My phone rings, interrupting my musings. It’s Garrett, my best friend.
“Hey, buddy, what’s up?” I ask.
“Luke, I did it! I asked Leslie to marry me last night. We’re engaged!”
“Whoa, man, congratulations!”
“Thanks, dude, it was a long time coming. And you were right, it was stupid to be scared. Leslie is my best friend and I’m lucky to have her.”
Garrett has been hinting he might propose for months now, but I thought he was still too terrified of commitment to actually pop the question. Apparently not.
“Want to grab a beer tonight, celebrate?” I ask.
“Yeah, man. But we’re also hosting an informal engagement party Saturday night at our house. You’re coming, right?”
“Sure, what time?”
“Six. Sorry, Luke, gotta bounce, lot of calls to make. Catch you later at the Full Shilling?” he asks, naming our favorite pub for after-work drinks. “Usual time?”
“Perfect, later, man,” I say, and hang up.
Garrett is like a brother to me, and I’m thrilled his relationship with Leslie has hit such an important milestone. Still, I can’t help feeling a little wistful, and my mind inevitably drifts to Brenda. My ex-girlfriend of two years, who was offered a promotion in Chicago six months ago and didn’t even bother to ask me if I’d consider moving before she packed up and left. New job, new life, new boyfriend, probably.
It was a blow, not gonna lie. I pride myself on being good at reading people, and always preach to my clients to be attentive to their partners’ feelings. With Brenda, I failed on both counts. I was blind to what was going on in my backyard. Which has led to another instance of me not practicing what I preach. I haven’t been on a date ever since Brenda left me. I’ve refused all subtle and not-so-subtle offers from my parents—mostly Mom, admittedly—and friends to set me up with that perfect relative/friend/vague acquaintance they just knew I’d hit it off with. Online dating isn’t for me, too prosaic. And I haven’t met anyone the old-fashioned way. But Garrett’s announcement has stirred a dormant longing. Life is short. I shouldn’t waste it pining after someone who tossed me aside with no regrets. Time to move on. Yeah, I might be ready to jump back on the proverbial horse.
Right, next time someone offers to set me up on a date, I vow to keep an open mind.
Four
Vivian
What an awful first day at the new office. This morning, that Cavendish mess. Then, in court, the hearing before mine dragged on forever, bungling my afternoon schedule and forcing me to pull long hours to get everything on track for tomorrow.
As a result, I get home super late and well past dinnertime. The house is silent, meaning Tegan must be in her room with her headphones on. Before saying hello to my daughter, I hop into the bathroom real quick to change into more relaxing clothes.
In front of the mirror, I let loose my hair from the tight bun I keep it in while at work and massage my scalp with my fingers. After a day wrapped up so tightly, it’s a mess. I drop the pins and donut styler in the drawer under the sink and comb through the rat’s nest with a brush. Unable to resist, I check the tips and pull off a few split ends. I should probably stop abusing my hair like this, but I’ve been in the Mom Bun Club since Tegan was born, and now I’m addicted to not having to deal with hair in my face or, heaven forbid, actually have to style my locks. The curling iron at the bottom of the drawer stares up at me accusingly. I haven’t used it in—how long? I couldn’t say, but the thin layer of dust covering the handle is a clear hint it’s been too long.
I drop my burgundy suit and cream blouse in the dry-cleaning laundry basket and move to my bedroom to change into a pair of leggings, an oversized sweater, and comfy socks.
Once I’m settled in my cozy gear, I knock on Tegan’s door.
There’s no answer.
And, okay, moms aren’t ever supposed to—under no circumstances—enter their teenagers’ sacred bedrooms without the occupant’s express permission, a warrant, or at least probable cause. But Tegan is a sweet kid, and she’s probably just listening to music too loud to hear me. So, I do the unthinkable and turn the knob.
True to expectations, my daughter is on her bed, laptop on her legs, giant headphones covering her ears while she bounces her head up and down in rhythm to a tune. Our cat, Priscilla, is nestled between the pillows of Tegan’s queen bed where she knows she shouldn’t sleep. The covers are fair game, but the pillow area is forbidden, which, in our cat’s mind, must be exactly the appeal.
I sit at the foot of the bed, causing Tegan’s head to snap up and her eyes to go wide as she shuts the laptop at the speed of light.
What was she doing?
Unfortunately, I know the rules and am not allowed to ask. I sigh inwardly, missing the days when she was little and her biggest life’s goal was to spend as much time in my arms as she could. But, alas, those times are gone. Let’s focus on the present.
“Hi, honey.”
She removes the headphones, nestling them around her neck. “Hey, Mom.”
As expected, her tone isn’t angry. Tegan doesn’t begrudge me the intrusion. And other than shutting her laptop, she welcomes me with a warm smile.
“Did you have dinner already?” I ask.
“Yeah, I ordered pizza. I left you some.”
I want to say eating fast-food every night isn’t a smart choice, but what right do I have when I wasn’t home to make her a healthier meal? The usual inner battle between providing the best financial support for my
