For starters, I don’t have time for dating. Even if I had, I have a big fat target painted on my back and a juicy price on my head. The last time I heard, it was a nice round million. Men tell me I’m pretty, but I’m not that pretty, at least not the kind they’d choose over a million dollars in unmarked bills.
Then there are the logistics. You can’t date someone with the hope of building a relationship if you don’t hang around in one place for more than a few months. Noah and I have been on the run constantly. I’ve only recently made a new life for us here, testing the waters in the quieter neighborhoods of Denver. I’m finally daring to dream that it’s possible to disappear in a big city far away from New York and just breathe for a while. God knows, Noah needs the stability. He’ll be turning five in December. Next year, he has to go to school. He’s just a little boy who needs friends, a dog, and new shoes.
I look at my sweet baby who’s invented a game to play indoors because he’s not allowed to kick his ball outside. Noah doesn’t complain. He’s such a good kid. He’s still young enough to accept my rules without questioning them.
That’s not going to last forever. Like all growing children, he’ll want freedom and answers, and when I can’t give him either, he’ll challenge me. My brother, Leander, made our lives hell during his teenager years. For some reason, he blamed all his issues on my mom. She never had it easy with him. Yet she always said he’d been the sweetest baby.
Watching Noah like this, my insides turn all mushy. And then guilt sets in to taint that bottomless love and infinite affection with the acrid taste of failure. Because it’s my fault that he has to live like this, always running and hiding. Because of my mistake, I can’t give him the life he deserves. What kind of mother does that make me?
Jazz finishes labeling the last box. “At least think about it. I’ll watch Noah. It’s no biggie. It’s about time you break your five year-long dry spell.”
Frowning, I mouth, “Not in front of Noah.”
She cocks an eyebrow. “But wouldn’t that be nice?”
The kind of nice she means has no place in my life. Did I mention guys my age don’t want to date girls with my baggage? At twenty-four, they’re more likely to sign up for drinks at the club and a good time getting naked than playing hide and seek with a four year-old or sailing paper boats in the tub. I doubt they’d get excited about wieners with spaghetti hair for dinner.
The truth is I don’t mind. I love spending every minute I can with Noah. I wouldn’t be able to relax if I’m too far away from him. I never know when my past is going to catch up with me. The last thing I want is for that to happen when I’m making out with some guy I’m not really interested in while my baby’s safety is on the line.
No, thanks.
I say that out loud, which invites a drawn-out, painful sigh from Jazz. She’s moved on to folding up tablecloths that don’t fit on any table in the house or garden.
Ignoring the looks she keeps on sending me, I wrap the last of the porcelain animal collection in paper before sealing the box. The owner gave me permission to get rid of anything that’s broken, cracked, or chipped, which will definitely help to declutter her home.
The wall into which her flock of ducks has been nailed seems a lot less crammed now that the birds have been relieved of their fifty year-long flight. Their places left marks on the faded wallpaper. The nails were hammered in carelessly, mimicking the haphazard flight formation of a never-ending trek to a warmer climate. I’m sad for those ducks that never went anywhere. Those nails will take the plaster with them when the owner pulls them out. She’ll have to strip the wallpaper and fill the holes with spackle. A fresh coat of paint will do wonders.
Noah scrambles over the obstacles he’s built with the sofa cushions and lands his plane on the armrest of a chair. He’s a real ball of energy. He should be outside, climbing trees and learning to ride a bike. He should also have clothes that didn’t come from the thrift store and sneakers that don’t have holes.
That’s what kills me time and again, those little holes his big toes have worn through his sneakers because he only has one pair he wears every day. Children need good shoes for proper back support. My mom drilled that into me. And here I am, my heart cracking open and bleeding empty in my chest, and there’s not a damn thing I can do to make it better.
I tell myself that I give Noah plenty of the important stuff that money can’t buy—hugs and love and cuddles at night. Yet deep down, I know the truth. When I found out I was pregnant, I swore I’d give my child the best. Of course, money wasn’t an issue then. Now, I can’t even guarantee we’ll have food on the table.
Because I screwed up.
In the worst possible way.
But I try not to think about that. The guilt is too damning. If I give in to those feelings, I’ll drown in them.
Yet I can’t ignore how my choices impacted Noah or what my actions meant for him. I’m made to face my mistakes over and over again, forced to admit all my broken promises when I look at my sweet little boy who’s lost in his own imagination and a paper plane because I can’t afford to buy him toys.
“Done.” Jazz turns to me, framed by small heaps of folded linen on the table behind her. “How about you?”
Straightening, I stretch my sore back. “Almost.”
I’m used to the work. The heavy lifting has strengthened my muscles over the years, and my body has grown fit from the exertion. However, I’ve been pushing myself extra hard to finish this job because I need the money. Every bone in my body is aching.
We finish sorting the boxes by clothes to be dropped off at charities, ornaments destined for pawn shops, and paperwork to be shredded. I call myself a home organizer, but in reality, I’m a glorified maid who declutters and spring cleans other people’s messes. The job doesn’t pay well, but my clients pay cash, which allows me to stay off the grid.
“So.” Jazz rights the last box with a foot. “Are you going to ask him, or am I?”
“Ask who what?”
“The hot handyman.” She pulls her shoulders up to her ears. “On a date.”
“No and no.”
She watches me without replying. I don’t bother to decipher her expression. It probably says I’m paranoid and pathetic. In both instances, that would be true. And if she thinks she can fix that, she’d be wrong.
