Letters to Molly (Maysen Jar, #2)(10)

When Finn had moved out, he’d taken my side-sleeper pillow by mistake. It had been one of the mix-ups in the his and hers shuffle. Instead of mentioning it and making a swap, I’d stayed quiet. I’d kept his pillow and bought a new one for myself.

Stupid pillow. I snagged it and threw it on the floor. Stupid Molly.

How could I have brought that man back into this room? Prior to last night, his memory had finally faded, but now I’d have to start the forgetting process all over again. I’d have to retrain myself that sleeping alone was better than sleeping with company because you got more leg room. I’d have to un-remember how his hands felt on my skin and the weight of his hips between my thighs. Or how it felt to tangle my legs with his before drifting off to sleep, draped over his back.

Delete. Delete. Delete. What I wouldn’t give for a mental backspace button.

It was yet another mistake to survive.

Starting with making the bed.

I picked up Finn’s pillow and straightened the twisted sheets. Laundry would have to wait until the weekend, meaning I’d have to live with his manly scent for one more night. Maybe I’d sleep on the couch until I could do the wash. I would have to vacuum too. A few blades of grass had hitchhiked into my room on his jeans.

This weekend, I’d clean it all away.

But first, I had to get through my Friday.

I finished the bed and hurried through my morning routine, getting dressed in a pair of jeans and burgundy tennis shoes. Then I chose a fitted T-shirt, one of many from my closet. Today’s was white. The restaurant’s emblem was printed on the chest pocket.

I took the time to put on a full face of makeup. I tamed my curls, brushing them out before spraying a leave-in conditioner that would keep the frizz at bay. With three hair ties on my wrist, I went upstairs to get the kids ready for school.

The familiarity of the morning routine eased most of my nerves and irritation. There wasn’t much headspace to fret about Finn when I was shouting at Max to brush his teeth and at Kali to remember her library book as I made them breakfast. We all ate. We all put our dishes away. And we all marched outside to the Jeep.

“Did we forget anything?” I asked as they buckled into their seats. I scanned to make sure they had their backpacks and I had my purse.

Kali smiled. “Nope. And I have my library book.”

“I didn’t brush my teeth,” Max admitted.

I sighed. “Then do it twice tonight.”

“Okay.” He nodded. “It was fun having Dad stay last night.”

My heart jumped into my throat. There was no way he could have known that Finn had stayed all night. Was there? I searched his cute face for any sign that he was talking about more than pizza and the movie, but as the seconds wore on, he just stared at me like I’d gone crazy.

Kali spoke up first. “Uh, Mom. We’re going to be late.”

“Right.” I spun around to the wheel, turning on the car and reversing into the street. “I want to grab the mail, then we’re outta here.”

“Can I get it?” Max asked.

“Sure.” I pulled forward, close enough to the curb that Max could roll down his window.

He had to unbuckle to reach out and open up the mailbox’s hatch. He leaned out and came back with a stack of envelopes and a catalog.

“Thanks.” I took it from him and tossed it all onto the passenger seat as he got resituated.

The drive to school didn’t take long with the kids chatting the entire way. We waited in the drop-off line, and when it was our turn, I waved as the kids hopped out and ran toward school. Kali shot me one last smile as she pointed out the Jeep to her circle of friends.

I inched forward. The line to turn out of the parking lot was always slow.

“And now, we wait.” I frowned at the line of cars ahead and a green sedan with its left blinker on.

Next year, Kali would be going to middle school. I wasn’t sure how early we’d have to leave the house to get Max here, wait in this atrocious line, then deliver Kali to her school seven blocks away.

But we’d make it work. That was the life of a single mom. We made the impossible happen daily.

The line was especially slow today, so I reached over to the stack of mail and brought it to my lap, thumbing through it as I crept forward.

It was mostly junk mail. Everything would be tossed into the trash except for one bill from the power company.

And a letter.

I turned the white envelope over in my hand. There was no return address. There wasn’t a stamp. The handwriting on the front wasn’t familiar. I slid my finger into the corner to tear open the top but stopped when a horn beeped behind me.

“Sorry,” I said to the car behind me and drove ahead, getting out of the school’s loop. Then I set off across town toward the restaurant.

As I drove, I continued to glance at the letter in my lap. I so badly wanted to open it, but I also wanted to arrive at work alive, so I waited, resisting the urge to dive in at a stoplight. Instead, I took one of the hair ties from my wrist.

My hair was so full and thick, I quickly stretched out the elastic ribbon I preferred to wear, which meant I had to keep a backup or two handy. I gathered up my curls and was in the middle of tying them into a bun when the neon-green band snapped.

No. My stomach dropped.

My grandma had died of a heart attack the day a hair tie had broken. My car, the one before Beluga, had been sideswiped in the grocery store parking lot after a hair tie had broken. And Finn and I had signed our divorce papers the day a hair tie had broken.