Ignore his attempts to act like everything is normal, Christina.
Keep this interaction minimal. Focused on the kids and what he has to do.
Do. Not. Engage.
My silence works, he fires off another text in seconds agreeing to cover pick-up duty.
But yeah lemme tell the boss and I’ll head out and grab the kids. What time do I have to be there again?
It’s times like this I hold extra appreciation that he works for my best friend of a gazillion years. And that he’s the top sales guy in the company, and they let him sneak away now and then if he needs to. But I’m not feeling so much admiration for him at the moment, so I’ll keep the good thoughts centered on what a good boss my bestie is to him, instead.
4:30 for the boys, not a minute later. Her daycare closes at 5:15.
On it! Good luck baby
I tuck my phone in my back pocket once more, just about to turn around and face the client again when I hear her ask, “Um, are you going to fix my face?”
Deep breaths, Chrissy. Woo-sah. She doesn’t know that I needed the mascara on her cheeks to dry before I can remove it with a clean spoolie, or that there’s nothing I could’ve done until that dried, anyhow. I guess I could’ve told her that much, but my passive-aggressive side is really close to becoming straight aggressive right now.
“Of course, sweetie, I just had to coordinate someone to pick up my children from school as this is taking a little longer than scheduled.” I try to keep the venom at bay, but surely she can feel my irritation in the ether.Stay professional, Chrissy.
She doesn’t even have the decency to look ashamed for being late or causing this additional setback in my schedule. She doesn’t realize that I might have somewhere else to be and that I can’t dedicate a total of three or four hours of my day to prepping for her appointment, traveling here, and servicing her, when this is all is said and done I’ll probably net fifty dollars after expenses.
I decide to send two last texts before finishing with Panda Girl.
You still up for margaritas after work?
And:
I fucking miss you, bitch. You. Me. Brunch. Saturday. The usual time + place. XO
SIX
CHRISSY
I’m glad I went out for drinks with Lola last night. I think “surprised” would be an understatement to describe her reaction at my change in plans, but it was much needed, for both of us. She vented to me about her daughters (kinda glad I’ve got mostly boys after that), her ex-husband (sucha dick), being single in her 40s (I shudder at the memory of the couple of dating stories she shared), her clients (they sound just like mine), and all the other bullshit going on in her life that is just that much better when you have a friend to bounce it off of.
I wasn’t ready to share too much of what’s going on with me and Chance, that feels like breathing life into it, and there are some things I’m just not ready to voice to many others yet. But Ididlaugh with her, share some anecdotes about the kids (she was so glad to be out of the phases we’re in, both of us were glad to be sleeping through the night now, and I’m now dreading their teen years thanks to her tales), and Ididhave a relaxing night that was sorely needed.
“What are we eating tonight, Di?” Chance’s rough voice breaks my train of thought, but the kids don’t even look up from their places at the kitchen counter. Brad and Preston are flipping through a kids’ magazine together, fighting over how fast to turn the pages and whose turn it is to flip the next one, while Ford has his head bent over a phonics workbook that he’s doing forfun, the little psycho. Not sure where his academic streak comes from, it’s certainly not his father or me. Little Lea is in her highchair, smooshing a chunk of half-chewed strawberry into the piece of paper she was drawing on a minute ago, fascinated by her mixed media artwork.
Chance grabs a peach out of the fruit basket on the butcher block countertop, tossing it into the air and catching it easily, then leans with one hip against the front of the white ceramic apron sink, winks at me, and begins an indecent display of eating his snack, reminding me he asked a question.
My cheeks heat at the way his tongue dips into the fruit. I swear he is literally squeezing juice out of it with how hard his tongue is pressing into the soft flesh before he groans at the taste and laps it up, not allowing a single drop of that juice fall off of the lucky fucking fruit and onto my almost-sort-of-kind-of-clean faux-hardwood floors.
I’ve had that tongue on the softest bits of my own flesh thousands of times, if not all that recently, and enough sensations are being rekindled by his little show for me to actually be jealous of a piece of fruit. I feel the flush creep up my chest and neck, and pray to the Patron Saint of Mentally Unfaithful Spouses(I assume that’s who watches over him)that he can’t tell how wet this is making me.
Goddamn him.Aaaaand after that blasphemous thought, there’s no way my prayers will be answered, anyway.
What is he eating tonight? Notmypeach, that’s for sure. “Leftovers,” I reply shortly, my eyes narrowing on his.
“Mmm.” He sounds disappointed. Good. “I was hoping you’d say it’d be my choice,” he tells me, with a wink and a flirty grin.
I try to ignore him and continue prepping the kids’ dinners of chicken nuggets (two plates with ketchup and two with absolutely no ketchup anywhere near the plate, lest the screaming and throwing begin), and place them on the eat-in counter in front of each of the little ones, where they look up from their various distractions and begin to slowly start picking at the nuggets.
Meanwhile, I try to keep my eyes from darting over to Chance’s little performance every four seconds. I’m pretty sure my attempt to pretend I haven’t noticed every. single. lick. isn’t fooling anyone but the kids. He grins as he finishes the fruit with a satisfied slurp, nothing but the pit left in his hand. As he slowly makes his way across the small space to toss it in the garbage, he leans over to whisper in my ear, “That was nowhere near as good as what I’ve been craving. But I’ll eat whatever you’ve got for me.”
If I can hold out on him another week, I deserve a fucking Nobel prize in abstinence.
