Chapter 17
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
ELLIOT
Elliot: Does Sunday work for you again this week? Same bat time? Same bat place?
Arthur: ??
Elliot: It’s from the original Batman TV series
Arthur: I just looked it up. That was on 25 years before you were even born
Elliot: True. But I was practically raised by my living room television and the reruns were on a lot
Arthur: Interesting
Arthur: Sunday doesn’t work for me. We leave on Saturday afternoon for Detroit
Elliot: Rock City! I’ve never been. Want to push it off until next Sunday?
Arthur: Could we meet Friday evening? I understand if you have plans
Elliot: lol
Arthur: Does that mean no?
Elliot: No! Hahah. Sorry. I just never have plans. Friday it is! Be there with bells on
Arthur: I will be there. I will not have bells on
Elliot: Spoilsport
“Hi, Elliot. Thanks for meeting with me today,” the HR rep, Deborah, says, offering a friendly smile as we settle into the small conference room. “This is just a three-month check-in. Nothing scary, I promise.”
Tell that to my nervous system.
“I want to start by saying we’re really happy with how your first three months have gone,” she continues. “Your manager, Cal, reports that you’re a real asset to the organization and an important member of the team.”
“That’s wonderful to hear,” I admit, blinking back happy tears. Cal wouldn’t say that unless she meant it.
“It should be,” she says warmly. “We’ve also gotten consistently positive feedback from the players you work with. You work hard, you know your stuff, and people have commented on how approachable you are.”
I nod, feeling some of the tension leave my shoulders.
“But this isn’t just about our perspective,” she adds. “How do you think it’s going so far?”
“I think it’s been a big change working with such elite athletes,” I admit. “But I’m enjoying the challenge. And everyone’s been wonderful to work with.”
“That’s excellent to hear,” Deborah says. “Is there anything else we can be doing to support you? More structured feedback? Professional development opportunities? Regular check-ins?”
“I think more frequent feedback would be helpful. Just to make sure I’m meeting expectations.”
“Absolutely. We can coordinate that,” she says. “Our goal is to make sure you feel supported and challenged in the right ways. You’ve made a big impact in a short period of time. We’re so glad you’re here.”
Fresh tears sting my eyes, and for one alarming second I think I might launch myself across the conference table and plant a grateful kiss right on her lips. Luckily, I reel it back in at the last second. Self-restraint: one. Elliot’s inner maniac: zero.
I leave the meeting floating three inches above the ground, riding the high all the way down the hall toward the treatment room.
My phone buzzes. Glen. My landlord.
And just like that my high evaporates. This is it. The dreaded “just a heads up about your new monthly rent” call.
“Hello?” I answer cautiously.
“Hey there, Elliot!” Glen chirps, entirely too cheerful for a man holding my financial future in his hands. “Won’t take much of your time. Just wanted to let you know I’ve found a renter for next door.”
“You have?”
“Yes, ma’am. Not sure when they’re moving in, but they’ve already paid the first month’s rent. And I wanted you to know I’ve decided not to increase your rent.”
I nearly drop my phone.
“I’m sorry…what?”
“No increase,” he repeats. “Figured you’ve been a great tenant. Thought I’d keep things as they are.
He keeps talking. Something about the new tenant being quiet and not home much. All that matters is no rent increase.
Victory number two of the day.
The afternoon flies by in a blur of back-to-back sessions. By the time my last player leaves, I check my phone and spot a voicemail from the mechanic. They’ve finally tracked down all the parts Millie needs. They’re booked solid, but they’ll try to squeeze the repairs in over the next few weeks.
You know what? I’m counting it as another win.
And just when I’m convinced the universe has exhausted its generosity, I walk into the break room and find a stack of half-off coupons for pizzas at Sam’s favourite place, Slice of Heaven. Tonight, pizza and a movie with my kid. Could life get any better?
By the time I pull Roxanne into the driveway, I’m practically glowing. I hop out, humming “Friday I’m In Love” by The Cure, and skip up the walkway like a woman who just secured her dream job, avoided financial ruin, and is absolutely having pizza for dinner.
Everything is coming up Elliot.
“Sam?” I call as I tug my key free from the lock. The door shuts with a rattle behind me, and I toe off my boots on the mat, leaving them in a damp little heap. I really need to get my doorknob fixed.
“In here!” Sam’s voice carries from the kitchen.
I follow the sound and find him at our worn kitchen table, a graphic novel spread open in his hands. He’s hunched over it, his messy hair sticking up in the back like he’s been running his fingers through it instead of brushing.
I circle around to plop into the chair beside him, ready to spill all about the epic evening I’ve plotted for us when something catches my eye. A duffel bag sits on the floor beside him. His pillow rests on top.
“What’s with the bag?” I ask, lowering into the chair. It gives a loud, complaining creak because it’s the broken one I’ve superglued within an inch of its life.
“Oh.” He glances down like he forgot it was there. “Rhett wants me to sleep over tonight. He just asked me at school. His mom’s gonna pick me up on her way home from work.”
“Tonight?”
“Yeah.” He hesitates, eyes flicking up to gauge my reaction. “I figured you wouldn’t mind. Is that…not okay?”
The longer I take to answer, the more his green eyes fill with worry. “I can cancel, Mom. I don’t have to go.”
Even though my throat feels tight I force out a laugh, bright and fake. “Don’t be silly. Of course I don’t mind. It just surprised me, that’s all. I had to wrap my brain around it. First slumber party!”
“Sleepover, Mom.”
“Right. First sleepover.” I nudge his shoulder with mine. “This is exciting.”
He shrugs like it is the farthest thing from exciting. “Sure. I guess.”
“Do you have everything you need?”
Sam gives his duffel another glance. “Pajama pants, change of clothes for tomorrow, pillow, toothbrush.”
I swallow hard. “Sounds like you’re all set.”
His gaze flicks to the stove clock. “Rhett’s mom should be here any minute.” He pushes back his chair, the legs scraping against the floor, and grabs his things.
“So soon?” I hear the thin thread of panic in my voice and hope he doesn’t.
“Yeah. She’s off at five.” He’s already halfway down the hall, duffel in hand, and I trail after him like a puppy who knows their human is going on vacation and not bringing them.
I watch him pull on his winter coat and boots. He looks older than I’ve ever seen him, impossibly so. For one terrifying second, I swear I see a shadow of a goatee sprouting on his chin. He’s aging right in front of me, slipping through my fingers.
“If you decide that you don’t want to stay, just call and I’ll come get you.”
Sam looks up from the buttons on his coat, the look of confusion back in his eyes. “Why would I decide not to stay?”
Their house could smell funny. Maybe Rhett’s mom is making mustard pickles and the whole place will reek of vinegar and spices. Or maybe they have a cat. Or multiple cats. And Sam suddenly finds himself allergic, though they’ve never bothered him before.
Maybe Rhett’s dad is a member of an experimental jazz band that practises at their house until all hours of the night.
It could happen.
“No reason.” I laugh, waving my hand like I’m being silly, though I’m feeling anything but. I feel desperate. “Just know you can always come home.”
He nods. “Okay.”
We hear the car pull into the driveway. Sam looks out the window to confirm that it is in fact Rhett’s mom. “That’s her.”
“Are you sure?” I don’t know why I say it. It’s very clearly Rhett’s mom, Jane’s minivan.
Sam smirks. “Pretty sure. Are you going to be okay?”
“Me? Of course I am.” I open my arms for a hug and he steps into them. I hold him tighter than necessary, not wanting to let go.
I walk him outside and do the obligatory smile-and-wave routine with Jane. We exchange the usual pleasantries, and though I already know she has my number, I can’t help myself—I ask again, just to be sure. She reassures me with a kind smile and promises the boys will be in bed at a decent hour.
I keep waving until their taillights disappear at the end of the street. Only then do I lower my arm, suddenly heavy, and head back inside.
The silence hits first. The house feels hollow, almost vacant. Like someone turned the volume down on life. It’s like I’ve lost a limb and only notice it’s gone when I try to use it.
I hover in the entryway, unsure what to do with myself. I could still order the pizza, I guess. But what’s the point without Sam sitting across the table, demolishing half of it before I’ve even finished my first slice? Besides, my appetite’s gone. It left in the minivan.
Instead, I drift into the kitchen on autopilot.
The cupboards open without me thinking, and soon I’m holding a wineglass I barely ever use.
I open a bottle of red one of the sweet ladies in my aquafitness class gave me for Christmas.
I’m not much of a drinker, but tonight feels like one of those nights. Maybe it’ll take the edge off.
I lean against the kitchen counter, glass in hand, and try to reason with myself.
I know I’m being dramatic. He’s twelve. This is good for him—healthy, even.
He’s supposed to stretch his wings, have adventures, sleepovers, inside jokes that don’t include me.
And the Zakems are lovely people. Jane’s the kind of mom who brings cupcakes to chess club and remembers everyone’s birthday. I know Sam will be safe.
The truth is, watching him grow up lately has been…complicated. Beautiful, but painful. We’ve always been inseparable, especially after Shawn left. I became Sam’s entire world. But in reality, he was always mine. From the very first day he was placed in my arms, he became my centre of gravity.
Now his world is expanding, and I’m terrified of what that means. How long before I’m no longer the centre of it?
I force myself upstairs, every step heavier than it should be, and peel off my work clothes. My dresser drawer groans as I rummage for something soft and forgiving to sink into. That’s when I spot it—the red plaid onesie.
I bought it for Sam’s very first Christmas, and got him a matching little sleeper with feet and a hood that made him look like a baby lumberjack.
Every year after that, I kept the tradition going, buying him a new set as he grew.
I never replaced mine. It became a ritual: him in fresh flannel, me stubbornly clinging to the original.
A couple of years ago he rolled his eyes and announced he was too old for onesies, switching to red plaid pants instead. But me? I held on.
I pull it from the drawer, the fabric soft and thin from a decade of washes, it feels velvety between my fingers.
Stripping down to nothing but panties, I step into it, one leg at a time.
The fit is…snug. There are at least a dozen tiny buttons up the front, and by the time I get the last one fastened, I’m slightly out of breath, like I’ve wrestled with an uncooperative toddler.
I turn to the mirror, fully aware of how absurd I must look.
Technically, the onesie still fits. Realistically?
It looks like it was spray-painted on. My hips are wider than they were twelve years ago, my stomach softer, my butt more substantial.
At least my boobs have held their own—perky little soldiers refusing to surrender.
But the overall effect is less “cozy Christmas pajamas” and more “festive sausage casing.”
But they’re the perfect choice for my evening plans that consist mostly of the following: wallowing.
Wineglass in hand, I pad back downstairs and sink into the couch, half hoping that the cushions will swallow me up.
The TV flickers to life, casting a pale glow across the empty room.
I scroll through channels, searching for anything loud or funny enough to drown out the silence pressing in around me.
Nothing sticks. I usually only watch TV with Sam.
Our running commentary is half the fun, and without him the whole exercise feels hollow.
With a sigh, I abandon the remote and head for the shelf that houses our modest DVD collection. My fingers trail over the movies until they land on a familiar favourite. Comfort in a case. I pop it open, ready to feed it into our ancient DVD player that miraculously still works.
That’s when I hear it—three quick knocks at the door.
My heart stutters. Sam. He must have forgotten something. Or maybe he’s changed his mind?
I don’t walk, I sprint to the front door. The flannel between my thighs rubbing together as I do. I fling the door open, out of breath and fully expecting to see my son standing there.
But it’s not Sam.
No, it’s not Sam at all.