CHAPTER ONE
Carly
“Mommy! Mr. Pickles is stuck in the toilet again!” Ava yells.
I groan as I shove the last clean plate into my cupboard and close the dishwasher door. How my child has now twice gotten a giant stuffed donkey stuck in her toilet is a mystery. I have a sneaking suspicion that when she helped my colleague’s toddler with potty training two weeks ago, she decided she needed more practice in the off chance she happens upon another toddler in need of her expertise.
I walk into the bathroom to find half a stuffed donkey sticking out of the toilet.
I give my nearly six-year-old daughter a pointed look.
“What? He was doing so well. And what if Anissa needs help next time we visit? I barely remember potty training,” she explains as she motions to her donkey, which is now soaking up water and sinking lower into the bowl.
“Aves, you don’t need to be a potty training expert. I promise you. Anissa’s mom has got this under control,” I explain as I come over and yank on the stuffed animal. Shit. It’s really stuck.
“Sorry, Mom,” she says, and I get a little sad. She always called me mommy until she was about four. Now, it’s only sometimes mommy, which only reminds me of how fast she’s growing up. I just hope I’m enough for her. I watch my friends’ and colleagues’ kids with two parents and can’t help but compare myself.
“Let me call Mr. Troy,” I say, trying not to sigh. Ava is a mature five-year-old, but she’s still five. I hate to say I forget that sometimes, but in my weakest mom moments, I do.
“It’s my fault. I’ll go get him,” she says as she stands from where she’s sitting on the side of the bathtub. It’s then that I notice she wrote on the bathtub wall with her bath crayons.
“Curtsy flush.”
It takes me two seconds to understand what it means. She means a “courtesy flush.”
I point to it, and she giggles. “Mr. Hutch taught me to curtsy flush,” she says proudly. Of course he did.
“Courtesy flush,” I correct and write it out above her adorable handwriting. She shrugs.
We live in the best apartment building ever. My neighbors have become like my family. And they all chip in when I need last-minute babysitting. And Hutchinson Cromwell is one of Ava’s regular sitters.
“Oh, he did, did he?” I ask as I make a mental note to tell my ex-football-playing neighbor to watch what he says. Bray, who is one of my closest friends and lives across the hall, would never teach Ava silly stuff like that. He’s so good with her. And to be fair, so is Hutch, even when he acts like a big kid himself.
She shrugs and skips out of the bathroom as if she doesn’t have a care in the world. I hear our door slam, and I run a hand over my face. My phone buzzes with a text.
Giving Mr. Pickles a shake of my head, I walk back into the dining room and pick up my phone.
Bray: I can be there tomorrow at eight.
Me: Perfect. I have lunch for you guys in the fridge.
Braydon Murphy has been a lifesaver. Out of all my friends, he’s stepped up the most to help with Ava. Plus, since he’s an emergency room doctor, I know Ava’s in good hands.
The door flies open, and Troy walks in carrying tools in one hand and holding Ava in his other. She grins at me, and it’s hard to be annoyed with her. She’s lucky she’s so stinking cute.
“I found Mr. Troy,” she says as she points up at his head as if I can’t see him.
“Hi, Troy,” I say.
“I hear Mr. Pickles has a toilet issue again,” he says as he winks at me.
I motion to the bathroom, and he nods as he walks down the hallway. Ava chats away with him as if it’s just another day, and I suppose it is. Sighing, I look at the calendar on my wall. It’s the only way I can keep myself organized. It’s color-coded and has this little scan thing that uploads to my phone. I have six weeks until I get my two-week summer vacation, and then it’s back to prep for the next school year. At least I’m not moving rooms at my school. After three years there, I finally feel like I’m settling into the environment.
I log into my tutoring job’s website and check my schedule for the week. This is my third summer tutoring there, and I have a few regular students and a few new students. My schedule is packed, which is good because we need the money.
God, how I wish I had a partner to share some burdens with, but at the same time, I’m just glad I got Ava and me out of a bad situation. Or at least that’s what I’m telling myself.
My ex, her father, Chad, whose name alone should have been a clue, was a jerk. He was always critical of me. We fought constantly from the time Ava was born. And one day, we had a big fight. He said he hated being a husband and father. And then he walked out of the house and slammed the door, kicking over a planter on the porch as he went to his car and drove off. Something about that was the final straw for me. I packed our things and left that night. I drove through the night to my sister’s house. She helped me file for divorce the next day. Chad is supposed to pay child support, and he does have once-a-month visitation rights, but he’s only used them a few times right after we separated, and last year the child support payments stopped arriving. I could take him back to court, but it’s easier doing it on my own than asking him to help.
