Chapter 7
Rika
It's Friday morning and I feel like tiny gremlins are crawling inside my skull and doing demolition work from the inside. It hurts that much.
I push my chair back and massage my temple, then I close my eyes and count to ten. Then twenty. Then I give up counting and just focus on breathing.
My head still pounds with a steady headache when I give up and open my eyes.
I need to get back to work. I have a list of tasks compiled for my to-do list today and none of it is going to take care of itself.
I'm not complaining. Being busy means my business is thriving, but since my old mentor took her retirement and sold me her shares of Saltford Accounting, I'm drowning in work.
At least I can rest easy that the home front is taken care of by Noah. It's amazing what he's done in a single week of working for me. The man is truly a gift from the gods.
Not only did Zoe not pull any pranks, but she was on time every morning this week and I didn't receive any phone calls from school. Matthew, too, seems to be more relaxed and less clingy than before. It's like Noah's presence was the magic ingredient my family needed to feel at peace.
It doesn't hurt that my house is cleaner than it's been in years and that dinner is hot and ready whenever I step in the door. Noah is also an accomplished cook, and I've been sneaking second servings most days of the week. Creamy chicken casserole with wild rice and mushrooms? Yum!
The truth is that Noah took a huge weight off my shoulders. Speaking of shoulders, they're so stiff they hurt as I roll my arms, sitting in my chair.
I'm deep into the Melvin Cartwright real estate deduction when the scent of lavender and patchouli reaches my nostrils. I blink, looking up to see the time.
Ugh. I forgot I promised my mom we could eat lunch together today. Too late now to cancel.
I hear Geraldine and my mom exchange a few words, and then Belinda Everdeen sweeps into my office like a pastel-colored hurricane, carrying a large paper bag that smells like pure heaven.
"Lunch delivery!" she announces, a wide smile on her dainty face. "I brought your favorite from the Wandering Gnome. Bacon and chicken sandwiches with a side of Parmesan fries!"
I blink at her, ignoring the noise coming from my stomach at the mention of the Parmesan fries.
"Hey, Mom." I straighten up and glue what is probably the fakest smile in the universe on my face. "You know I don't eat bacon anymore. I texted you I wanted a salad."
"Did you?" Belinda pulls out two boxes of fries and two sandwiches wrapped in wax paper and places them in front of me. "Huh. Strange. I didn't receive anything."
From the corner of my eye, I see Geraldine peeking through the open door, then rapidly busying herself with whatever task she's working on at her laptop.
Or pretending to work on. My gargoyle office manager may be terrifyingly efficient, but she's also a relentless gossip, and she likes to tell me I don't eat enough.
Still, with the sinful smell coming from the food on my desk, I can't resent her for looking out for me.
I feel a small smile tug at my lips. "You're impossible."
"I prefer 'delightfully persistent.'" Mom lifts a finger like she's correcting a student in one of her mindfulness classes. "Eat. You look like you're about to keel over."
She pushes the fries toward me, and I immediately stuff a handful in my mouth. Then another. My mother is right; I'm starving. I can't remember whether I ate breakfast this morning. Probably not.
I unwrap the sandwich and take a bite. It's perfect, and I hate how much better it makes me feel. I should know better than to skip meals, but here I am. Scattered.
Belinda settles into the chair across from my desk, pulling out her own sandwich and eating at a much more subdued pace.
"So," she says casually. "How'd your first week with Noah go?"
"Like I have a brownie living with me." I take another bite of my sandwich, chewing slowly. "Noah has the kids eating breakfast by the time I come downstairs. When I come home, the kids have eaten their dinner, have done their homework, and the kitchen is clean. He's super competent."
Just the mention of his name makes something flutter in my belly. Or maybe it's the sandwich. Probably the sandwich. I ignore it.
"Competent." Belinda grins. "Is that what we're calling it?"
"What else would we call it?" I shouldn't take the bait. I do it anyway.
"Oh, I don't know. Tall? Built like he could bench-press a car? Hot enough to melt your panties?"
Heat floods my cheeks. "Mom!"
"What? I'm just making observations." Belinda takes a delicate bite of fries, but her eyes are dancing. "And I'm not blind. Neither are you."
"He's my employee," I say firmly. "That's all."
"Mm-hmm." Belinda doesn't look convinced. "Did you notice how he looked at you when you interviewed him, though? Because honey, that man was ready to eat you up with whipped cream."
I nearly choke on my sandwich, and a very graphic, very inappropriate vision of Noah licking whipped cream from my naked breast pops into my head.
"Oh my God, Mom. Stop."
She shrugs.
"I'm just saying what we're both thinking."
"I am not thinking about Noah eating whipped cream off me!"
"You are now," Belinda says smugly.
Damn it. She's right. It's probably all I'll be able to think about all afternoon now. I force the thoughts away and focus on my fries.
"Even if I were attracted to him," I say carefully, "which I'm not saying I am—"
"But you are."
"—it wouldn't matter. I need him for the kids. I'm not about to mess that up by making things complicated."
Belinda sighs dramatically. "When was the last time you got laid, honey?"
"Mom!"
"I'm serious. You're wound so tight you're vibrating. A little stress relief would do you good."
"I don't need stress relief. I need—" I break off, frustrated. "I don't know what I need."
"You need to let someone take care of you for once," Belinda says gently. "And not just the kids. You."
That's exactly what Noah said, and for some reason, it makes me feel uncomfortable. I don't need someone to take care of me. I can take care of myself.
Last time I trusted someone to care for me, he used my heart like a rag and wiped his boots with it.
"I'm fine."
"You're running yourself into the ground, and you won't ask for help because you think that makes you weak." Belinda reaches across the desk and covers my hand with hers. Her skin is warm, her touch gentle. "But it doesn't, Rika."
I blink hard against the sudden sting of tears.
"I can't fall apart," I whisper. "If I fall apart, everything falls apart."
"Then don't fall apart. Just… lean a little."
I squeeze her hand and pull away, wiping at my eyes before any tears can fall.
"I'll try."
"That's all I'm asking." Belinda sits back, her expression brightening. "Now, about Noah's ass."
I groan and drop my head to my desk. "This conversation is over."
Belinda laughs, bright and unapologetic. "Fine, fine. I'll stop. For now."
We finish lunch in relative peace, talking about her yoga classes and the new toddler-mindfulness class she's working on. It's nice. Normal. A brief respite from the chaos of my life.
When she finally leaves, I feel a little lighter. Not much, but enough to get through the rest of the day.
At least, that's what I think until Mitchell calls.
I'm in the middle of reviewing a client's quarterly taxes when my phone buzzes. I glance at the screen, see Mitchell's name, and consider ignoring it.
But I don't, because Zoe's recital is tomorrow and I've been waiting all week for Mitchell to confirm he's coming. He has to come. He has to. I've already reminded him three times, and he promised—actually promised—that he'd be there.
I swipe to answer. "Hello."
"Rika. We need to talk about tomorrow."
My stomach drops. Something in his tone tells me exactly where this conversation is going.
"What about tomorrow?"
"I'm not going to be able to make it to the recital this weekend."
For a moment, I can't speak. Can't breathe. The words echo in my head, hollow and devastating.
"You're joking." My voice comes out flat. "Please tell me you're joking."
"Something came up. Jasmine and I have plans."
"Plans." I repeat the word like it's poison. "What kind of plans?"
"We're going to a wine tasting in Vermont. It's been booked for months."
A wine tasting. He's choosing a wine tasting over his daughter's dance recital. And he’s booked it for months? This feels almost surreal, it’s so bad.
"Mitchell, you already missed the dress rehearsal. Do you have any idea what this will do to her?" I argue, but I know it's pointless. "If you don't show up, she'll be the only girl on that stage without her dad. The only one. Do you understand how humiliated she'll feel? How hurt?"
I wish there were another pause. A small sign, even a fleeting one, that Mitchell realizes what he’s doing. That he’s effectively abandoning his kids. But there's none.
"Don't be dramatic. She'll get over it."
"She won't get over it, Mitchell. This will break her heart." I grip the phone so hard my fingers ache. "You promised her you’d be there for her. You promised Zoe."
"I'll make it up to her."
"How? How are you going to make this up to her?" My voice rises despite my best efforts. "She's one of the featured dancers this year. It’s her first solo. She needs you for the father-daughter dance where the dads lift their daughters. You’re already the only dad who wasn’t there for the dress rehearsal. You can’t do this to her. "
There’s a long pause where I can hear a feminine voice talking in the background. A feminine voice I wish I didn’t know all too well. I can almost feel Mitchell’s disinterest through the phone line. I’ve already lost this battle and I’m not going to be the victim.
Zoe is.
"She doesn't need me there. She needs someone to lift her up for that dance. Anyone can do that."
This can’t be happening. Zoe is already on the edge of disaster and her dancing is the only thing in her life that is still going well. This could topple her into a full-blown crisis.
“It's a father-daughter dance.” I grit through clenched teeth. “She needs her father.”
"Well, her father has other commitments." His tone turns belligerent, the way it always does when he knows he's in the wrong but refuses to admit it. "I'm not canceling a five-hundred-dollar wine tour because Zoe wants to twirl around onstage. I'm already stuck with them for spring break."
I have to swallow as my lunch threatens to come up, and I clutch the phone so hard my knuckles hurt. Is he serious?
"Stuck with them?"
"Listen, this isn’t negotiable," Mitchell continues, unaware that I'm unraveling on the other side of the line. Or maybe he just doesn't care. That last part is way more likely than the first. "Just because you don't have a life doesn't mean we're all like you."
Oh, Mitchell's got a life alright. A life that apparently doesn't include his own children.
I feel like I've been punched in the chest, all the breath knocked out of me in one vicious blow.
I force myself to breathe. In. Out. In. Out.
"You still there, Rika?"
"Yeah. I'm here," I hear myself say, and I'm mighty proud to hear my voice even and calm when I feel like acids are dissolving me from the inside. "Just make sure to let Zoe know in advance about the recital. I don't want her to wait for you."
"You live with the girl, why can't you just tell her?"
The girl? Is that what Zoe is to him now? Just a girl?
"Because it's not my job to be the bridge between you and your children."
Not anymore.
"Jesus Christ, Rika. Why do you have to make everything so difficult?" There's a long, tense silence, then Mitchell's voice drops, cold and sharp. "You're a cold fish, you know that? Being with you was like sleeping next to a block of ice."
The words should hurt. They don't. Not anymore. I don't care what Mitchell thinks of me.
"Goodbye, Mitchell."
I hang up before he can respond.
My hands are shaking. My whole body is shaking. I press my palms flat against my desk, trying to ground myself.
Breathe. Just breathe.
But I can't. The walls are closing in, my chest is too tight, and I feel like I'm drowning. How am I supposed to break this to Zoe and Matthew? I can't stand to have them hurt by Mitchell's absence anymore.
I grab my phone and tell Geraldine I'm stepping out for a walk. She gives me a sharp look but doesn't ask questions.