The car sputters to a stop as I pull into the driveway. My poor baby has seen better days, but it’s been such a reliable vehicle for so many years I hate to think about replacing it. The door creaks when I push it open, step out, and breathe in the warm Miami air. I’m dog tired, asleep on my feet, but I’m fully aware my day won’t officially end for at least another few hours. Such is the life of a single mom, I think as I stroll up the walkway toward the front door.
The house is ablaze with lights and while I cringe at the idea of the impending electrical bill, I certainly can’t begrudge my daughter the small bit of security she feels being in a well-lit house. I can’t blame her at all really. We don’t exactly live in the best neighborhood and even though we have good people living in the homes on our block, and my best friend lives in the adjoining duplex, we’re still consciously aware of the crime that takes place in this part of town.
In addition to all of the lights being on, the television blares in the empty living room, and I can hear music coming from her bedroom. Securing the locks behind me, I toss my purse and satchel down onto the counter and glance around. As usual, the kitchen is a mess with remnants of the meal she cooked for the two of us and an overflowing sink full of dishes. This is my tradeoff for a meal we share together most nights during the week: at least an hour’s worth of cleaning and straightening up before I can even think about turning in for the night.
“I’m home!”
Kicking off my sensible yet uncomfortable shoes, I pad barefoot into the kitchen and pull a wine glass down from the cupboard. My one reward each night is a full glass of red wine, and believe me, I enjoy every single sip. Sure, the wine is rotgut and cheap, but if I close my eyes I can pretend that it’s not and that I’m not a worn-out thirty-something single mom of a teenager.
“Hi, Mom.”
I turn to enfold my daughter in my arms, holding her close and breathing in the sweet smell of strawberries from her hair. This is the best part of my day, the part when everything else falls away—all the constant issues and problems that I face running an entire human resources department, managing a large group of my own employees and keeping up with constant demands for new employees. Sure, I love my job and I’m blessed to have it, but there are days, today being one of them, when I long for the days when I was that lower level nothing sitting in the cubicle punching a time card. Those days are long gone now and while I’m thankful for the more than generous salary I earn, I earn every single bit of it.
“You’re late today,” she murmurs, tipping her head back to smile at me.
My hands frame her face as I drop a kiss on her forehead and move toward the oven. “Sorry, hon. You must be starved.”
She shrugs. “Not really. I had a snack while I studied for my English test.”
By the time we’re seated at the small, rickety dining table, she’s talking a mile a minute and clueing me in on every aspect of her day. This is our time, the mother and daughter time I count on at the end of each day, time when we can simply reconnect with one another. When I got pregnant, I never imagined I’d be raising my child alone. I never imagined I’d be sending her off to school each day with a one mile walk through a less than desirable part of town, to a less than desirable school. But I’ve learned in the years since Emmy was born, choices are few and far between when you are a young mother trying to make your way in life on your own. I might always be able to count on my parents for emotional support, but financial support was simply something they’ve never been able to provide. Sure, they allowed us to live with them and did what little they could for us, but the responsibility to care for me and my daughter has always weighed completely on my shoulders.
Moving to Miami was step one in declaring myself an independent person and now five years later, I can call myself successful. Emmy and I are light years removed from the small bedroom we shared in my parents’ house for the first ten years of her life; while I will never consider this duplex an ideal place to live, it’s all mine. Granted, it’s just a rental, a crummy one at that, but I’ve got great neighbors who look out for my girl and the constant presence of my best friend nearby, so I can’t complain.
“There’s a dance in a few weeks.”
My eyes roll over to hers, and I grin. “Oh yeah? You gonna go?”
She shrugs and pokes at the meatloaf on her plate. “I don’t know. Gotta see what the girls wanna do.”
The girls would be her two closest friends, Maureen and Maya, better known in our house as M & M. The three girls have been inseparable since we first moved to town, both living a few houses down from us and offering my daughter what she desperately needs on her walk to and from school each day: safety in numbers. They offer her many other things, of course, but to a worrywart mother like myself, that sense of safety is priceless.
Once we’re done eating and she’s back in her room doing homework, I refill my wine glass and roll up my sleeves. I love my daughter more than life itself, and I’m grateful that she somehow manages to get a meal on the table for us each evening, but she doesn’t know one thing about cleaning as you go, even though I’ve harped this subject to death until I’m blue in the face. I’m thankful I have a dishwasher and grateful she at least thought to soak the stuck-on pans so with that in mind I get the water going and get to work.
Fuck appropriate.
Squeezing my eyes closed, I shove the thought aside and force myself to think of something else. Like the student loan payment that’s due on Friday or the nonexistent plans I have for the upcoming weekend.
I asked you to call me Roman
Stop it, Sabrina. Stop it right this minute. You have no business thinking about him or that strange conversation from earlier tonight. So what if he asked you out and flirted with you in your office. None of that matters. Regardless of what he says, it is inappropriate. Every single little teeny bit of it. Even these wayward thoughts are inappropriate.
Fuck appropriate.
Slamming my hands, I cause a rush of water to cascade over the front of my blouse. The sheer material adheres to my breasts, outlining nipples that have remained untouched for far too many years.
Oh good gracious … really?
Scrubbing hard on the chipped Pyrex dish, I make a quick internal grocery list, run through a few things I need to accomplish this weekend, and avoid gazing at my reflection in the small window that looks out onto the side yard. I know what I’ll see there if I do: the shocked, needy expression I’m certain I wore in the parking garage when he was standing in my personal space, asking me questions he had no right asking in the first place.
Fuck inappropriate.
I close the dishwasher door, mumbling to myself, and wring out the dishrag. Briefly, I consider opening another bottle of wine then immediately cast the thought aside when I take a quick inventory of my measly stash. I’ve got one bottle to get me through until payday, so I’d better be stingy with it. As it is, I never should have greedily refilled my glass, but I blame it on all the intrusive questions and the … the …
Oh dear God … that man is gorgeous.
I give my eyes another hard squeeze, gather up my shoes, and lock up for the night. After kissing Emmy goodnight, I shut myself in my room and quickly shed my clothes then pull on the ratty nightgown that I’ve owned since I was in high school. Kind of like the beat-up, old dresser that I still use and the same queen-sized mattress I hauled all the way from California. Nothing in this room is new or even in decent condition, but it’s all mine and it’s the one place where I can turn off all the worries from the day, close my eyes, and wish for a time when things were easier.
The tiny adjoining bathroom isn’t fancy, but I enjoy the convenience of having a space all to myself. I quickly wash my face and brush my teeth then turn out the lights and crawl between the cool sheets with a sigh.
The moment my eyes close, his face swims to the surface. Roman Moran, just like his brothers, is a thing of beauty. And while his two older brothers resemble one another so closely they sometimes look like twins, his lighter coloring and mocha colored eyes stand out and are dangerous to me. Very, very dangerous. He’s not nearly as intimidating and intense as Cruz, or as brash and cocky as Marco, but there’s something about him that scares me to death.
I’ve heard about his reputation, even though I make a conscious effort not to get sucked into the office gossip. It’s difficult to un-hear certain things, especially when I admit that I’m desperate for any news about the man I barely know. I do know about his nickname, and he’s honestly earned it.
Despite being alone, I’ve done well in life. My solitude is not by choice, not really anyway. I am first and foremost a mother and because of that, I don’t have the luxury to date various men or parade them in and out of my daughter’s life. In truth, the last man I dated was her father, jerk that he was (and probably still is). I blame myself for that choice, though, since I willingly bought into every sleazy line he fed me right up until he promised to stand by my side throughout my pregnancy. I knew that one was a lie.
The funny thing is I don’t even know how to miss things like companionship and love. And since I can barely remember what sex is like, I can’t really miss that either. There is a part of me that longs for a partner, someone to bounce worries and fears off of, someone to snuggle up to each night. Sadly, I’m fully aware that any longing I might have will have to be put on the backburner until Emmy goes off to college.
I highly doubt someone as handsome and charming as Roman Moran could measure up to all I need in my life. Oh, I’m certain he’d fill all the requisites, warm body and all, but he’s not partner material, and he’s sure as heck not father material either. Not that I’m looking for a father for my daughter, but I doubt he’d spend one more minute with me if he knew I came fully attached with my own set of fifteen-year-old baggage.
Still, I do think about him sometimes. I marvel at the shy nervousness he displayed, right up until this morning when his guard came down and he attempted to flirt with me. There was nothing shy or nervous about him in the parking garage earlier either and in fact, if I had to guess, I’d say I was probably seeing the real him for the first time. How ironic, but I know little about the man I’ve secretly admired for the past few years. A part of me would really, really like to know more but the wary part knows I should take off running in the opposite direction and never stop.
With a sigh, I roll to my side and punch the pillow into submission. Dwelling on that weird exchange with Roman is a waste of my time. He is nothing more than someone I work with and occasionally speak to. He is nothing more than a beautiful stranger who I can admire from afar and sometimes fantasize about. The smartest thing I can do is keep my distance.