Clasping my hands in my lap, I flip her off.The beauty of working a remote job.
“I’ll take a look through the list again and let you know if anybody meets all those requirements. If not, it’s going to take some time to source more candidates.”
The obnoxious vibration of my cell phone makes theentire desk shake, and I frantically reach to reject the call while Ms. Sharp, the hiring manager for a private dermatology office, rambles. Normally my phone has notifications silenced during work hours, with a select few phone numbers allowed to get through, in case of an emergency. But apparently it didn’t work this morning.
A voicemail notification pops up.
Less than a minute later, the same number calls for a second time.
No voicemail.
The third call has me cutting off the hiring manager in front of me. “So sorry to do this, Ms. Sharp. There seems to be an emergency, and I really need to take this call. Do you mind sending over your revised list, and I’ll be in touch soon?”
The second she’s nodding, I give a short wave with one hand, and the other taps to end the call.
“Hello?” I answer my phone breathlessly.
“Is this Whit Hart? Jonas’s mother?” a feminine voice asks.
Oh my God. Jonas.
He went out with his school friends for the first time since summer break started. They were going to ride bikes down to the park, and I was selfishly thrilled to learn he does, in fact, have friends other than Colt. It momentarily lessened my mom-guilt about everything that happened on my birthday, but now…
What if he got hit by a car?
What if he fell down a ravine on his bike?
What if he was kidnapped?
I can barely muster up a reply, so many devastating thoughts race wildly through my brain. “Y-yes.Yes.”
“This is Heather—Logan’s mom. You need to come to the park and pick Jonas up.”
I clutch my chest, instinctively moving toward the door. “Did something— Is he okay?”
Then I hear it in her voice. It’s disdain, not sadness. Judgment, not sympathy. You’d think by now I’d recognize it immediately. “Hepunchedmy son.”
“Oh, Jonas.” My back collides with the wall, and I squeeze my eyes shut. “I’m so sorry. Um, is your son okay?”
“He is. No thanks to yours.” I’m trying my best to picture who the hell Heather is. But she sounds like a bitch, so I can only imagine she looks like one, too.
“I’m sorry again. I’ll be there in a couple minutes.”
After she hangs up, I let the wall prop me up for a few more seconds. My cheeks puff out with a pent-up breath, and the loud exhale blows through pursed lips. Evidently, I’m a naive idiot. A part of me genuinely thought a summer spent on the ranch alongside hardworking men had magically fixed him. We’ve been in such a good place since he began spending multiple days per week at Wells Ranch. Jonas getting into this kind of trouble didn’t even cross my mind when he asked to go to the park. But Colt’s early morning starts haven’t allowed them to spend as much time together lately, so this morning I was mollified by Jonas’s lack of a pouty lip about it.
For the entire four-minute drive to the community park, I will myself not to cry.
The instant I pull into an empty space in the dirt parking lot, I spot Heather. Or at least, I spot a woman who I assume is Heather. Skinny, short, blond, and the scrunched face of somebody who smelled a particularly ripe fart. Even from here, she looks hostile.
I smooth down my blouse—thankful I’m wearing my work attire, because I find it disarms these types of situations when I look like a hardworking professional, rather than the trashy, negligent parent they always seem to expect to see.
Naturally, the park is bustling with stay-at-home moms and kids running amok. I can barely stand the overwhelming floral aroma in the air as I cross the lush green grass, headingtoward the picnic table where blondie has my son held hostage.
“Hi, you must be Heather,” I say, extending a hand toward the petite woman. “I’m Jonas’s mom, Whit.”
Her handshake is limp, though she does have gorgeous manicured nails. Under normal circumstances, I’d ask where she gets them done.
I give my kid a once-over, checking for signs of injury. Sure, he’s often the instigator in these situations. But that doesn’t mean there haven’t been times where kids—or their parents—blamed him for fights he didn’t start.
