3. three
three
Nora
“Ollie?” I call out, elbow deep in dish soap suds in the kitchen sink. “It’s almost bath time! Are you ready?”
When he doesn’t respond, my mom instincts begin tingling. Usually if things are quiet, it means something is afoot. Occasionally, I’ll find my busy two-year-old playing quietly by himself, engaged in some sort of imaginative storyline that I try my best not to interrupt. But most often, he’s either eating something that’s not actually meant to be eaten, painting with something that’s not meant to be used as paint, or emptying the contents of a drawer with incredible efficiency.
I set the ceramic bowl I’d washed aside, ears prickling for any sound that would give me a hint as to what sort of mischief Ollie’s getting himself into. The craziest thing about moments like this is how much damage one little boy can do in such a short amount of time. It’s impossible for a mother to keep an eye on her child every second of every day, and boy, does he make the most of those few minutes when he runs off alone.
“Ollie?” I call again, quickly drying my hands on a towel hanging from the oven rack. “Where are you, buddy?”
No answer. I first check my spare bedroom-turned-ceramics studio downstairs, where I spend most evenings throwing clay at the wheel. I open the door and glance around quickly, relieved to find that my shelves of ceramics remain untouched.
I peer into the downstairs bathroom. No sign of the sprite. I ascend the stairs, checking first in the upstairs bathroom, then checking Ollie’s bedroom before wandering into my bedroom.
“Ollie bear,” I say in a sing-song voice. “What are you up to?”
I hear a muffled giggle coming from my closet.
“Hmm,” I say, reassured now that he’s given his location away that the damage can’t be too bad. There’s not much to destroy in my closet. Maybe he was busy trying on my hats and shoes.
“Could he be…” I fling back my shower curtain, “…in the shower?”
Another giggle.
“Maybe…” I draw in a raspy gasp. “Oh, no. What if he…” I flick the toilet lid open, “...got flushed down the toilet? ”
Laughter bubbles from my closet, and I hear hangers clacking together. Ollie emerges, eager to assuage my fears that he hasn’t been forever lost to the plumbing.
“Mama!” he says in a gruff voice, running into the room like he’s on a mission. “I’m right here !”
“Sweet relief!” I cry, flinging my arms around him and squeezing him tightly. “What were you doing in the closet?”
“Hiding.”
“Hiding?” I cry, gripping him by the shoulders. “From me ? Uh oh. You know what happens when you hide from me.”
His brown eyes grow wide with gleeful anticipation. “Tickle bear?”
“ The tickle bear ! You’d better run!”
I roar, and he screams out another laugh, breaking away from my grasp and darting out of my room.
“I’m gonna get you!” The chase ensues. I stomp around, roaring and threatening to steal his honey stash and eat all his berries. Once he’s caught and thoroughly tickled until he’s breathless and my own ribs hurt from laughing, too, I lower him to my lap and kiss each of his soft cheeks.
“Let’s get you in the bath.”
He doesn’t put up much of a fight; bath time is his favorite part of the entire day. Within a few minutes, I’m once again elbow-deep in bubbles, fishing out trucks and rubber bath toys for my water-loving boy.
Ollie’s engaged in some kind of epic water battle with his toys when my phone buzzes in my back pocket. I slip it out and quickly read the text that’s come through.
Unknown number: Hey, Nora. This is Brooks. It was great to see you today. Thought I’d text you so you have my number.
I let out an audible gasp, fumbling my phone and nearly dropping it into the bath water.
“What, Mama?” Ollie asks.
My heart is flapping around my ribs like a caged bird.
This is Brooks .
Brooks Alden?
No way.
How in the world had he gotten my phone number?
My initial shock morphs into suspicion. There’s no way the Brooks Alden could really be texting me right now.
But the unknown number’s area code is the same as mine. And who else would have known that we’d seen each other at Delia’s today? As far as I know, he doesn’t publicize his outings in his hometown.
A splash erupts from the bath, drenching me in bubbles. I stand up and remove myself from the line of fire, too stunned to once again remind Ollie that the bath water belongs inside the bathtub.
I read over the text three more times, my heart ricocheting through every corner of my body.
Is this a joke? It’s got to be a joke. One I wish I could find funny.
I’d survived an encounter with Brooks today without dropping a plate or making a social blunder. I’d maintained a cool indifference as Kate had pressed me for every detail of our conversation every time I’d re-entered the restaurant. Sure, I’d allowed myself a few brief moments to really look at him, to admire his athletic physique and handsome features. We’d even had a friendly, if brief, interaction. Nothing to write home about, but still. It was more than the few words we’ve exchanged over the years.
He was nice. I was nice. End of story.
After I’d clocked out, I’d returned to reality. I’d picked up Ollie from my neighbors’ daycare that she runs out of her home. Then we’d gone to the park for a bit so we could both get some fresh air, enjoyed a gourmet dinner of mac n’ cheese, and now I’m getting him ready for bed. I can’t allow myself to dissect everything about my encounter with Brooks until I finish taking care of the little fish flopping around in the bath behind me. They both deserve my full attention.
A fresh wave of suds washes over the lip of the bathtub, and I decide I’d better intervene before we reach full-on flood status. Twenty minutes later, I’m sweating like I just finished a workout after wrangling Ollie into his pajamas and trapping him in his crib. Yes, he is still in a crib. I will use that method of containment as long as humanly possible. He’s figured out how to climb out of the thing, but at least it buys me a few more minutes before the escape artist makes his first out-of-bed appearance than a toddler bed would.
“Goodnight, Mama,” he says after we finish a bedtime story, lulling me into a false sense of security with a clinging hug and sweet, slobbery kiss he plants on my cheek.
“Goodnight, my boy. Sleep tight!”
I may be a first-time mom, but I can call a kid’s bluff when I see one. Ollie squints at me through half-closed lids as I shut his door. I know I’ve got maybe two minutes before he’s clambered out of his crib and is racing around, flinging random requests at me as an attempt to stall bedtime.
After nearly meeting my death by slipping in the puddle pooling on the bathroom floor, I mop up the spilled water on my hands and knees with Ollie’s wet bath towel. I’ve barely tossed it into the laundry room when I hear his door creak open.
“Yes?” I say as he peers into the hallway, his hair still damp and eyes glittering.
“I thirsty.”
“You already drank a bottle of milk.”
“I need water. Please.” He widens his big blue eyes. He’s so dang cute, it makes it hard to say no.
“Go lay back down, and I’ll bring you some.”
I fetch the master his drink and lay him back down into his crib. “It’s time to sleep now, Ollie. I’ll see you tomorrow, okay?” He’s surrounded by his favorite stuffed animals and fully hydrated. Fingers crossed he’ll get cozy and actually fall asleep.
I close his door behind me, feeling the weariness of the day start to fully settle in. It’s only once Ollie is safe in bed that I give myself permission to feel tired. If I sink into the fatigue at any other point during the day, I know I won’t be able to get back up and do everything I need to do.
Sore feet? Keep standing.
Tired eyes? Don’t close them.
Fuzzy brain? Stay awake.
Don’t stop moving.
That’s been my motto ever since Ollie was born.
Don’t stop moving.
It was in the depths of the long nights shortly after my divorce that the darkness would take hold of my heart and squeeze all hope from my lungs. I never want to feel that way again, so I stay busy to keep my mind from being shrouded in shadows.
I shuffle downstairs, letting out a long, slow breath as I assess the work that still needs to be done. I’d gotten our house in the divorce settlement, and even though it’s relatively small, it’s still a lot for one person to take care of. I’m it, over here. The housekeeper, the cook, the parent, the primary provider. I’m doing it all. Sometimes the weight of my role weighs heavy on my shoulders. I try not to dwell on it these days, or the overwhelm gets lodged in my throat like it often used to in those early months of motherhood.
I have my coping methods, like throwing pottery at the wheel and working extra shifts at the diner, but sometimes I’m terrified that the depression is going to slip through the cracks and undo all of the hard work I’ve put in to take care of my mental and emotional health since having Ollie. Sometimes I feel so fragile, like there’s a thin thread inside me just waiting to snap should something else go wrong in my life. It’s why I haven’t really dated since the divorce. The fear of getting my heart steamrolled by another selfish man keeps me from even trying.
Miraculously, Ollie doesn’t emerge from his room again. The house is quiet as I finish up the dishes and tidy the house, and for once, despite my fears, I allow my mind to grab hold of a very enticing, pleasantly distracting thought. Brooks Alden.
How had he gotten my number? I’d seen the way his sisters perked up every time I returned to their table. Did they have something to do with it?
I contemplate asking my own sisters, Sydney and Bridget, what they make of this unexpected turn of events but decide against it. No point in getting their hopes up before I even reply.
I draft about fifteen responses, including one that reads:
Hey Brooks! I didn’t give you my number. I’m not sure who did.
Luckily, I stop myself before sending that one. I can’t tell him the truth until I find out who gave him my number. The only reason he’d texted me is because he thought I’d wanted him to, right?
There’s only one thing left for me to do.
I’ve got to own up to this. Fake it until I make it. Respond in a neutral, friendly way that doesn’t make me sound like I’m trying to pursue him because I most definitely am not. I type out another text.
Hey Brooks! It was great seeing you, too. Good luck on your games next week!
I’m about to send it when I hesitate…again. What if it isn’t actually Brooks texting me right now? What if this is some kind of personal and painful joke someone decided to play on me?
I slowly backspace over my text, deciding it’s probably best to at least sleep on it before I decide whether or not to respond. I put my phone on its charger and bury myself into my blankets, growing dizzy as memories of Brooks as I once knew him collide with who he is now. Who I am now.
It’s been over two years since Nate and I divorced. Two years of doing life on my own. I can keep my mind occupied during the day. Ollie and work at the diner keep me plenty busy.
But at night?
Nights are long when you’re alone. The bed feels too big, the house too quiet. Fears of raising my son and providing for the two of us on my own forever sometimes sneak into the space between wakefulness and sleep, preventing my mind from resting.
Tonight, Brooks is a welcome distraction. I’ll happily stew on this mystery instead of discouraging thoughts, allowing my mind to dissect every word of his message, analyze every imaginable storyline that led to me getting a text from a now-famous baseball player I once fell for. Back when he was just Brooks, the boy I used to cheer for from the bleachers.
I decide to launch a full-scale inquiry of my staff when I arrive at work the following morning.
The kitchen staff, servers, and our hostess, Molly, are all gathered in the dining area for my usual morning briefing, unaware that they’re about to get good-cop-bad-copped by their manager until someone fesses up.
“Audrey, do you mind updating the specials board to include Max’s macadamia nut pancakes?” I ask, addressing the last item on my list before we split off to do our various opening tasks.
“On it,” she says, moving to stand.
“But before you go,” I say quickly. “I have something I’d like to ask you all.”
My employees look at me expectantly.
“Yesterday, we were visited by a certain professional athlete,” I say, staring each of them down in turn. Kate flushes at the mere mention of him, and Roman doesn’t even attempt to hide his audible gasp. “This is super awkward for me to even ask this, but I need to know. Did one of you give him my phone number?”
Audrey chokes, fisting her hand over her mouth. Roman bites his lip. Molly stares at me in a mix of confusion and shock.
“Why would someone do that?” Molly says, smacking a piece of gum between her teeth annoyingly. I know for a fact that she’s a huge Stormbreakers fan and has a photo of Brooks as her wallpaper on her phone.
“I’m asking myself the same question.”
“Why not?” Kate pipes up. “You’re a babe.”
“A babe who hasn’t been on a date, at least to my knowledge, in a very long time,” Roman says.
“It was you, wasn’t it?” I say. “You gave him my number.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Roman says innocently.
“Was it you, Kate?”
“I swear, I didn’t do it!”
“Then who did? Or are all of you conspiring against me?”
“It was a golden opportunity, Nora,” Audrey says matter-of-factly. “But if you’re going to fire one of us, I’m pinning the blame on Roman. I need a steady paycheck.”
“Way to throw me under the bus!”
I level Roman with what I hope is a censuring look. “Roman. Did you, or did you not give Brooks my number?”
“You know what, Nora? I did. And I’m not going to apologize for it. You would never have done it yourself, so I simply took matters into my own hands.” He leans forward, his smile broadening. “He called you, didn’t he? He called you last night.”
A hot flush climbs my neck, and I clear my throat, trying to regain some control. “Okay, we’ll be opening in a few minutes, so I’m going to need all of you to get your tasks done before we open those doors. The breakfast rush is coming and won’t stop until–”
“Nora Foster,” Roman claps his hands together to punctuate each word. “Did he or did he not call you last night?”
When I don’t answer, he laughs. Excessively.
I can see Molly hovering in the corner of my eye, waiting in disbelief for me to confirm the seemingly impossible. No doubt she can’t wrap her head around the fact that the gorgeous Brooks Alden would pay any attention to someone like me. But then again, she doesn’t know our history.
“He did not call me last night,” I say loudly for everyone to hear. “And I will not be taking any more questions on the subject, thank you. Move along.”
What Roman doesn’t know is that I had responded to Brooks this morning. I’d felt a sudden burst of courage that prompted me to throw caution to the wind and type out a reply. Ollie had come bursting in as I was agonizing over whether or not to send it, and my thumb moved of its own accord, tapping that send button before I could overthink things any further.
Nora : It was great seeing you, too. Good luck with your games next week. We’ll be cheering you on!
Am I deeply regretting this impulsive, un-Nora-like momentary absence of judgment? Absolutely. Brooks hasn’t responded to me, and now I’m wondering if he texted me purely out of pity. Some little corner of my heart really hopes Brooks genuinely wants to reconnect with me, but the rational part of my mind is warning me not to be naive. If there’s anything the past few years have taught me, it’s that men can’t be trusted. Even the one I thought was in it for the long haul.
I recognize that I’m spinning into an anxious spiral before the restaurant has even opened, but guess what? I know a super effective (probably unhealthy) way to deal with these pesky sorts of emotions. If I want to stay afloat today, I’ve got to forget all about this business with Brooks, put my head down and get to work. I refuse to look back at the text thread between us unless he actually replies.
Just keep moving .