“Please,” she says. “I’ve wanted to do one for sooo long.”
My mind spins.
Does Lizzie’s dad keep a gun? Is it locked?
Does Lizzie’s mom keep the medications up high?
Do they filter their water?
I run through all the overprotective-mom questions in my head until we’re on the steps to our place.
“Well?” Gabby tugs on my sleeve. “Can I? I’ll be so good, Mom. Please?”
I count to five in my head and take a deep breath. “I’ll call Lizzie’s mom and make sure it’s okay with her, and then ... yes.”
Gabby refuses to wait and runs into the house, singing and dancing. “Yay! I’m having a sleepover.”
A sadness washes over me. I’ve set up my life so it revolves around Gabby, and she’s flying the coop—already. What does that look like for me? Not a whole heck of a lot. It’s a pitfall of working online. Isolation. It’s made even worse by hiding what I do from basically everyone.
With hardly any friends to speak of, and my family scattered, who am I left with?
Me, myself, and I.
Every noise, every creak, every silent beat, every breath haunts me Friday night. I pause when I hear the water drip in the kitchen every few seconds. I jolt when the neighbor’s screen door slaps shut every few minutes. Their kids must be home and running in and out into the cold night.
When I can’t take it anymore, I stand and walk over to the window. Leaning forward, I watch our mostly quiet street as small snowflakes drift from the sky. Winter is coming, for sure. The neighbor kids couldn’t care less, zipping in and out, holding their tongues out to catch snowflakes, running back inside to report to their mom and dad.
Gabby’s not here. I take a big gulp of my red wine and let the drape flutter closed. Walking back to the couch, I silently wish for a fireplace. Just as warm, yet steadier than a man.
I fold my legs underneath me, warming my toes on my sweatpants, take another chug of wine, and pick up my laptop. When my phone rings, a chill runs the length of my spine until I see it’s Leona.
“Hello ...”
“Don’t tell me you’re working, Andi. There’s only so many medical records one person can type,” she yells into the phone. I imagine her sitting in her velour track suit at her Formica kitchen table, cradling the phone in her neck, sipping a wine spritzer.
“Working. Guilty.”
“Why did you send Gabby on a sleepover and not make a hot date for yourself? I should come over and slap you silly.”
“’Bye, Leona. See you tomorrow.”
“Make another sleepover next weekend, and I’ll take care of the rest,” she squeezes in before I disconnect the call.
Logging in to the back end of my blog, I check stats and filter spam comments before downloading a final report. Exciting Friday night, I know.
Except when I open up my email, the message fromGrill and Groomis looming, staring at me, begging me to answer.
Quickly, I draft an email to my advertisers, insert the numbers reports, and blast off my invoices, trying to shut off my email as quickly as possible, but nope. Can’t do it.
I click on the message from Reid and scan his words again, and before I know what I’m doing, I clickREPLY.
Reid,
Happy to help—not sure if I can—but my schedule is a bit erratic.
Let me know what you need exactly.
— UAB
