Friday. I am going out of my mind now that it is 4:14 p.m. and I have exactly one hour and forty-six minutes to transform myself into a hiking Barbie.

Steve won’t stop texting me, though he finally stopped texting Amanda and Amy when they resorted to texting him various pictures off 4chan and Goatse. I’m close to following suit, but that’s how I handled our breakup at the very end, and if there’s anything worse than being immature, it’s being immature in the exact same way twice.

I receive a text from Amy with a copy of the last picture she sent to Steve. Who knew that anuses could prolapse? Huh.

My phone actually rings. I know Amanda is next door in Josh’s office, talking animatedly to him about simplifying the password policy so we don’t need to use three non-standard Arabic characters when we change our monthly passwords, so it can’t be her.

Mom is with Dad at an all-day Reiki training, so it must be Carol, my older sister.

I look at the number. Yup. Carol calls for one of three reasons:

1. She needs a babysitter.

2. She needs someone to come over and binge watch Orange is the New Black and pick up a pint of ice cream on the way.

3. She needs a babysitter.

“I’m busy tonight,” I say as I answer the phone. No preliminaries. Don’t need them. Besides, I’m a ticking time bomb right now, with sixteen minutes to go before I can race home and try to turn myself into a nighttime hiking phenomenon.

“You are?” She sounds disappointed. Panicked, really. I hear mayhem in the background. Random animal sounds that are, in fact, just boy sounds. Same thing, really. Until they’re ten years old or so, boys are just human versions of beasts.

“Yep.”

“Mystery shop?”

“No. Date.” The word rolls off my tongue with a delicious fluidity.

She bursts into a long, drawn-out giggle fest. “Good one. Hah! So which shop is it. Donuts? If you ever get another one for the chain of bars where you have to order the filet skewers and two margaritas, let’s get Mom to watch the boys!”

I am offended. Why does everyone laugh at the thought of me being romantically involved with someone?

“I have a date. An actual date with the vice president of a company.” I want to say more, but I know I’ll be skewered if I do. Carol is like a blend of Mom and Amy. Half reasonable and half batshit crazy.

You never know which half you’re talking to at any give time.

“Is this the billionaire Mom’s been rambling on about? I thought that was some kind of fantasy of hers.”

“It is,” I mumble.

“So you’re not dating a billionaire? She was going on about getting her grandkids into exclusive prep schools like Milton Academy and Buckingham Browne & Nichols—and all kinds of other weird stuff last night.”

In the background I hear my seven-year-old nephew, Jeffrey, arguing with his four-year-old brother, Tyler, who only whines in response. Tyler has a speech disorder and the words don’t come easily, but he’s highly fluent in Whine. My trained ears tell me they’re arguing over access to the iPad Mom and Dad got them for Christmas.

“I-duh! I-duh!” Tyler screams.

“Give it to him!” Carol bellows. “When he uses a word right, you have to give it to him.”

Jeffrey says something muffled. Carol says something muffled. And then I hear Jeffrey, clear as a bell, shouting, “Eith cream! Eith cream!” Jeffrey has a lisp. Or, as he says, a lithp.

“Eye-kee! Eye-kee!” Tyler says, joining in.

“What are you doing?” Carol says, clearly to her oldest. I know that tone. It’s the same tone Mom has used on me for twenty-four years. It must be embedded in our DNA. I shudder. Someday I plan to have kids. “Someday” just got kicked back another year.

“If he geth what he wanth by thaying it, why can’t I?” Jeffrey moans.

I snort. The kid has a point. Tyler’s speech therapist told Carol that in order to reinforce language, she has to walk a fine line. Encourage speech by giving him what he asks for. But after a while, that can lead to problems, so…

“Channing Tatum!” Carol shouts. “A million dollars! A free nanny!”

Declan McCormick, I mouth.

Jeffrey giggles. “I want to talk to Thannon!” Shuffling sounds, and then:

“I can fart on command now when you pull my finger,” he announces.

“You will be a CEO one day.”

“No. I want my own YouTube channel. I’m going to do that inthtead,” he says seriously.

“More money in it,” I reply.

“Yep. Did you know Tyler peed himself at the dentitht thith morning? It was groth.”

“I’ll bet.” Carol’s life is like birth control for me. I absolutely adore Tyler and Jeffrey, but I could do without the pee, poop, farts, vomit, and other nasties from the kids. I mentally add another year between me and motherhood. At this rate I’ll start when I’m sixty.

“I need to talk now, honey,” Carol says. Jeffrey leaves without saying goodbye.

“You live a life of luxury,” I say. It’s now 4:23. Carol gets exactly seven minutes of my attention.

“Speaking of luxury, I got an actual child support check today!”

Of all the words I expect ever to hear from Carol’s mouth, these are not it.

“WHAT?” Her ex, Todd, ditched her and the boys three years ago. He’s played “Daddy for a Day” here and there. More there than here. It’s been seven months since anyone has seen him.

He has never paid her a dime in child support. Tyler never even learned to say the word “Dada” or anything close to it. He occasionally says “Puh-puh” for Papa, which is what Jeffrey calls my dad.

I just get a big old smile. When you have a speech disorder and you’re four years old, “Shannon” isn’t exactly top on your list of easy words. A smile and hug is close enough to my name.

“I know!” Carol exclaims, then lowers her voice. She doesn’t speak ill of Todd in front of the boys. Ever. I give her huge credit for that, because I don’t know if I could stay that classy in her shoes. “An actual check from the state.”

“That means he got a job working over the table!” Carol has a child support order. Todd owes close to five figures in unpaid support. He refuses to get jobs on the books, and never files taxes. She’ll never see that money.

“Something like that,” she says, her voice hiding something.

“How much was the check?”

She pauses, then says with a laugh, “Eleven dollars and sixty-one cents.”

I snort again. “Don’t spend it all on one place.”

“I spent ten dollars on my birth-control pill copay and the rest on Pokemon stickers for the boys.” Again, that pause. I hear her gulp something quickly and then Tyler’s distinct whine.

“I’ll get water for you, honey! Just a minute!” Carol tells him. She says quietly into the phone, “He’s incarcerated. The pay is from his wages at a prison in Ohio.”

“WHAT? Does Mom know?” For years Mom has made jokes about Todd finding his way to prison, but we all wrote her off as just being angry.

“Not yet. I’ve barely found a way to manage all this filthy lucre. Let me breathe a few times before tackling Mom and Dad’s reaction.”

“Don’t run out hiring financial planners just yet,” I crack.

Her bitter laugh makes me cringe. “Yeah. Right. Now his back support obligation is reduced!”

“Eleven dollars? Oh, Carol. That won’t even buy a pack of diapers.” Mom and Dad help her as much as possible, but…

“That’s why I need to get Tyler toilet trained,” she says with a resigned tone.

I feel myself weighed down by the weight of her weariness. Suddenly my date with Declan feels trivial. A bit flighty and selfish. I want to tell Carol I’ll help her.

“I can’t babysit tonight,” I tell her. “I’m so sorry.” It feels icky, like I’m rubbing her nose in my happiness and romantic promise.

“No, no, Shannon, don’t feel bad!” she protests. “You should go out with him! What’s he like? Does he have a helicopter?”

What is it with the women in my family and their obsession with men who ride in helicopters? “He’s hot,” I whisper.

“Hot Guy!” Amanda shouts from behind me.

“Hey!” I shriek. “Josh is the one who does that to people!”

“Hot Guy!” he says in a falsetto, standing right next to Amanda when I turn around, heart thudding out of my chest. Assholes. Maybe they’re both part vampire. And not the hot, sparkly kind.

“I am having a private conversation,” I say archly.

“About Hot Guy,” Greg says, poking his head in my doorway. Now all three of them are staring at me.

“Hey!” Who knew private was code for everyone flood Shannon’s office and turn into MI5 spies?

Carol is laughing hysterically on the phone.

“You can talk about Hot Guy whenever you want on company time, Ms. Three Point Seven Million,” Greg croons. Eww. It was so much better when he made us reuse plastic silverware and groaned about toner ink costs.

“What does he mean, three point…huh?” Carol asks as I wave Josh and Amanda off like they’re evil spirits. Greg hovers. I pull a tampon out of my purse and he scurries off like a vampire walking past an Italian restaurant in Boston’s North End.

That trick works every time.

Carol’s words sink in. Discomfort slams me with full force. “Oh, uh…Declan’s company gave our company a multimillion-dollar account.”

“Because you slept with him?” Carol gasps.

“I did not sleep with him!” I shout.

“Good girl,” Greg calls back.

“Did you seriously just call her a ‘girl’?” Amanda says. I hear hushed arguments through the thin walls as Carol emits a long stream of words that sound like my mother, minus the rabid need for billionaire grandbabies named Thayer Spotterheim “Scoochy” Mayflower Vanderbilt Kennedy III.

“—and you don’t need to give it up for a business colleague just to land an account!” Carol finishes.

“You take after Dad,” I mutter. “Because Mom seems to think I should give it up so she can have her Farmington Country Club wedding.”

Carol snorts. “She didn’t like the fact that I eloped with Todd.”

“‘Eloped’ sounds so elegant. You ran off to Vegas and got married by a transgendered Elvis impersonator who moonlights as Elvira. Those pictures were…um…”

“I know,” she sighs. “Thank God you and Amy haven’t been as stupid. Yet.” She sounds so beaten down that a wave of guilt hits me, even as I stare at the clock. 4:29 p.m. Should I be a good, supportive little sister or fake another call so I can get her off the phone and rip out of here to get home and look better for Declan?

Amanda solves that dilemma for me. “Is Carol still on the phone? And talking about her wedding?” she shrieks as she walks up behind me. “The word ‘Elvira’ must mean yes.”

“Yes.”

“Then tell her you have to go for your hot date! You have a billionaire to boink.” She makes a shooing gesture toward my door. Carol and Amanda adore each other. They have a mutual interest in mocking me endlessly whenever they’re together. I’m so glad I help people bond.

“Go! Boink! I’ll call Amanda and trick her into babysitting for me,” Carol says.

“Ooooh, good one!” I hang up before Carol changes her mind, and grab my purse. Amanda’s phone is ringing before the outer door closes behind me. I walk down the concrete hall bathed in blinking fluorescent lights and look toward the main door’s blast of sunlight through the window, the way a tiny vegetable shoot searches for the sun after it breaks through the outer shell of a seed.

And then—

I’m free.

My stomach flips like it’s an Olympic diver, and my eagerness drains as I reach my car because…this is real. Serious. I have a date with a man who wouldn’t have noticed me if he hadn’t found me hiding in a men’s-room stall with my hand down a toilet.

And yet…he’s an intelligent, respected, gorgeous man with eyes that go hot when he looks at…me? I steady my breathing and let the rush of warmth fill me.

Even as I thrust the screwdriver into the lock and turn the car on, the burst of excitement that comes from knowing that he really wants to get to know me better turns into a tingling anticipation.

Because.

Because.

I’m free.