Big Stick Energy

Chapter 1

NETTIE

Are you coming?

The words buzzed against the counter from where Nettie’s phone lit up, vibrating with Gina’s latest text.

Nettie shifted the crying toddler in her arms and glanced up.

Through the wide front windows of Little Sprouts Daycare, she spotted her best friend leaning casually against a shiny new car in the parking lot.

Paper plates still clung to the back of it, glaringly white in the sun, proof that Gina’s father had likely pulled some strings—or maybe just signed the finance papers faster than most.

What if buying a car was supposed to go smoothly – and not the disaster of an experience that she had run into the last two times she tried to trade in her grandmother’s car for something newer, something dependable?

I mean, who has three thousand bucks to put down on a loan?

“Not like I’m gonna find out…” she muttered under her breath as she saw Gina waving frantically like they were still fifteen and sharing secrets at the back of homeroom class, grinning ear to ear like two little mischievous imps.

Gina wiggled her phone in a silent “check your messages, woman!” gesture.

Nettie wanted to laugh, wanted to roll her eyes and rush outside to fling her arms around Gina, breathe in a little of that reckless, contagious energy that always followed her best friend like a warm summer breeze. But it was autumn, and instead, reality screamed in her arms…

Literally.

Samson was teething. And not the cute, rosy-cheeked, drool-a-little-bit kind of teething.

Oh no. He was red-faced, snot-bubble, hiccup-sobbing teething.

His little fists shoved into his mouth, gnawing on anything he could find, including Nettie’s sweater sleeve.

The poor boy let out another pitiful wail that vibrated against her chest.

She had tried everything. Frozen teether rings, soft toys, and distraction games. Nothing worked. Nothing short of whiskey on the gums, she thought grimly—and quickly reminded herself that wasn’t exactly daycare-approved.

Though, considering how bad the last time she’d had whiskey had gone, maybe she wasn’t qualified to judge. Because, yeah, the last time Gina had dragged her out for “fun,” Nettie had ended up being the one who was sobbing drunkenly after a single shot.

One. Shot.

Pitiful.

Her phone dinged again. Nettie shifted Samson to one arm, swiped the screen with her free hand, and read:

Dudette – new car – let’s goooooo!

Nettie’s lips curved in the faintest of smiles despite herself. Of course, Gina couldn’t just wait. She always had the urgency of a thunderstorm rolling in and zero clue about real-life problems – such as bills, debt, upkeep on an old house, not to mention an old car to boot.

Dudette – work pays the bills, remember?

I can’t leave for another forty minutes. And why do you and Shannon insist on calling me Dudette anyhow?

The answer was instant, as if Gina had been waiting to pounce:

Nettie is an old lady’s name

According to Shannon, of course.

Nettie rolled her eyes skyward. “Of course it’s Shannon who says that,” she muttered again. Gina would never say that. She might say everything else under the sun, but not that.

Samson hiccupped miserably, drool soaking into her shirt.

Today was not an ideal workday. No, in fact, today was a day that made her reconsider her career, her degree, everything.

Liquidating everything and running away to some South American country sounded so good right now, except it wouldn’t be coconut drinks on a beach.

She’d probably be living in a hut, raising guinea pigs for dinner, and weaving baskets or whatever general stereotype came with the idea.

Sometimes stereotypes couldn’t be helped.

Switzerland, she thought of blondes, chocolate, and snow – when in fact, that wasn’t the case all.

Stereotypes and assumptions just weren’t all it was cracked up to be…

just like assumptions about Texas, everyone assumed they all wore boots, spit chewing tobacco, and rode horses everywhere. Life in the DFW area was hardly that.

She patted Samson’s back soothingly and scanned the room.

Chaos.

Pure and utter chaos… on a tiny level with epic magnitude of disgusting annoyance.

One little boy was scribbling bright green crayon on the cream-painted wall like it was his life’s masterpiece.

Another girl sat stubbornly chewing on a purple crayon, her cheeks puffed out like a squirrel.

And over in the corner—oh no, please no—David had his hand stuffed down the back of his diaper.

The guilty look when their eyes met told her exactly what he’d found.

“David,” she said firmly, “get your hands out of there.”

Sure enough, he obeyed… and sure enough, she flinched.

Poop. On. His. Fingers.

Fantastic.

He took one look at her horrified face, looked at his hand, and started crying pitifully.

Now she had two criers, a wall she would need to clean, a parent she would need to explain about the purple poo that was sure to follow from eating a crayon like it was a candy bar, and now – even more poo.

Just how she wanted to finish out her work week – with fecal matter, tears, and snot.

A perfect trifecta from hell.

“Why do you hate me so?” she whispered at the ceiling, juggling a sobbing baby and praying the Lysol wipes hadn’t mysteriously vanished again.

Her phone buzzed again on the counter.

Gina – the Impatient One.

Nettie wanted to ignore it, but she knew Gina. If she didn’t respond, her best friend would march into the daycare and drag her out, sobbing teething baby and all.

“I cannot do this, Gina,” Nettie hissed under her breath. With a long sigh, she shifted gears into damage control. “David, let’s go wash your hands. Eugene—no, no, we color on paper, sweetie, not the wall. Madeline! Crayons don’t go in mouths. Out. Out. Right now.”

It was like trying to plug holes in a sinking ship with bubblegum and wads of tissue paper.

And yet, as frazzled as she was, Nettie couldn’t deny it—she loved kids.

Loved their sticky fingers and messy giggles and the way their little eyes lit up over the simplest things.

She just wasn’t meant to have her own. She knew that.

Too much baggage. Too many cracks in her foundation.

Not to mention, she wasn’t exactly anyone’s dream girl.

Too short.

Too round in the hips.

Too… old-fashioned.

While the world moved on with fast apps and faster relationships, Nettie still dreamed of being wooed. She wanted flowers… just because. Handwritten notes. A man who opened the door not because she couldn’t, but because he wanted to. But the world didn’t have men like that anymore.

The last date she’d been on—what, two years ago now?—had been a disaster. The guy had proudly declared himself the champion of equality by letting her pay half the bill and striding through doors without a second glance.

The worst part?

She hadn’t even balked, hadn’t spoken up, hadn’t demanded better. She’d smiled politely, gone home, and cried into her pillow like some tragic heroine in an old black-and-white film – complete with a back of the hand resting on her forehead dramatically and everything.

Love and children were not in her future - and now here she was, wiping poop off a toddler’s fingers while her best friend flaunted a shiny new car and a picture-perfect life - just outside the window.

Life had a cruel sense of humor.

Still, when she thought of her beloved Gigi—her grandmother, her anchor, her everything—her throat tightened. Gigi had loved her fiercely, unconditionally and had believed in her even when Nettie didn’t believe in herself.

Losing her last year had cracked something inside Nettie wide open. And discovering afterward that Gigi had confessed to her friends, she worried Nettie would “end up alone”… well, that wound hadn’t healed yet.

Not even close.

She swallowed hard, fighting back the sting in her eyes as she carried Samson toward the sink with David trailing behind, hand extended for cleaning.

“Don’t touch anything,” she ordered, leaning carefully only to be rewarded with a wet shoulder that immediately clung to her, soaked with moisture through her T-shirt. I don’t want to even look to see if that is slobber or snot right now. “David – hand – now.”

“Poohey?”

“Yes – we don’t play with the poohey,” she chided in frustration, which only made David cry harder as he realized that the foul mess was something he wasn’t supposed to touch – and it was stuck to his fingers. “Don’t shake them. Just put them under the water and let’s get some soap.”

“I don’t wanna touch the poohey…”

“Buddy, you and me both,” Nettie retorted passionately – and swallowed back a gag as she saw the string of snot from one shoulder trailing to Samson’s face in the mirror. “I cannot do this,” Nettie hissed hotly, reaching for the child’s poop covered hand. “Wash it…”

“I don’t wanna touch it…”

“You did a few minutes ago…”

“It’s dirty…”

“It’s very dirty – which is why we are washing it,” she chided.

“Get the soap and oh my gosh, use lots of it. I mean, soap those fingers really well… no, don’t wipe your face,” she gaped in horror as the child was about to use his filthy fingers to wipe his nose.

David looked at her – and began to wail again – this time louder than Samson.

“Oh Lord, I am hitting my limit really quickly here…” Nettie prayed aloud as the order of demands in her mind just became abundantly clear what had to be tackled first for her own sanity. She walked out of the bathroom, set Samson down, and marched back in to scrub David’s filthy hands.

Forty more minutes.

Forty minutes of chaos, crying, and crayons.

Then maybe—just maybe—she’d let Gina drag her somewhere as an escape.

Her friend had been there to pick her up off the ground several times, for several reasons, and even if her idea of having fun or Shannon’s idea of what ‘partying’ was like were completely different from her own?