Milàn
I come to a sudden halt in the kitchen when I see the calendar Aiden tacked on the wall a few weeks ago.
It’s one of those monthly family planners with slots for everybody to mark down their comings and goings.
Fuck knows I haven’t paid any attention to it until this very second. This is Aiden’s thing. Endless lists and research and plans and routines. The calendar catches my attention, though. It’s September. I’ve been here three months. In another life I’d be… doing anything else.
Instead, I’m in New York, playing reluctant babysitter to a thirteen-year-old with a shitty attitude. It’s a full-time job, and the only reason I even had the time to glance at the calendar is because Rory is at school.
Is supposed to be at school.
Fuck knows if he’s actually there right now. I hope, but I’ve also been hoping for the past few weeks, and the success rate is about fifty-fifty so far.
The one thing I’ve learned in the months we’ve been doing this is that everything with this kid is a battle.
What to eat for breakfast. What to wear to school.
When to go to school. How to go to school.
Homework. Laundry. Curfew. Screen time. Junk food.
And a million other things. I swear to God, I can ask him how his day was, and he’ll take it as a battle call.
My life has transformed into one giant tension headache, which I have to handle mostly on my own. Aiden is neck deep in his fellowship, barely fitting sleep on his schedule, so for now, it’s up to me to shoulder the burden. I’m trying my best, but fuck me if my best just isn’t good enough.
Annoyed by my inadequacy, I pull the fridge door open and peer inside.
It’s a shitty decision, because the fridge is almost empty, which is coincidentally when I remember that I was supposed to put in an order for groceries.
I even have the list Aiden made me somewhere, and my name is on the calendar under tasks, with the word food underlined three times.
For a while, I stare at the empty shelves, willing food to appear from thin air. No such luck.
I almost laugh.
Grocery run. Fuck my life.
For five fabulous seconds I daydream about dropping everything and taking off to Japan or Haiti or even fucking New Jersey. Just somewhere away from here.
I rub my hand over my face, sigh, and blow out a breath.
Right. Groceries. I glance at my watch and try to calculate whether I have enough time before I have to go get Rory from school.
It’ll be another battle since he’s too old for a chaperone, apparently, but the last time he was left to his own devices he went and graffitied somebody’s wall.
I’m already preemptively tired, even if I still have two hours to go before that particular fight.
That’s when my phone rings.
The number on the screen ruins my whole afternoon.
St. Patrick’s Preparatory Academy looks just as pretentious as the name sounds.
It’s a redbrick building on a quiet, tree-lined side street in Prospect Heights.
Aiden chose this place for Rory, and I didn’t stick my nose into the process because school has always been Aiden’s thing and not at all mine.
I dragged myself through high school while putting in as little effort as possible and never even bothered with college.
I’m sitting behind the principal’s door with a defiantly sulky Rory next to me.
He hasn’t answered any of my questions in the ten minutes we’ve been here, choosing instead to pretend I don’t exist, so eventually I gave up.
His hair is a mess, white uniform shirt untucked, the blazer God knows where, a streak of dirt on his forehead.
I have no idea what I’m supposed to do here, and Aiden didn’t deem it necessary to pick up his phone, so I’m on my own. The incompetence is staggering.
I’ve played in front of crowds of twenty thousand people and successfully ignored the fact that the matches are televised to an average of three million people, but sitting in the principal’s office of my newly acquired baby brother’s school makes my palms sweat.
On the row of chairs opposite from us sits another kid.
His shoulders are hunched and he’s staring at his own fingers, not moving a single muscle.
There’s a nasty bruise forming on his left cheekbone.
Again, no idea what to do here. Address him?
Make Rory apologize? Demand an apology from the kid with the black eye? Apologize myself?
Before I can come to any conclusions in this inner debate I’m having with myself, the door across the hallway from us opens, and a woman steps out.
She’s somewhere in her midfifties, tall, and painfully put together in a skirt, cream blouse, and the same navy blazer with the school’s logo the kids are wearing. Or should be wearing, in Rory’s case.
My shoulders tighten, and my back straightens.
Authority figures and I have never been a good combination.
I don’t like them and they don’t like me, so already we’re not off to a good start.
I am not the right person to deal with this situation.
There’s a good chance I’m going to make everything much worse.
This is a problem for Aiden to solve. He’s great at this kind of thing, and by this kind of thing I mean sucking up to the adults in the room.
“Ah. Mr. Corbin, I presume?” the principal says.
The way she says the name is a clear indication that she recognizes the name and knows who I am, but she’s professional enough not to mention it.
“I met your brother at the start of the school year, and he updated me on your family situation. Patricia Lawson. A pleasure.”
She speaks in a clipped voice like she’s in a hurry. It’s a middle school, so chances are there are more kids trying to beat each other up somewhere.
“Milàn Corbin.” I push myself to my feet, and we shake hands. So far so good.
She glances at the secretary. “Any word on Mr. Wilsson?”
“I got ahold of him fifteen minutes ago. He should be here shortly.”
The principal motions toward her office. We all file in after her. First the two boys, both studiously avoiding each other, then me.
Rory throws himself into the chair and very purposefully aims his gaze at the ceiling. The other kid takes his seat silently and with much less attitude.
I bite back a sigh. I’ve got a hunch about who the instigator might’ve been.
“I appreciate you coming in on such short notice,” the principal says. “We here in St. Patrick’s prefer to handle these situations as swiftly as possible when an issue arises. Family cooperation is key.”
“Yeah, great,” I say before I remember I’m expected to be the responsible parent figure, eager to get this shit figured out and fixed. God help us all.
I straighten myself in my seat. Pretend to know what the fuck I’m doing. Let’s get this show on the road. “What exactly is the situation here? The person I talked to on the phone mentioned an altercation.”
Let’s avoid the word fight. Let’s use something softer instead.
The principal’s gaze moves between Rory and the other kid. “Yes. Unfortunately—”
Somebody gives a quick, cursory rap of their fingers on the door before it opens again.
A man walks in, and in the time it takes him to cross the floor, it becomes painfully obvious that in a responsible parent figure contest, I’m not off to a good start.
I’m wearing sweats and a T-shirt, both of which I scraped up from the floor of my bedroom earlier this morning. My hair is a mess, I’m sporting a scruffy beard, and I most likely look like death warmed over by now because I don’t remember the last time I had a good night’s sleep.
The guy who just stepped into the office is my polar opposite in terms of being put together.
He’s wearing dark gray chinos with a deep purple sweater, the sleeves of which have been casually rolled up.
The dark brown chukka boots match perfectly with his belt, and there’s a silver watch on his wrist, because apparently there are people in this world who have time to accessorize.
His dark hair is meticulously styled, and the same goes for the five o’clock shadow.
He looks like somebody who has their shit together no matter what life throws at him.
This was me a few years ago. Now I’m trying my damnedest to somehow keep my head above water and not succeeding most days, whereas this man oozes competence.
The differences between us couldn’t be more glaringly obvious.
“I’m sorry I’m late,” he says smoothly in a deep, rich voice.
And all the while, I keep staring like an idiot, because aside from everything else, what my brain decides to latch on to is the fact that this man? He’s excruciatingly, exquisitely hot.
He has a regal look about him. Back pin straight. High cheekbones. Lean. The dark eyebrows make his equally dark eyes seem impossibly intense.
He’s also tall and just a tad preppy-looking—understated but still sexy as fuck—which I’m very much fucking into.
This meeting just got a whole lot more interesting.
That’s another point for me in the shitty guardian contest, for those who are counting. I should be worrying about the teenager with the loose fists instead of getting distracted by handsome strangers.
“Ah. Jordan,” the principle says.
They’re on a first name basis. This bodes well for me and Rory.
The man—Jordan—nods once. “Patricia,” he says distractedly, all his attention on his kid. In a few steps, he’s on his knee in front of the other kid’s chair.
The boy looks up, and I can see relief rolling off him in waves as he lets go of the rigid control he’s been holding on to until now.
Jordan smiles at him. “Rough day?” he murmurs softly.
The boy snorts. The man’s thumb swipes over his cheekbone gently.
“Kind of,” the kid mutters.
Jordan gets up and stands next to the other boy’s chair, his hand on the kid’s shoulder.