7. Lillian
“Then he hadthe audacity to suggest that Grace was his. As if I’m the type of person to completely cut off the father of my child,” I hiss to my sister, leaning over my table at breakfast with a cup of coffee clutched tightly in both hands. Three days later, I’m still fuming over it. I wanted to go straight to Kim’s house to vent, but Nicky got a stomach bug, so this is the first time I’ve gotten the chance to bitch about it to her.
She’s so good at listening and being on my side with these things, too.
“What a prick,” she whispers back indignantly. The kids are getting ready for school in the other room, so we’re venting very quietly.
Grace is in her last year of preschool, so I still pick her up halfway through the day, but she goes to school at the same time Nicky does, and they’re right down the road from each other. That means most days, Kim comes to pick Grace up to take her to school for me. Being the guidance counselor, she’s already headed that way. Which leaves me more time to get some work done before I go grab Grace this afternoon.
“Right? Four years and not a ‘hi, how are ya?’ Just: Is that my kid?” I huff and take a sip of the cooling coffee.
Kim hums in agreement. But the look she gives me says she’s dying to say something else. I quirk a brow at her, and she’s out with it. “How’d he look, though?” She waggles her eyebrows suggestively.
A built body straining against a suit, slightly salted hair, and brilliant hazel eyes play like a picture show in my head before I answer. “Even better than he did four years ago,” I answer begrudgingly, a little pout in my lip.
My sister grins back at me with a salacious tilt of her lips and then chuckles, hand resting on her swollen belly. “That man was beautiful back then, so I can only imagine.”
I pick up a piece of punched-up baby wipe from when I’d cleaned Grace’s sticky hands and throw it at my very unhelpful sister.
A loud crash comes from the bathroom, and my heart jumps as I imagine one of the kids slipping and hitting their head on something. Then Nicky comes running out, looks at us sheepishly, and says, “Sorry, Aunt Lillian.” In his hands is a decorative ceramic bowl I’d kept in the bathroom with all of Grace’s hair ties and whatnot in it. Though now it is more two large chunks of nothing than it is a bowl.
“That’s okay, sweetie. Let me see,” I keep my voice even so he knows he’s not in trouble. It’s just a bowl I made at a pottery class I took on a whim a year ago. The two pieces fit together perfectly when he hands them to me, so I know there aren’t any pieces they’re going to step on in the bathroom and cut themselves with. “See, nothing a little glue won’t fix.” I stick my tongue out to him, and he giggles.
“You two almost ready?” Kim asks her son, and he nods. “Okay, grab your jackets and head out to the car.” This early in the morning, it’s still a little brisk this time of year. They’ll be carrying those jackets on the way home from school this afternoon, though.
I stand up with my sister, grab her coffee mug, and walk to the sink to rinse it with my own. She follows me as the kids head to the front door to put on their shoes and coats. Nicky bends down to help Grace with her own shoes, and it warms my heart to see the love between them.
“Sooo,” she starts, leaning against the kitchen counter and crossing her arms against her chest, “Besides being a little pissy, how are you?” Concern shines in her eyes.
“What do you mean?” I don’t meet her eyes.
“Don’t play dumb. I saw you after your breakup. You may have thrown yourself into raising Grace, but you were still sadder than I’ve ever seen you over a guy.”
I turn the water on, soap up a rag, and start washing the mugs. After a few seconds, I sigh. “I’m fine. It’s been four years, Kim.”
Deflect, deflect, deflect.
The truth is that seeing him opened up a wound I’d covered with duct tape and a string of meaningless and incredibly short relationships. That feeling of embarrassment and insecurity came back. Of feeling like I’m not good enough.
Embarrassed of me, he had said, and that has stuck with me for years.
“Well, okay. Good, then. I’m going to get the hellions to school. Text me if you need me,” she says, still eyeballing me curiously. Yeah, she knows I’m full of it. But I nod at her anyway.
“Drive safe,” I call out to her as she leaves, and she throws her hand up and waves goodbye without looking back.
“Okay,” I tell myself out loud. “Now you just have to get some work done today and not think about hot assholes that have reappeared in your life.”
Easier said than done.
Noon rolls around, and I’m about to go pick up Grace when I finally cave. My computer screen is open to a new tab, and I spend a second biting my thumbnail, trying not to do it. Then, I type his name into the search engine.
Lincoln Walton
The first several sites are basic profiles on his company page. It looks like he still works at the same place he did four years ago. Still in corporate law. Once I’ve read all of the boring work pages, I open up social media.
His Instagram is basically an extension of his work profile. There aren’t any obligatory party pictures taken out with the boys on a weekend out. Not a single picture with a woman who looks like a significant other or girlfriend, to which a breath shudders out of me. I try not to be so relieved, but I am.
The majority of the pictures are candid shots of him out at charity galas, with guys I assume are colleagues, and a picture of what looks like him receiving an award.
Well, at least his page isn’t him half-naked with women draped all over him. Which is kind of what I was expecting. For someone who looks as heartbreakingly handsome as he does, part of me expected a cockier online persona.
With a sigh, I shut my laptop, grab my keys, and head out to pick up my daughter.
Thirty minutes later, Grace is chattering on and on about her day at school as we pull back up to the house. There was a boy who brought in his new stuffed animal for show and tell, which really excited everyone. Her best friend Lily puked on the counting carpet, and it would excite me to know it was from an abundance of sugar and not a stomach bug that’ll hit our house next. Kids and their freaking germs.
A big yawn breaks across Grace’s face as I’m pulling her out of her car seat. This nap will be at least two hours when I get her tucked in on the couch with a show on. She rests her little head sweetly against my shoulder as I carry her up toward the steps to the front door. My keys jingle as I look for the one for the front door, but then stop halfway up the steps at the sight of a package sitting on the stoop.
I don’t remember ordering anything online, but it’s addressed to me. Since I only have one free hand at the moment, I nudge it aside with my foot, so I have space to open the door.
“What’s that, Mommy?” Grace asks sleepily.
“Just looks like a delivery, sweets,” I murmur, walking through the door.
Her head perks up. “Presents?”
“I don’t think so. Let’s see,” I tell her as I sit her on the couch and throw her Disney princess backpack down by the door.
The keys get discarded on the kitchen table with a loud clunk, and then I grab the big box from the stoop and sit on the couch next to Grace. Her little body leans into me as she tries to peer over the top. My finger slides under the tape, and I rip it up, open the box, and find another, smaller box inside, along with a box of my favorite chocolates.
There’s a note on top of the smaller box. I pull it out and recognize the handwriting immediately. My heart starts to race as I read the messy scrawl:
Lil,
It was great running into you. Until next time.
P.S. You looked beautiful, as always.
Heat crawls up my neck and floods my body. I’m not quite sure if it’s from anger or lust, or some combination of the two, but I’m starting to feel too hot. First of all, how the hell did he get my address? Secondly, I’m both flattered and annoyed that he remembered my favorite sweets.
With a shake of my head, I pull out the smaller box. Before I go to open it, I notice it isn’t my name on the box, it’s Grace’s. Her full name. The absolute asshole figured out she’s not biologically mine and therefore, not his either. So this must be his apology basket for basically calling me a selfish mother. A liar. Well, he can shove it.
Still, I open the note attached to this one, too.
“This one’s for you, sweetie,” I mutter to a now very excited toddler. She’s starting to bounce up and down on the couch, and I tell her to sit down and be good if she wants her gift. A pout is thrown my way, but she does as she’s told as I read the note out loud for her.
Grace Wilson,
This one”s for you. If you’re anything like your mom, you’ll be obsessed with Disney. Hope you like it.
-LJ
My love for Disney? I’m pretty sure he was always way more excited for a Disney marathon than I was. Don’t get me wrong, he’s guessed right. Grace does love Disney, and it’s probably only partly because I played it for her any chance I got. But Lincoln was the closet crazy fan. It was one of the things I used to love about him.
How goofy he was. Complete golden retriever energy mixed with a really sexy amount of confidence in himself. Unashamed of what people thought about a thirty-year old man who loved Disney and dancing. Who drank wine instead of beer on a weeknight and would tipsily reenact every scene from Shrek. Voices included.
In my reminiscent daze, I opened the small box for Grace and was pulled back to the present by a high-pitched shriek. The little shithead grabs the box out of my hands, hops off the couch, and starts jumping around, waving the box so I can’t see what it is.
“What’d you get?” I ask, hoping to get her to calm down long enough to tell me.
She runs over to me and throws herself in my arms. I catch her, scoop her up, and plop her down on my knee. “Elsa!” She shoves the box in my face to show me, so I take it out of her hand to inspect it.
“Wow, very cool,” I admit begrudgingly as I look at an Elsa-themed play tent. Big enough for several small children, or one small child and an adult, to sleep in once it’s set up.
“Can we build a fort, Mommy? Please?” Her baby blue eyes are shining up at me with a level of hope and excitement that I can’t crush. So I concede.
“Sure, sweets. Grab all the blankets and pillows you can find, and we’ll build a fort.” The nap she was supposed to take will just need to be postponed an hour or two. Once I get her tent setup, she’ll be able to lay down in it when I put a movie on for her. Probably… Frozen.
An hour later, we’re both laying in her tent watching Frozen with a plate of cheese cubes, fruits, and raw veggies. Well, she’s laying in it; only my upper body is actually inside the tent. Regardless, she’s happy, and that’s what matters. I smile at her and watch as her eyes flutter several times like she’s trying her damndest to stay awake but can’t.
She loses the battle a few minutes later, and I shimmy out of the tent carefully enough not to roust her. Quietly, I move through the kitchen, picking up trash and leftover finger foods. When she wakes up, I’ll see if she wants to help me cook dinner tonight. Sometimes, she loves to, other times, there is zero interest.
I’m looking through my cabinets for inspiration when my phone chimes from the kitchen table. The noise it makes is loud enough to have me worried Grace will wake up. But she doesn’t. Not so much as a twitch.
Picking up my phone, I see it’s a text from a number I don’t have saved.
Unknown
Did you get my gift yet?
What. The. Fuck.
First, he has my address, now, he’s texting me. I even changed my number after I moved back to Flagstaff, so I know he’s not texting an old number and hoping he gets me. He knows I’m on the other line.
Do I respond? It feels like I have to thank him.
On the other hand, him sending the gift in the first place feels like a calculated move to get me to talk to him. So maybe I ignore the text. What are the odds I ever actually see him again, anyway?
I opt for ignoring him.
Instead, I sit down at the kitchen to get a little more work done before Grace wakes up from her nap. There are two small projects I have hard deadlines for in the next few days. If I whip those out today, I’ll have some free time to go to the mall and get something for this weekend.
If I don’t bail, of course. I still plan to use Grace as an excuse if I’m too nervous to go to the sex party in Phoenix on Saturday. But if I’m feeling brave, I want to have something new and slinky that makes me feel good.
Look good, feel good. Right?
All my current lingerie is getting old and raggedy. The newest item I have was bought three years ago when I was trying to step outside my comfort zone. It was meant for a third date with a man I met online, but we never got to it.
The second date was disastrous. Politics, religion, and family were all shoved into a conversation that had started out very light-hearted. Needless to say, it didn’t end well. We split the check, and I never heard from him again. Nor did I want to reach out.
An hour and a half later, a breath of accomplishment whooshes out of me. That was fast, even for me. The laptop makes the smallest noise known to man when I shut it, and I hear rustling come from the living room. I hold my breath and stay where I am, only to laugh when her tinkling voice calls out to me.
“Mommy,” she says, sounding a little groggy still.
“Yes, sweets?” I ask back, getting up from the table to walk over to her.
“I’m thirsty.” She has crawled out from her tent, so I sit on the couch, and she crawls into my lap, snuggling her head into the crook of my shoulder. No matter how many times she does it, it’ll never not be my favorite feeling. My love for this girl is endless.
“What do you want? Juice?” My voice is low as I hold her tight to me, one hand gently running through the knots in her hair from her nap. She nods against my chest. “Okay,” I agree but don’t move. We sit there for a few more minutes with me reluctant to let go. But then, I sit her down on the couch and go to make her a drink.
“Mommy?” she asks again.
“Yeah?” I spill a little juice on my finger while I pour her drink. I tighten the lid on the cup, lick the juice from my finger, and head back over to her.
“Who got me the present?” I stop moving. Shit. I don’t want to lie to her. But maybe I can be vague.
“A friend of Mommy’s.” She sips her drink for a second, but is nowhere near done with the inquisitions.
“From the ice cream shop?” Nosy little shit.
“Yes, from the ice cream shop,” I agree, even though he didn’t actually have ice cream with us.
“Do you like him?” Not for the first time, I wonder how in the world toddlers can be so intuitive and yet so unaware. As is my go-to for a lot of grown-up conversations with my daughter, I try to deflect.
I throw my elbow up on the back of the couch and rest my head on my hand. “Why would you ask that?”
She shrugs. “If you like him, can he be my dad?” Be still my freaking heart. Where is this coming from?
“No sweets, he’s not going to be your dad. We used to be friends, but we haven’t talked to each other in a really long time.” Her bottom lip juts out a little like I’ve just given her bad news. “Why do you want him to be your dad?”
“All the other kids have dads,” she mutters, and my throat tightens. Tears prick the backs of my eyes, and I look up to dry them before they fall. Grace, my precious baby, who I would walk over hot coals for, hasn’t ever talked about wanting a dad.
“I know, baby. And I’m so sorry. But I’m here for you, and I love you so much. You know that, right?” I ask her. There’s nothing I can do. I can’t promise her a dad. I can’t invalidate how she’s feeling. She’s four, for crying out loud. It’s a hard concept for adults to deal with.
Another nod, but she doesn’t perk up like she usually does when I tell her I love her. “What’s wrong?” I coo, dropping a gentle hand on her head and tucking her hair behind her ear.
“You can’t go with me to the dance, Mommy. It’s for daddy’s.” Just like that, I remember pulling a piece of paper out of her backpack a week or two ago that said something about a daddy/daughter dance. I didn’t even read it. Saw it, and then threw it away.
“Sure I could. I bet other kids with no daddy’s have their mom’s going,” I reason.
“I don’t want you to,” she grumbles back, and damn, if that doesn’t hurt a little.
“Maybe Uncle Jimmy will go with you,” I say, sure that Kim’s husband would absolutely take Grace to the dance. He adores her.
The sigh that comes from my four year old sounds a million years old. “Okay. But I need a daddy,” she tells me patiently, like I’m the toddler, and it’s time to pony up and start looking for a partner. She climbs off the couch, cup in hand, and heads off to her room. A cascade of noise a minute later tells me she’s dumped her toy bin and the room is about to be absolutely wrecked in five minutes flat.
I need a drink.