Whit
My middle finger digs into the soft skin over my temple, and I stare at a slightly grainy image of a woman on the other end of a video call.
A hiring manager who can’t seem to make up her mind exactly what the hell it is she’s wanting out of an employee.
Doesn’t help that it’s Monday afternoon and I’m still trying to survive my lingering birthday hangover from Friday.
“Ms. Sharp, I sourced these candidates based on the list you sent me of ‘must-haves.’ To clarify, you’re now saying that some items on your ‘would be nice’ list are actually necessary for the job?” My eyebrows pull together. “Has the role changed?”
I try not to dissociate, reaching over to fiddle with the slightly off-kilter stack of paper loaded into my printer, listening to her pick apart the candidates it took me weeks to find for her.
So many cold messages sent on LinkedIn, job postings on every hiring website, and paid advertisements for those postings.
Clasping my hands in my lap, I flip her off. The beauty of working a remote job.
“I’ll take a look through the list again and let you know if anybody meets all those requirements. If not, it’s going to take some time to source more candidates.”
The obnoxious vibration of my cell phone makes the entire desk shake, and I frantically reach to reject the call while Ms. Sharp, the hiring manager for a private dermatology office, rambles.
Normally my phone has notifications silenced during work hours, with a select few phone numbers allowed to get through, in case of an emergency.
But apparently it didn’t work this morning.
A voicemail notification pops up.
Less than a minute later, the same number calls for a second time.
No voicemail.
The third call has me cutting off the hiring manager in front of me. “So sorry to do this, Ms. Sharp. There seems to be an emergency, and I really need to take this call. Do you mind sending over your revised list, and I’ll be in touch soon?”
The second she’s nodding, I give a short wave with one hand, and the other taps to end the call.
“Hello?” I answer my phone breathlessly.
“Is this Whit Hart? Jonas’s mother?” a feminine voice asks.
Oh my God. Jonas.
He went out with his school friends for the first time since summer break started.
They were going to ride bikes down to the park, and I was selfishly thrilled to learn he does, in fact, have friends other than Colt.
It momentarily lessened my mom-guilt about everything that happened on my birthday, but now…
What if he got hit by a car?
What if he fell down a ravine on his bike?
What if he was kidnapped?
I can barely muster up a reply, so many devastating thoughts race wildly through my brain. “Y-yes. Yes.”
“This is Heather—Logan’s mom. You need to come to the park and pick Jonas up.”
I clutch my chest, instinctively moving toward the door. “Did something— Is he okay?”
Then I hear it in her voice. It’s disdain, not sadness. Judgment, not sympathy. You’d think by now I’d recognize it immediately. “He punched my son.”
“Oh, Jonas.” My back collides with the wall, and I squeeze my eyes shut. “I’m so sorry. Um, is your son okay?”
“He is. No thanks to yours.” I’m trying my best to picture who the hell Heather is. But she sounds like a bitch, so I can only imagine she looks like one, too.
“I’m sorry again. I’ll be there in a couple minutes.”
After she hangs up, I let the wall prop me up for a few more seconds.
My cheeks puff out with a pent-up breath, and the loud exhale blows through pursed lips.
Evidently, I’m a naive idiot. A part of me genuinely thought a summer spent on the ranch alongside hardworking men had magically fixed him.
We’ve been in such a good place since he began spending multiple days per week at Wells Ranch.
Jonas getting into this kind of trouble didn’t even cross my mind when he asked to go to the park.
But Colt’s early morning starts haven’t allowed them to spend as much time together lately, so this morning I was mollified by Jonas’s lack of a pouty lip about it.
For the entire four-minute drive to the community park, I will myself not to cry.
The instant I pull into an empty space in the dirt parking lot, I spot Heather. Or at least, I spot a woman who I assume is Heather. Skinny, short, blond, and the scrunched face of somebody who smelled a particularly ripe fart. Even from here, she looks hostile.
I smooth down my blouse—thankful I’m wearing my work attire, because I find it disarms these types of situations when I look like a hardworking professional, rather than the trashy, negligent parent they always seem to expect to see.
Naturally, the park is bustling with stay-at-home moms and kids running amok. I can barely stand the overwhelming floral aroma in the air as I cross the lush green grass, heading toward the picnic table where blondie has my son held hostage.
“Hi, you must be Heather,” I say, extending a hand toward the petite woman. “I’m Jonas’s mom, Whit.”
Her handshake is limp, though she does have gorgeous manicured nails. Under normal circumstances, I’d ask where she gets them done.
I give my kid a once-over, checking for signs of injury. Sure, he’s often the instigator in these situations. But that doesn’t mean there haven’t been times where kids—or their parents—blamed him for fights he didn’t start.
Then I look at the other kid; I recognize him from the group of kids Jonas was hanging out with during the last-day-of-school party. Shouldn’t that mean they’re friends?
“Jonas, go wait in the car.”
I watch him trudge away before turning back to the other mom.
“Heather, I’m incredibly sorry. I don’t know what came over him, but I’ll be dealing with it when we get home.” I steal a glance toward the parking lot. “Is Logan okay?”
“Thankfully,” she snarks.
“Okay. Good. Well, again, sorry.” I grimace. “I have to get back to work, so I’ll take him home.”
I turn to go, and Heather clears her throat. “Um, his bike.”
“Shit,” I mutter. “Thanks, Heather.”
Clasping my sweaty palms around the handlebars, I haul Jonas’s bike from where it’s lying on the grass and slowly roll it toward my car.
All eyes are on me. I want to give a piece of my mind to the parents silently judging as they sit on picnic blankets with their sweet babies or push happy toddlers on swings.
My kid used to be an innocent, perfect little angel, too.
One day, at least a few of you are going to be in my goddamn shoes.
There’s no sense in warning them, because they won’t listen. I wouldn’t have listened. I was adamant my boy could do no wrong for at least the first six years of his life. Honestly, my reluctance to believe he could mess up is only one of the items on the list of how I’ve failed him.
Now I’m dropping his bike to the ground in front of my car and motioning for Jonas to get out of his seat. “You’re riding this home,” I mouth to him.
The passenger door opens, and his messy blond head pops up. “What?”
“I can’t fit your bike in my car. You have to ride it home.” I stare him down. “Either that, or I’ll leave it here for some lucky kid to take. Honestly, maybe that’s for the best, since you’ll probably be too big to ride it by the time you’re ungrounded.”
His feet hit the dusty parking lot with a dull thud, and he intentionally slams the door with all his might. At this point, getting mad about that won’t contribute anything to the situation except leading to a very public screaming match.
“Straight home.”
Climbing onto his bike, he lines up the pedals, refusing to make eye contact with me. “Yeah.”
“I am so serious, Jonas. If I find out you made any kind of detour, you won’t be leaving your room until the school year starts.”
“Not even to go to the bathroom?” he asks with a smirk, trying so fucking hard to trip me up, I have to clench my fists to keep from yelling at him.
“Straight. Home.” I point somewhere that seems roughly like the direction of home. “I’m not kidding.”
With an angry shake of his head, he pushes his left foot against the grass to propel the bicycle forward. I stay frozen in place until he’s outside the park boundaries, waiting to see if he decides to test me by saying anything to his friends. Luckily for both of us, he doesn’t.
The inside of my car is approximately one thousand degrees, but I keep the windows up so I can let out a scream the moment I pull out of the parking lot. One really good, lung-burning scream. And an open-palmed slam against the steering wheel, for good measure.
I pass Jonas on the side of the road. Pedaling with a scowl on his face. He doesn’t look at me.
Arriving back home, I head straight for his bedroom to confiscate his handheld gaming device.
Then to the living room for the PlayStation controllers because I wouldn’t put it past him to sneak downstairs in the middle of the night.
Once they’re locked in the middle drawer of my nightstand, I flop backward onto my bed and wait for the fight that’s sure to erupt the moment he walks in the door.
Minutes tick by. I watch my phone like I’m counting down to an explosion, knowing nobody has bothered to call in the bomb squad.
Utterly hopeless. All his progress from this summer is about to be decimated.
Naturally, we’re right back to where we started, and we’re merely days from the start of the new school year.
Grade six sounds ominous. Maybe because it’s likely to be the grade Jonas never completes. Principal Maher is expelling him the moment an opportunity presents itself.
Fifteen minutes pass and I’m tapping my fingernails against the windowsill. After twenty minutes, my cheek presses to the warm glass, and I squint under the harsh sun to get a clearer view down the street.
He’s sulking. Taking his sweet time coming home because he’s dreading the trouble he’ll be in when he gets here.