud.
Dumbass.
Breathe in, two, three, four. Breathe out, two, three, four. I hate people. All people.
“Good morning, Hannah,” the barista says. I still can’t seem to remember her name. I see her name tag each time I’m in here, but it just doesn’t stick with me for some reason. “A large coffee with a shot of espresso, hold the froth?” I can’t remember her name, but she remembers my order.
“You’re an angel. Yes, to the coffee,” I tell the woman.
“Ohh, you two know each other?” Gill pipes in as she waits for her green smoothie with the calories and carbs on the side.
“Hannah is a frequent customer,” the barista says.
“I don’t know how you do it,” Gill says. “A single mom with a career. And you still manage to …,” she looks me up and down, “match your clothes every day.” That wasn’t just a ditz comment. She’s a bitch.
“Yup and I brush my own teeth and put my shoes on the right feet too. I’m moving up in the world,” I laugh and squint one eye at her. What nerve.
The barista places my coffee up on the counter first, and I want to hug her for doing so, but I need to get the hell out of here before I run into someone else I don’t want to see.
“Um, I actually placed my order before her, so …,” Gill says as I open the door to leave. “Is your manager around?”
Holy crap, get a freaking life.
Back in the van I go, but at least I have my coffee. Oh, and I mindfully put a shirt on this morning that won’t tear. I’m calling today a win.
I arrive at the office ten minutes early and take the stairs instead of the elevator because you know, it’s that kind of day.
The office is fairly empty, and it’s music to my ears. Maybe I can get through my pile of emails before anyone asks me for something this morning. Wouldn’t that be something?
I make the long journey through the row of cubes and head right for my office, finding the Pepto-colored walls calling my name.
“Hannah?” I hear. I take another sip of my coffee and spin around to see where the voice came from, finding Logan at his desk. Dammit. Why? He’s wearing dark jeans today, a white fitted, button-down shirt, suede penny-loafer boots, and that cologne that was burnt into my nose for hours yesterday. For someone his age, he still has thick hair, which is slightly coifed. His square jaw shows some of his age, as well as the very fine lines angling outward from his deep-set, topaz blue eyes. “You’re … uh, dripping over there.” His voice snaps me out of my awkward, analyzing stare, and I find that I am, in fact, dribbling coffee onto the cheap Berber carpeting.
I right the cup. “Oh, crap. Sorry, I feel like a zombie this morning.”
“I bet. Were you up partying all night with your daughter?” he asks through laughter.
All I hear is: Your life must consist of cooking, cleaning, and homework. You’re so cool, the best reason I can come up with for you to be tired is that you were probably partying with your five-year-old, instead of having any sort of real life.
“That pretty much sums it up,” I say, tapping my coffee cup into the air. “I hope your night was a little more exciting.”
Logan leans back into his chair and rests his hands behind his neck, which happens to highlight rippled muscles along his biceps. “Not even a little bit. My sister is staying with me until tomorrow, and she’s a slob. She’s loud, annoying, and needs to go back home.”
“Sounds like my daughter,” I confess.
“She’s twenty-eight going on five, so I can see how it might sound that way.”
I head into my office, still chuckling at his words. “By the way, your appointment with Veggie Squeeze is at noon. I reserved conference room two for you since the walls seem to be soundproof in there, and I’ve managed to set up another meeting for you during the upcoming expo with GoGo Toys.”
I place my coffee down on my desk and walk back out into the corridor between my door and his cube. “You booked GoGo Toys?”
“Yeah, the sales rep seemed eager.”
“Holy shit.” I press my fingers into the sides of my face. “I’ve been trying to book an appointment with them for a year—. You know, I didn’t see any sales experience on your resume—”
“I like to talk,” he says with a grin. Don’t smile at me. You’re making me lose my train of thought.
“You’re amazing.” I shouldn’t have said that. Crap. Wow. Really? “I mean, keep it up, and uh, keep your calendar clear because you’re joining me in today’s sales meeting.”
“Hannah,” Brielle’s voice sings from down the hall. “I saw your car. I know you’re here.”
“I wasn’t hiding,” I announce.
“You’re not going to believe what happened after you left yesterday,” she continues.
I have a feeling she’s going to mention GoGo Toys and might not expect Logan to be here a half hour before work starts, but I’ll let it play out.
“I’m sure I won’t,” I continue as I hear her bag drop in her cubicle.
“Logan, holy hottie, first. Second, he freaking snagged you a meeting with GoGo Toys.”
There we go. Now I get to see Brielle become mortified as she realizes that Logan is here, listening to her. As a matter of fact, I can see into his cube, and he’s smirking, but professionally, still maintains his focus on whatever he’s looking at.
Brielle’s heels scuffle against the carpet as she makes her way over to my office, where she notices Logan. She stops short between his cubicle and my office, then slaps her hand over her mouth. “Oh, my Blahniks, you heard that?”
“Heard what?” Logan plays along.
“Oh, uh, nothing,” Brielle says, trying to pull it off, but she’s not hitting that mark as she spins around in a circle like a dog and twirls her hair around her finger. Smooth, real smooth.
Brielle makes her way into my office, beet red, and closes the door. “Holy shit. I can’t believe I just did that,” she says.
“Happens to the best of us,” I remind her.
Brielle plops down in my guest chair and presses her elbows into her thighs as she leans forward. “Why do you think he’s here, of all places, after playing for a Major-League Baseball team? Wouldn’t you think he’d be loaded?”
I guess that thought didn’t cross my mind, but it’s an interesting question. It makes me wonder what his story is, but I shouldn’t care about his story. I’m his boss, and if he performs, I’ll be happy. “Who knows? I don’t know how all that stuff works. Maybe he broke a contract or something.”
“I just can’t believe he got GoGo Toys. It was his first call to them too. We’ve been trying to get them for like a year. Way to go, Mr. Batman, right?”
I lean back in my chair and cross one leg over the other. “Yes, it’s pretty incredible.” Brielle likes to talk, which voids my extra work time when I make it in early.
“You aren’t going to fire me now that you have the dream temp, are you?” she asks.
Ah, that’s why she’s early. “You are my administrative assistant, and Batman is a temp for the marketing portion of the new magazine segment. You’re safe, Brielle,” I ease her concern with a smile. I need to try and stop sounding like such an old hag. I used to have spunk, joy, and a chipper demeanor when I talked to others. I actually saw myself as “cool,” but even the word “cool” really goes to show how much I’ve aged this year. I even saw a gray hair the other day, and while I pulled it out, I sort of had a moment where I felt like my life was beginning to show the other side of that hill everyone talks about.
“So,” Brielle says, starting the next segment of Brielle Tells All. “Adam and I had the talk last night.”
The talk. The talk as in … he’s finally going to pop the question, or did she finally ask him if he was cheating? I shouldn’t find it mildly confusing that the two conversations go together.
I keep my focus on my emails, scanning for important information as she continues to fill my head with her Adam drama. I love Brielle and her stories, but they’re endless sometimes, so I try to multitask. That, and the topic of cheating still causes a pain in my stomach.
When I found out Rick cheated on me, I didn’t sit on the idea of staying with him for weeks and months on end. I made a split decision that moment I walked in on Tiana’s perfectly toned and tanned ass in the air and told him I wanted a divorce, which was kind of like stabbing a knife through the fake topping of our wedding cake. Our marriage revolved around his career, and I sat in his shadow, celebrating every raise and bonus, praising his every great review, while constantly being understanding of his early hours and late nights. I never actually said, “What about me?” But it’s all I felt for most of our relationship. Everything about us seemed fake.
Divorce was the key to my freedom. Who would have thought? I’ve considered getting back on the saddle, and I’ve tried it with a few Tinder dates, but nothing feels right, so I stick with single-hood. “What do you think?” Brielle asks.
Shit. I didn’t hear a word of what she said. “Well, what did you say to him?”
“What would you say to him?” she snaps back. I probably need the context before offering a realistic answer.
“I’d say …” Uhh.
“I know, right? I was totally speechless. I don’t know. I didn’t exactly respond to him. I think I need some time to ponder the idea.”
An email pops up as I’m thinking of my next response, and it’s from Logan, so I casually click on it.
The email is short and says:
From: [email protected]
Subject: Just a little FYI
Brielle just told you her boyfriend asked her about a threesome, and she’s considering it but wants your input. Not eavesdropping—the walls are very thin, and I can see your confused expression through the window.
— :) Logan Batman
Oh no. I knew the walls were thin, but I didn’t think we were that loud. Just lovely.
A threesome? Is that like a normal thing to ask your girlfriend nowadays? There I go sounding old again. “Um, I’d have a hard time agreeing to that,” I tell her. “Is the third party a man or a woman?” The thought popped into my head, and I wonder if that part of the question would have persuaded my premarital mind in a particular direction.
“It’s his best friend, Fray,” she says with a bit of a blush tinting her cheeks.
“Is Fray hot?”
She mouths the words, “Oh my Blahniks, yes. All of his friends are hot, Boston, city guys.”
“Eh, so why not? Maybe it’ll spice things up.” As the words that are so not mine—could never be mine—but definitely came out of my mouth, offer her advice, I feel a little saucy suggesting such a dirty activity. Maybe it’s the part of me that wants to live vicariously through Brielle and her pretty little self.
“You’re so right,” she says. “You should be a therapist, you know that?” Yeah, that’d be good. I’d be out of a job within a week. I’m going to go ahead and disagree with that opinion.
Brielle hops up from her seat and trots out of my office and back toward her cube.
I open my presentation that I’ve been working on for days but haven’t managed to make a dent in, even though it needs to be ready by noon today. I work my best when I’m being rushed, so it’s all good.
PowerPoint stalls as it populates the three slides I’ve already created. The file can’t be that big. What the hell?
That could be the problem … the three slides I created turned into thirty. I’m confused. These aren’t my slides. I scan through them, and while there is no content on the slides, they are all set up and ready for the content.
Logan appears in my doorway as I’m wondering how this file ended up in my folder. “I hope you don’t mind, but I did a little work on your presentation today. I noticed it wasn’t too far along, so I created a few template pages for you to use.”
I close my eyes, trying to understand everything he just said. “Wait, how did you know I had to do this presentation and didn’t have it done?”
Logan takes the opportunity to sit down in the open chair and crosses one of his legs over the other. His pants pull snugly in the wrong—no, the right spots, and once again, it makes me wonder what he looked like in a baseball uniform. I shouldn’t be wondering that. I’m his boss.
“Brielle told me you had been working on it, and she was kind of making fun of the fact that you hadn’t quite figured out how to work the new version of PowerPoint yet. As I was finding my way around the Intranet, I happened to see the file, and since you were tied up with meetings yesterday afternoon, I thought you might not mind if I helped a little. I apologize if I overstepped any boundaries.”
I could kiss him. Is he kidding? He basically did all my work, leaving me with just entering in numbers and words. That, I can manage. “You’re quite the go-getter, huh?”
“Yeah, I’m not sure that’s always a good remark,” he says.
“I don’t mean it rudely. You’ve been sort of killing it since you got here twenty-four hours ago, and you’re probably going to end up taking my job.” While I laugh at my joke, I realize I don’t really find it funny.
“Your phone is lighting up,” he tells me while glancing at the red light flashing.
With a pit already in my stomach, I peek at the caller ID. “Motherfu—.” My reaction sort of slips out, but come on. “This is Hannah,” I answer.
“Hi Mrs. Pierce, this is—”
“I know who you are,” I mutter.
“Miss Cora has a fever of one hundred two, and she vomited in class. Unfortunately, we can’t keep her in school with these symptoms. I’ll need you to come and pick her up as soon as possible.”
“I’ll be there as soon as I can,” I concede and hang up, then with my elbows on the desk, I take a deep breath, close my eyes, and let out a long sigh as I press my forehead into my hands.
Logan presses his hands into the armrests of the chair he’s still seated in and looks at me with question, probably wondering if he should stay, go, or ask if I’m okay. Am I ever okay? Nope. Definitely, never okay. It’s been a long time since I’ve been okay.
“Can I help you with anything?” he asks.
“Shit, shit, shit.” Logan releases his hands from the armrests and settles back into the seat. “My daughter woke up sick. She insisted on going to school, but now she has a fever, accompanied by vomit.”
“Oh man, and we have that meeting at noon,” Logan reminds me, but he doesn’t have to.
It’s another defining moment in my life where I silently tell Rick to Screw off again while I think of a solution on my own, even though he could take some responsibility for his daughter on an inconvenient occasion.
I can’t miss this meeting.
I hold up my pointer finger to Logan, telling him to wait a minute. I grab my phone and dial Rick’s office number.
“Yo, this is Rick,” he answers after the first ring.
Real professional. “Rick, it’s Hannah, I need your help today. Cora is really sick, and I have a meeting I can’t miss at noon.”
“Hannahbananna,” he draws out my name. Did he hear a word I said, or is he just ramping up to be his usual douchebag self? “Hannah, Hannah, Hannah. Babe, I can’t. I’m meeting with a client at one, and it’s in Newport, which is at least an hour drive.
“Mmhhm. I see. Well, as always, use protection, Rick.”
“Hannah, you can’t just throw that around whenever you feel like it.”
“You’re right. I’m so thoughtless sometimes. Go to hell, Rick.” I can’t think of anything appropriate to respond with since he’s already way too familiar with every name I could call him. It’s all moot to him anyway, so I hang up. This is how it has always been. I’ve always had to take the back seat to his career, even after the divorce, which is totally unfair, since I only ask him for help when it involves Cora, and she is his daughter too. I need to depend on his child support, yet I can’t manage to better my life by not screwing up my job at least once a week. “Sorry, my ex is a dick,” I explain to Logan. Way too personal, but it is what it is.
“How about, you go get her, bring her here, and I’ll keep her entertained during the meeting?” he says.
Did I imagine everything he just said, or did he truly just offer to help me? I can’t remember the last time someone offered to give me a hand, considering I don’t have mom friends, and I don’t exactly belong to the cooperative system of all those moms who are united and have some pact to help each other out in times of need. My single friends don’t understand, and my parents are too busy cruising along the Mediterranean somewhere for the fifth time this year.
“She’s really sick. I don’t know if I should bring her into the office,” I tell him.
“I take my Flintstones,” he says. “I’ll be fine.”
“Logan, I don’t know if you’re trying to get a raise on your second day of work, but you’re doing a damn good job, and I’m already considering it.”
“Then my plan is working,” he says with a snicker. “I love kids. I’ll keep her entertained. Don’t worry about it.”
He must be gay. Straight men like him don’t exist. It’s an accurate assumption based solely on the diversity of douchery I’m surrounded with right here in this very office building.