Page 19 of Man Flu

“Umm,” I hear Tiana thinking out loud in the background.

“Hannah would really appreciate it, babe,” Rick adds in. Not that he could make mention of Cora being his daughter too, and that it would essentially help him out. What Rick seems to forget is that our child support agreement was nearly in his favor since I bring in a decent salary. If I were to lose my job, Rick would be forking out a lot more dough, but he doesn’t look at it that way.

The thought has crossed my mind. Just quit, live off my ex’s alimony and child support, and bam, have it made, but my ego is too big for that. However, that doesn’t mean I can’t drop a hint and play the game.

“You know what, I’m just going to call in today. Cora needs me,” I tell him.

“Didn’t you just call me up all damsel-in-distress like because you’re afraid of getting in trouble at work?” he retorts, just as I hoped he would.

“I did, but you know what, it’s just a job right? What’s the worst that can happen?” I continue.

“Well, you could get fired,” he says with a guttural belly laugh. Though, the laugh does end abruptly, almost as if my brilliant ex-husband realizes what would happen if I got fired.

“I see what you’re doing,” he says.

“Oh,” I play along with a high-pitched sigh. “You do, buddy?”

“Jesus, I’ll stay home with her today.”

“My hero,” I lament. “Come get her.” The second we divorced, Rick appeared to take on the role of a babysitter. Even when Cora stays at his house on the weekends, Cora plays on her Kindle for hours, or in between the time it takes Tiana to paint her nails whatever bold color she’s chosen for the week.

“Yes, your hiney,” Rick says before the phone disconnects. There’s something unsettling about a child watching a child. I think Cora is more mature than Rick, and I’m not thinking that out of hate or distaste. She might be more responsible too.

I clamber out of my bed again and greet my full-length mirror with a snarl. No wonder he chose Tiana. I run my fingers through a bird’s nest of hair standing at attention like a creature from Whoville.

I kind of stopped caring about the way I look a long time ago. I was comfortable in my marriage, and I guess I was stupid enough to think Rick loved me for what was inside rather than the way I looked when I woke up or came home after a long day at work. After all, I birthed a child and distorted my body into a dome house for nine months, leaving behind white zebra stripes on both sides of my torso. I thought a man was supposed to find it sexy after his woman went through the most brutal pain in the world. Instead, I ended up with the man who looked at me as damaged goods after childbirth. After Cora was born, he never wanted to sleep with me. If I took my clothes off in front of him, he’d turn around. I got the hint but had no desire to try much harder. He made me feel hideous, and now that’s what I see in the mirror—small age lines, dark circles, dull hair, and a matching complexion. I’m hot stuff.

I look over at my alarm and figure I have at least ten minutes before Rick meanders over here with his stainless-steel juicing cup in hand.

I’ve gotten good at taking five-minute showers. There’s no time for closing my eyes and glancing up into the shower head as I run my fingers through my hair. Nope. I step in before the water is completely heated, pump a handful of shampoo into my hand, lather for thirty-seconds, rinse, repeat with conditioner, and scrub a bar of soap over my body while the conditioner does its job for two minutes. Then it’s rinse and rinse, run the razor over the important spots with very few strokes, and grab a towel. Done.

I drag a brush through snarls, feeling individual hairs plucked from my scalp since I don’t take the time to spray in any product. A swipe of mascara and four lines of black liner, lipstick, perfume, and deodorant make my bathroom time complete in nine minutes.

The only good thing I do for myself is set out my clothes for work the night before and hang them on the back of the bathroom door. I can literally walk out of the bathroom fully clothed and ready to go.

I’m aware I could wake up earlier. It would solve my issues, but I’m so freaking tired that the thought makes me feel sick.

Just as I pluck the last button through the hole on my blouse, the doorbell rings. Maybe he could have considered that his daughter might still be asleep because she’s sick. Though, he’s never been around when she’s sick. Leaving for the office before she wakes up and coming home a half hour before she goes to bed left Rick little time to get to know the day-to-day details of his daughter’s life.

I take one quick look in the mirror, approving the improvement of my just-awoken look, and trample down the stairs to the front door.

I’m sure it’s completely normal for a person to feel a need to punch their ex right in the teeth when they see him or her first thing in the morning, but why does he have to smile like he owns the whole goddamn world? “Cora is sick. Maybe you could take your perkiness down a notch.”

“A smile always cheers people up, Hannah. Even the most miserable people can feel a little brighter when someone smiles at them. It doesn’t seem to be working for you, though.”

“Is that what this is?” I ask him. “You’re trying to brighten my day with a smile?”

“Well, you do look a little miserable,” he adds in.

“Our daughter is sick. Unlike you, I would rather stay by her side all day and feed her soup and keep her wrapped up in her favorite blanket.”

Rick holds his hands up as if I offended him. “Whoa, whoa, who said I didn’t want to do all that?”

I cross my arms over my chest and shake my head for a moment. “Rick, when have you ever done that?”

His smile fades into a straight line as he walks in and past me like he still lives here. “Come on in,” I mumble sarcastically as I close the door. He pokes his head into the family room and then the kitchen, finding that Cora’s not downstairs. “She’s still asleep.”

“Eh, kids like to sleep,” he says while heading up the stairs.