The kids shuffled into the rink and the parents lurched behind them, headed to watch from the bleachers. I got a tap on my shoulder, expecting it to be Sorrento or Romelski. Their kids were in the same Learn to Play program and we often spent practices shoulder to shoulder with our arms crossed, watching the kids from along the goal line.
But it wasn’t Sorrento or Romelski. It was that douche nozzle who melted down over a roll of tape. All traces of the rage in his face were gone, now replaced with some overzealous smile.
“Hey, aren’t you Jack Leroy?”
“Far as I know,” I grumbled.
He stuck his hand out, which I stared at before giving it a reluctant shake. “Bryce Canton. I’m a big fan. I’ll admit I’m a little starstruck seeing you and Sorrento and Rome here every week.”
“Okay,” I said.
He fumbled over his words. “And thanks for taping Aspen. That really came in clutch.”
I turned, ready to give him my full attention and probably cuss him out too. My Nickelback-fueled rage demon told me to punch him right between the eyes.
But I saw his wife holding his other kid in the bleachers and decided for her sake, I needed to let it slide. She didn’t need any more shit than she’d already taken, and if I did what I wanted to do, he’d probably take it home with him and blame it on her somehow.
I rolled my lips between my teeth, looked him dead in the eye, and said, “It’s just tape.”
ONE
MARA
SEPTEMBER
“Areyou sure you don’t want a sample? They’re really delicious.”
The man in front of me hadn’t accepted my first dozen times I said no to tasting his damn walnut paste bars. I am patient, and I generally am kind. But no means no, even if it’s something as trivial as tasting a food.
Tasting food was part of my job. A grocery buyer decides what goes on shelves in stores. Amateurs, like Mr. Walnut Bar, assumed I had to actually enjoy the food. I couldn’t have cared less. I just needed sales data and evidence of traction.
Sure, sometimes I ate the samples. Who’s going to turn down free food? But if I didn’t want to or was risking a reaction by eating it, I just wasn’t having it.
Even though I wasn’t technically allergic to his walnut bars, I maintained a delicate balance of how much histamine I could eat at a time. If I was going to induce accidental anaphylaxis, it was going to be over something good: an all-you-can-eat seafood buffet, a highly ketchupped fried food, or saag paneer.
Not a walnut paste bar.
“I’m sure they are.” My phone ringing cut off my baker’s dozenth denial.
Saved by the bell.
Until I saw what number it was. There were three calls I didn’t like to receive:
1. Calls from my ex-husband from his spiritual time away in Nepal
2. Calls from my daughter Hazel’s daycare
3. Calls from my son Aspen’s school
This call was from number three: Aspen’s school.
I winced. “Sorry, I’m going to have to take this.”
“Oh, that’s okay. I can wait,” the man said, barely batting an eye.
“Great!” I chirped, when I really wanted this jackwad to leave effective immediately. I was out of time to politely throw him out, as I only had one more ring before my call went to voicemail. Then they’d call my ex-husband and interrupt his savasana serenity. The fucker.
“This is Mara.”
