7. Evie Wilder
Chapter seven
Evie Wilder
Days like today increase my longing for friendship significantly. I wish I had a best friend who I could call and rant to. She’d tell me I was right about everything–even when I’m not–then help me figure out what to do. But the friends I used to call abandoned me when I divorced Ezra. It didn’t matter that he was the one who cheated, and that before he cheated he was manipulative and terrible to me. All that mattered was that Ezra had connections . He was a charismatic up and coming model with contacts everyone in the industry dreamt of.
Everyone wanted to be friends with him, me included. I thought that I was the luckiest girl in the world when he first noticed me on a brand shoot. And when he asked me out? I almost fainted. So it’s hard to judge them for staying on his side when I did for so long. I don’t know what I would have done if someone told me he had been mean to them while I was still under his spell. I probably would have dismissed them too, if I had to guess.
Nevertheless, here I am, friendless and alone, wishing I could vent about the state of the job market. The search is not going well. Most magazines aren’t hiring photographers, and the ones that are won’t pay me enough to keep my apartment. Not even with the miniscule child support Ezra pays–usually not on time. I looked up what kind of apartment I could afford on the salary they offered and it isn't the kind of life I want for Beckham.
I could try to pick my wedding photography business back up, but I haven’t worked a wedding in a long time and it could take me a while to find clients. I look at the date in the top corner of my computer. I have a month to find something, really less than that if I want to be sure I’ll get a paycheck before my severance runs out. My eyes burn from staring at my laptop for so long. I scrub my face with my hands and groan.
My phone buzzes and I jump–surprised at the rare occurrence. Not many people call or text me anymore. I pick it up and sigh when I see a text from Drew.
Drew: Why did the chicken cross the playground? To get to the other slide.
My brow furrows. Why would he send me such a terrible joke? Another text comes through.
Drew: This is day one of sending you dad jokes until you forgive me and talk to me again.
I shake my head, but I can’t help the smile that pulls at my lips. As much as he drives me crazy, I do love him. I want us to have a good relationship, but I don’t want to be treated like a child. Since we grew up in a house with absent parents, Drew stepped in as a father figure in a lot of ways. Now that I’m older though, I don’t need him to parent me.
I bite my lip as I consider responding. I don’t want him to think he can treat me the way he did at the restaurant, but I also messed up and he didn’t ask me to apologize.
Evie: If I forgive you, will you still send the dad jokes?
His reply is instant. The image of him waiting by the phone tugs at my heart strings. How many times did he do that while I ignored him?
Drew: I’ll up it to two a day if you promise to keep in touch.
I let out a laugh.
Evie: Two is too much. You can keep it at one a day and I promise to respond each time.
Drew: I won’t hold you to daily texts. You’ve got a lot going on.
“You have no idea,” I murmur.
My eyes flick back to the job hunting website. The temptation to take his and Maverick’s offer springs up within me. I scold myself for even considering it. If I went back to Georgia they’d put me in a bubble and try to do everything for me. Just the thought makes me feel claustrophobic. No, I need my own space. And I need to make things right on my own. If I let them bail me out, I’ll always feel like a failure.
Evie: I’ll at least try my best.
Drew: I appreciate that. Mav just asked if he sends dad jokes will he get check ins too?
I smile down at my phone. It warms my heart that even after I turned him down last night, he still wants to stay in touch. I don’t deserve his kindness .
Evie: We could make a group chat?
Shortly after my text sends, I get one from Maverick.
Maverick: I’m not good enough to get my own text? That hurts, Wilder.
My smile widens. It’s been too long since I’ve talked to him like this. I missed it. I missed him .
Evie: I’ll send you a separate text if you have something better than a dad joke to send me.
I wait a moment for his response, toying with the edge of my sweatshirt. A photo comes through of perhaps the cutest dog I’ve ever seen. An Australian Shepherd with bright blue eyes and a lolling tongue fills my screen. The dog is sitting on what looks to be a wooden porch, with a sky of pinks and oranges behind it.
Maverick: What about a daily puppy photo? This is Maisy, by the way.
Evie: She’s the cutest thing in the entire world! Except Beckham, of course.
I look over at Beckham laying in his lounger, staring up at the toys hanging above him.
“Yes, you’re the cutest thing in the whole universe,” I coo, then turn my attention back to my phone.
Maverick: So we have a deal?
Evie: Yes, your terms are acceptable.
My laptop goes into rest mode, so I press the spacebar to wake it up. The job listings tug me back down to reality. As fun as talking to Maverick is, it’s not going to get me a job. I sigh and set my phone to the side, then refresh the page. Nothing new, just the same jobs I’ve been staring at the past hour. Great .
I swear I’m on some kind of cruel game show. One where the executives brainstorm ideas on how to break a person’s soul. They’re really good at it too, considering that they gave me the hope of a job at a magazine only to snatch it away. Now that I’ve found a job prospect, I can’t find anyone worthy enough of taking care of Beckham.
Every reputable daycare is far out of my budget. Even if I lower my standards–which I don’t want to do–options are still slim. I have no one to ask for help. No coworkers with older kids who might want to make some extra money. No neighbors that I’m close with. The only person in this building that I’ve talked to more than once is Lou, and he already has a job.
I’m completely and utterly alone. I recall a poem I read in college, “No Man Is An Island.” Though John Donne had a way with words, I’m not sure he’s right. Because I feel very much like an island right now. Floating in the sea, far from notice or recognition. It’s just me fighting off the wind and waves, trying to keep Beckham safe.
I cradle my head in my hands. After making dozens of calls and spending hours online, I feel hopeless. How am I supposed to give Beckham a beautiful, abundant life when I can’t even find a babysitter?
Images of tiny apartments in bad neighborhoods fill my mind alongside ones of Beckham crying when I drop him off at daycare every day. My palms become wet as tears start to stream down my face.
All I want is to be a good mother, so that my son doesn’t resent me the way I resent my own parents. He’s already down one parent, and that means I have to be even better. Maybe I can’t give him what a dad could, but I can at least make sure his life is so good he never feels like he’s missing anything.
Sobs wrack my body as I realize I’ve already doomed the both of us with my choices. I could never regret having Beckham, but I do regret marrying Ezra. The shame of my decisions is engraved on my very soul. I feel it in the depths of my being and I don’t think I’ll ever be rid of it. Beckham is forced to be without a loving father and stuck with a mother who can’t get anything right.
My phone buzzes next to me on the couch. I wipe my face on the sleeves of my sweater, then reach for it. Maybe one of the less expensive daycares got an opening and is sending me an email. Hope is a jagged piece of glass at this point, but I’m holding on until I can’t anymore.
Maverick: Once I’m back in Georgia I’ll start taking a new photo each day, but here’s an old one for now. How are you?
I sniffle as a photo of Maisy in a field of sunflowers comes through. My stomach drops like I’ve gone downhill too fast. Sunflowers . Memories of Maverick’s mom, Elena, flood my brain. Her favorite flower was the sunflower.
While my mom was too busy arguing with my dad or running away from responsibility, Elena spent her days making sure everyone she came into contact with left better than she found them. She taught me how to make biscuits–the only thing I can manage in the kitchen–and she helped me through my first breakup in middle school. She did everything I wished my own mother would have. Then when I was in high school, she passed away from cancer. Maverick lost his mom, and in a way, I did too .
Grief swells, threatening to swallow me up in its depths. My hands start to shake and I have to grip my phone to keep from dropping it. This reminder of her on top of everything else is too much. I lean back on my couch and close my eyes, taking deep breaths.
What would she say if she were here? She’d know what to do. She always did.
As I slowly calm down, my hands still shaking but not as bad, the answer comes to me in the form of a memory. I’m taken back to sitting on the Carters’ porch, Elena on one side, Maverick on the other. They consoled me while I cried about my parents’ divorce. I’d felt so safe there with them. Just like I felt with Maverick two days ago.
I look back down at my phone, take a deep breath, then dial his number.