Feeling exposed, I stare at the ground. It’s clear he’s not the type of guy who is going to let me push him away with my single-mom sob-story tactics. I probably should consider his move a bit stalkerish, but instead I’m raw with emotion at knowing he dropped whatever he was doing to check on Gabby and me.
“I’m sure this is a bit weird,” he says, “but I felt bad when you said Gabby was sick and you couldn’t come over tomorrow, and I thought maybe you’d want some company. You probably want to watch TV or something, but I thought ...” He looks down at Gabby, his hands by his sides.
“She’s not contagious,” I blurt.
He looks at me, then Gabby, then me. “I wasn’t worried about that. Did you think ...”
“I don’t know,” I say, but then Gabby interrupts.
“Mom, I have to pee.”
“Yes, let’s go. You can’t hold it.” I can’t look at Reid. He’s been inside me, we’ve been naked and sweaty together, yet I can’t seem to reconcile this intimate moment with my daughter in front of me.
I hurry her up the stairs, Reid in tow, and when I open the door, she plows to the bathroom.
“She okay?”
Finally, I have a moment to take Reid in. No coat, a new flannel—green—and worn-in jeans. His eyebrow is cocked, but he’s not smiling or smirking while he waits for me to answer.
“Urinary tract infection. Probably held her pee for too long when playing or whatever. She’ll be okay. Girl problems, ya know,” I say, trying to lighten the moment.
“I feel like an ass, running over here. It’s probably too much.”
When he steps back, I reach out, squeezing his bicep. “It was nice. I’m not sure anyone’s ever done that for me before.”
“Do you need to help Gabby?”
I shake my head. “She’s pretty self-sufficient in the bathroom. When she comes out, I’ll give her some Tylenol.”
“Do you want me to go?”
I take myself in, casting my gaze down at my ratty thermal, leggings, and leg warmers. “As long as you don’t mind my somewhat sketchy appearance, I’d love you to stay. Pretty sure a Disney-princess marathon will ensue at any minute.”
“I’m guessing it’s going to be an education for me.”
“Oh yeah.”
Just then, Gabby runs into the room, her feet bare, and still jumping. “Mom, can I watch TV?”
I nod. “As soon as I give you some medicine.”
I tell Reid I’ll be right back, then lead Gabby to the bathroom where I keep the Tylenol. She had one dose of antibiotics at the pediatrician’s office and will get another before bed.
When I come back out, Reid is staring at his phone and laughing. It’s a gorgeous sight until he says, “You ever heard of Lila, some kid?”
Schooling my expression, I start to respond but Gabby interjects.
“We love Lila! She’s so funny, with those two mini-buns. Mom, will you do my hair like that?”
“I take it you don’t know Lila?” I ask Reid, fluffing pillows on the couch, desperate to contain my anxiety.
I know good goddamn well why he’s asking. Because he thinks “Andrea” is so funny and witty, and while I was helping Gabby, he was reading her post.
Gah, I’m jealous of myself.
“No, but this blogger, who is pretty sardonic and funny, wrote a sweet column about her today.”
“Those are three words you don’t often hear together—sardonic, funny, sweet—but what the heck do I know? I’m only a medical transcriptionist.” There’s so much wrong with the run-on bullshit I spewed. So very much. I’m a bumbling idiot.
