I am still thinking about this truth on Friday morning after I drop off Wes and walk with Barron to his last class of the week: Intro to Neuroscience.

For a few hours, I sit in the back of the large lecture hall with a laptop, taking notes Barron probably won’t ever read since he already seems to have a firm grasp of the concepts anyway—at least enough to apply them to his bioHelmet. To the point that halfway through the class, he has asked so many questions about how some brain concept I don’t understand relates to some neurological concept I don’t understand, I am sure there will be another meeting with this professor in our future. He has already spoken with Barron about his bioHelmet project on two separate occasions, but the more Barron learns, the more he wants to apply—not to the upcoming test—but to his passion project.

Barron has been like this ever since he came up with the concept of the bioHelmet, a wearable device that can not only “read” what a person’s brain is feeling and thinking, but also transmit information straight into it. He was eight years old at the time and freshly arrived to the Tourmaline Ixtapa. But after that epiphany, he spent most of his days at the resort testing the device on game adults and iguanas alike. And now, even though he’s moved to the States and has started down an exciting new path as a college student, he still views most educational concepts through the lens of his ultimate goal.

He is obsessed with and focused on the bioHelmet to such a degree that I sometimes wish I could talk with his father about him. Because I know these qualities aren’t something he inherited from my side of a family. The Pinnocks are determined, hard workers, but I cannot imagine even Lydia, the smartest member of our family before Barron was born, ever being this driven toward a goal.

My phone buzzes in my purse, taking my thoughts away from Barron and the father he’s never known.

It is another overlong text message from Aunt Judith. I slide to see the full text since she is legitimately excited about my return to States. Unlike my mother, who never answers any of my calls or texts. Or Prin, who texted, Okay girl, I love you, but you are crazy for coming back here to work for Holt Calson of all people. Da fuck you thinking???

Six weeks later, I still haven’t responded to her question…or told her about the coercive aspect of my prodigal return. Mainly because I know her circumstances after the death of her now infamously debt-ridden father. Too broke to also support me and Barron along with the two stepsisters she has been saddled with, but too loyal not to immediately come to my rescue if she knew my real circumstances.

So my history with Holt has both screwed me out of a job and a long overdue reunion with my best friend from high school, I think bitterly as I begin to read Aunt Judith’s latest message.

JUST COME FROM TUESDAY MORNING BIBLE STUDY. AND PRAISE GOD, MY FRIEND GLORIA BE TELLING ME ABOUT HOW HER NEPHEW WAS LEFT BY HIS EVIL WIFE. SHE LEFT HIM WITH A GIRL CHILD TO RAISE ON HIS OWN. CAN YOU BELIEVE THAT???? THE DEVIL WILL DESTROY A FAMILY YOU KNOW HE WILL. BUT ANYWAY, HE IS A PROFESSOR IN THE HEALTH STUDIES PROGRAM AT STAMFORD COMMUNITY COLLEGE AND I TOLD GLORIA TO TELL HIM ABOUT MY NIECE WHO IS A VERY RESPECTABLE NANNY. GLORIA SAYS HE WILL TAKE YOU OUT. SO, I TOLD HER YOU WOULD SEE HIM TONIGHT. HE GOOD JAMAICAN MAN FROM GOOD PEOPLE. TOO BAD THE DEVIL TOOK HIS WIFE. BUT NOW HE BE FREE FOR YOU.

What must be a good twenty rows of praise hands follows Aunt Judith’s message.

Hold on…what is this now??? It sure sounds like my Aunt Judith and her friend Gloria set me up on a blind date on my first night off, since my weekend schedule starts on Friday night and ends halfway through Sunday to accommodate Wes’s school schedule.

My thumbs start flying, typing out a big message about how this date they have made without asking my permission is not going to happen, but before I can finish the text, my phone lights up with a message from a 475 number. “Hi, this is Glen, Gloria’s nephew. Just made reservations at an Italian restaurant near you for tonight. Your aunt said you like Malcolm Gladwell, so I also managed to snag tickets to his talk at CIT. Sound good?”

I blink, because…it does sound good. A date to see a speaker I have only pretended to see in the past. Now Glen’s message feels less like an aunt-inflicted hardship and more like…well, an invitation to redo the night I met Holt.

But…no. Things are already too confusing right now. Why add to it? Even if Glen sounds nice and considerate and, you know, doesn’t hate me with the heat of a thousand burning suns, I don’t think it is fair to accept a date with anyone in my current situation.

However, before I can compose an apologetic text message about how I really appreciate the offer but am too overwhelmed with life as a single parent and a soon-to-be college student to date right now, Barron is tugging at my arm. “Mama, guess what? Professor Nowak says he has a free hour and can talk with me about the work he did with GoBionics last summer.”

I look around and realize the class was dismissed while I was engrossed in the texts from Aunt Judith and Glen. The hall is empty, and the professor appears to be waiting for us at the classroom door. “What’s GoBionics?” I ask Barron, trying to figure out why this is such great news.

“The prosthetics development subsidiary of GoBotics. You know—the ones involved with all the advanced work with mind-controlled prosthetics.”

Actually I did not know that, and… “How does that apply to the bioHelmet?” I ask, my voice weak with confusion.

Barron widens his eyes at me as if he has been saddled with an idiot instead of the brilliant, science-oriented mother he should have had. Then he looks over his shoulder at the professor and says, “Just c’mon, Mom, please. He’s waiting and we only have one hour with him.”

Actually we end up spending the next two-and-a-half hours in the professor’s cramped office, and I get to listen to Barron and his professor excitedly discuss concepts that are even harder to understand than the ones in his lecture. Too bad everyone can’t make high-level concepts easy to digest for the lay person like Malcolm Gladwell, I think to myself. It feels like a reprieve when my phone buzzes with a call from Allie.

“Hey, Allie,” I say happily after sneaking out of the office. “What’s gwan?”

“Hi, Sylvie,” Allie says with an apologetic tone. “I know it’s your night off. But Holt has a date scheduled for tonight, so we need you to work this evening.”

My brain hiccups as I stare at the screen. He has a date. Holt, the man I’ve been having sex with almost every night for over six weeks, has a date. With another woman.

He never made me any promises. He told me the night we made our agreement that he hated me. Over and over again. And truthfully, I am a good woman and I try not to be petty. But still…

A mean feeling rises up in my heart as I say, “Actually I have a date, too. But please do not worry yourself…I will find someone to replace me for this evening.”