Chapter 2
Chapter Two
Molly
“Well, that went well.”
I turn in my chair to see my ex-husband emerge from the hall, both hands scrubbing his face. I know just how he feels.
“Do I detect a note of sarcasm?” I ask, despite the fact that even a toddler could have spotted the jest in Blake’s tone.
“How about an entire symphony?” He drops into the painted chair next to mine at the kitchenette table nestled in the corner of my small kitchen. His elbows land on the table as he eyes me. “He nixed the therapy idea, like you said. First, he pretended not to know what I was talking about, and when I informed him I knew about the detention, he claimed it was all a misunderstanding.”
I sigh and clutch my coffee cup with both hands. “I thought boys were supposed to be easier as they got older,” I lament.
Blake throws his head of shoulder-length brown hair back and cackles. “Who the hell told you that?”
I frown at him before taking a sip of the hot elixir of life. “Everybody.” This latest parenting crisis is doing nothing to help my insomnia, thus the gallon of coffee in front of me.
Still grinning, Blake reaches over to pat my arm. “Oh, honey, you’ve obviously been talking to the wrong everybody . I can tell you from personal experience that boys only get more complicated the older they get. Believe me .” This is followed by a beleaguered sigh that I know is intended to have me asking about his love life, but now is not the time. This is about our kid—our kid who is clearly struggling if his detention record at school this year is any indication.
I slide the other steaming coffee mug toward Blake, who snatches it up like its contents were drawn straight from the Fountain of Youth. “I just don’t know how to relate to him with all this anger and aggression. Where is this coming from?”
“Your guess is as good as mine. Apart from the shoving match, though, you’ve got to admit the insult was pretty creative. I’ve never been called a finger sniffer, have you?” When I narrow my eyes, Blake throws both hands up. “Right. Sorry.”
“If it was from the divorce, we would have seen it two years ago, Right?” I ask.
“Definitely.”
Nodding absently, I run my finger along the rim of my coffee mug and stare blankly out the kitchen window. Matty was always such a calm kid, going with the flow no matter what. He weathered the divorce better than anyone could have predicted. But ever since he turned twelve this summer, it’s like a switch has been flipped. He flies off the handle at the smallest things, behaving so unpredictably that I’m at my wit's end. I thought maybe his dad might have some magical Y-chromosome insight, but it seems not.
I turn my attention back to Blake and lower my voice. “You know he broke his skateboard last week? He said he crashed and it just snapped, but I saw him bash it against the fence after he fell off a few times trying a new trick.”
“Shit.” Blake’s brow creases before his voice tightens. “I hope he knows we’re not buying him a new one.”
“It hasn’t come up.” I wave it off and worry my lip, reopening the small crack from a week’s worth of biting it. The coppery tang of blood hits my tongue, and I push my chair back from the table to get a tissue. “It’s not the skateboard I’m worried about. We need to figure out what’s behind all of this, and a counselor is the only idea I’ve got.”
Blake rises from his seat and steps close, pulling a tissue from the box on the counter and pressing it gently to my lip. “Hey,” he whispers. His tone is too soft and the gesture too intimate, which he appears to realize when I take a small step back. “Sorry.” He relinquishes the red-stained tissue and backs up to give me more space, shoving his hands in his jeans pockets.
I detest these awkward moments.
“No.” I force a smile. “It’s fine.” Because it is. My brain knows Blake’s actions come purely from a place of concern and friendship, but my body sometimes takes a minute to catch up.
It’s been over two years since my husband of a decade and a half broke the news that he’s gay. And even then, it was almost a relief. Things hadn’t been right for a while, and finally understanding the reason made it easier to come to terms with. In fact, in some ways, our friendship is even stronger now than it was before. But we’re still in transition mode in a certain sense.
Blake’s phone rings, and he pulls it from his back pocket. “Shit. I gotta go.” He looks up at me again, driving his fingers through his long hair to slick it back. “The band is hitting the road in two hours, and I still need to pick up Jess and Gordie.”
I force another smile, knowing that hardly anything comes between my ex-husband and his band. When we were married, it was more of a side gig, but they’re playing full time now.
“Where to this time?” The band has a decent following and they make enough money to live on, unlike a lot of musicians. But Blake isn’t rolling in it, by any means. We always kept our heads above water when we were together, but things have been tighter since our split. Yet another thing that keeps me up at night.
“We’ve got a couple of gigs in Tallahassee, then we’re off to South Carolina.” He can’t help his grin at first but soon manages to bring himself back to earth. “Hey, Dollface.” Blake’s voice softens as he steps close again, addressing me with the nickname he’s used since the day we met. “Don’t worry. The therapist will know what to do for Matty. I’m sure half the boys in Matty’s class are raging with hormones and behaving like jackasses.”
Blake isn’t crossing into my personal space this time, instead allowing me to choose. I close the distance and he wraps me up in a hug.
“I hope you’re right,” I say into the shoulder of his thin T-shirt. What I don’t say is that it will be hard for a therapist to do much of anything if Matty refuses to enter their office in the first place.
As if to punctuate my thought, the front door closes with a bang, Matty’s voice delivering a barely audible, “I’ll be back later.”
Blake and I both pull back to look at each other. “By the way,” he says, “He’s got two boxes of crackers under his bed.”
My nose wrinkles. “Seriously?”
One corner of Blake’s mouth lifts. “Hey, at least it’s not stiff tube socks he’s collecting under there.”
My dumbstruck expression has him laughing all the way to the door.
“Sorry to bug you,” I say as I knock on my boss’s open office door. “But I wanted to touch base before I leave to take Matty to hockey practice.”
“Come in,” she beckons from behind her marble-topped desk with a wave of one graceful hand. “Sit.” When my only response is to stay put and look at my watch, Coco delivers one of her well-practiced side-eyes. I swear the woman could talk the Pope himself out of Sunday Mass. “Sit,” she repeats in a firmer tone.
I don’t try very hard to hide my sigh, but it only makes her grin.
“You still have another twenty minutes before you need to leave, and you’ve been running around all day like a chicken with its head cut off. Take a minute to breathe, will you?” she admonishes.
She’s not wrong. Today has been nuts, and I’m operating on only four hours of sleep. Who knew one of the signs of impending menopause was sleepless nights that turn you into a zombie? First, my car wouldn’t start, so I had to dig around under the hood and tighten the terminal nut that keeps coming loose. Of course, that resulted in a grease stain on my most versatile ivory blouse, which necessitated me changing outfits faster than a Vegas showgirl between acts and breaking the speed limit to make it to the morning meeting at Farnsworth Realty.
Friday being the biggest day of the week for new listings meant endless trips to the printer and back while juggling client emails and phone calls. As the newest—and thus lowest-ranking—agent in the office, I pretty much get the scraps when it comes to property leads while the more lucrative prospects are handed off to Maude and Jason, two other agents with more seniority and not a small degree of entitlement to match.
Honestly, it’s for the best, though. I’m not ready for a big listing.
Coco studies me for a few silent beats while I force my feet not to tap on her wood floor. I finally can’t take it anymore. “What?”
“How’s your sex life these days?”
I choke on my own saliva and proceed to cough into the inside of my elbow for a good thirty seconds. “Coco!” I manage to scold once I’m partway recovered. “I thought bosses weren’t allowed to ask stuff like that!”
Even her laugh is classy as hell, a light tinkling sound that’s purely feminine. “Darling, we’re off the clock. This is girl time.” She pats her silver-blond updo and stares me down more effectively than even Dame Maggie Smith could have.
I purse my lips. “In that case, I might ask the same of you,” I volley back. This turns out to be a poor decision.
“Fabulous, as always. I may even stop my Botox, these men are keeping me so young.”
“Oh, god,” I mumble under my breath.
She lowers both palms to her desktop. “Look at you. You’re a hot commodity just waiting to be snatched off the market by some hunky stud.”
“I’m not a house for sale, for god’s sake. And I’m fine with just me and Matty.” This isn’t strictly true. Some days I’d give my right arm to have a partner to share my troubles and triumphs —other days, I remind myself I need that arm to give myself the only orgasms available to me.
“Liar, liar, panties on fire,” Coco croons as she swipes her phone up with one hand, the perfectly manicured index finger of the other tapping at the screen.
“You’re calling me a liar?” I cock my head in disbelief. “Just yesterday I heard you telling that guy from that fancy investment firm that you’re forty-six.”
She doesn’t even look up from her phone. “How many times do I have to tell you? Age is a mindset, darling. I feel forty-six, so it’s not a lie at all.”
I suppose she has a point. Coco Farnsworth, owner and realtor extraordinaire here at Farnsworth Luxury Realty, looks and acts much younger than her sixty-two years. And, while some of the credit must go to her plastic surgeon, the rest is undeniably Coco.
“Ah!” she exclaims. “Here it is!” Her blue eyes positively twinkle as they meet mine across the desk. “We’re signing you up for a dating app.”
We’ve all heard the expression, the blood drained from her face , but I can’t remember another instance where I could literally feel the blood inside my skull ducking for cover and hauling ass out of Dodge. “I might faint,” I mumble before dropping my head down between my knees. Deep breaths, Molly.
“Oh, don’t be such a drama queen. That’s my job,” Coco says, amusement suffusing her words.
I give myself a good twenty seconds before slowly lifting my head again. No white spots in my vision, so that’s a good sign, right? “I’m not taking out a billboard offering free booty calls to strange men.” Just the thought of a handsome man flirting with me is enough to make me blush after all this time.
“Oh, it’s easy to weed the weirdos out, I promise.” Coco is now typing with both thumbs clacking away on her phone screen.
“You’ve officially lost the plot, boss.” I shake my head and stand, both hands gripping the chair arms in case my head decides to get light again. “I’ve got to go.”
I only get two steps.
“There. You’re all signed up. I’m texting you the app’s link plus your username and password.”
“I’m deleting it,” I reply, quickening my pace. “I’m too old for dating apps.” Hell, I feel too old for dating in general. It’s a young person’s game. I wouldn’t know what to do.
“Bite your tongue, Molly Sparks. Besides, have I ever steered you wrong?”
I groan this time since she knows the answer to that question as well as I do.
Coco took me under her wing from the moment I walked through her agency’s door two years ago to inquire about a receptionist job. I wouldn’t have ever thought to pursue my real estate license if it hadn’t been for her encouragement and support. Her belief in me is unwavering, and I have the deepest respect for her business sense and savvy. Coco’s entire attitude and outlook on life are something to aspire to.
So, yeah, her advice is never a thing to be tossed casually aside. Still, there’s an exception to every rule.
I reach the doorway and open my mouth to throw a teasing “No comment” her way before I stop short, only now remembering why I knocked on her door in the first place. “Oh. I forgot to tell you. I was driving by that gorgeous Victorian on Newland Boulevard and saw a man hammering a “For Sale by Owner” sign into the yard.
Coco’s eyes widen, her lips stretching into a blindingly white smile. “That’s my girl.”
I can’t help grinning to myself all the way to my car. My phone pings from inside my giant handbag just as I shut the driver's side door, and I rifle through various bits and bobs until I locate the device.
My grin dies on my face when I see the new text from Coco, accompanied by a link.
Coco: Your username is @SparkleIsMyStripperName and your password is MamaNeeds2GetSome. You’re welcome.