The Hot Mess and the Heartthrob(86)

“I’m irresistible,” I tell my brother. “Of course she’ll take me back.”

He hears the doubt in my voice. I know he does.

So it’s no surprise when he shakes his head, takes another hit off his bottle, then clinks it to mine. “Damn right. She’d be lucky to have you.”

That’s what a good big brother says when he has to.

Even if he doesn’t believe it.

I sigh and sink lower in my chair. “Here’s hoping she agrees.”

That knot in my stomach?

It’s not so sure.

Not at all.





Thirty-One





Ingrid



Zoe’s singing at the top of her lungs as she combs her wet hair, and Piper’s shrieking over Skippy joining her in the shower, and Hudson’s running around in his briefs and a cape, making Mr. Axolotl fly and pew pew at the glitter still on the wall from the day Levi babysat the kids.

How is it possible to miss someone so much you can’t breathe one moment, and then glow so hard you can’t breathe for sheer appreciation of a simple bakery bag delivered to your doorstep the next, and still be standing here capable of barking orders at your children despite not being able to breathe so much lately?

Add in that I haven’t had more than six texts from him since his mom and her friends stopped by the other night, and I’m questioning everything I know and feel.

But only for a moment, again, because Hudson just ran straight into my stomach. “Oof. Hudson. Stop.”

Apartment living is going to kill us.

This boy needs space to run. I’ve known it for a while, but living above the store, three blocks from school, no more than a five-minute drive, even in traffic, to any of the kids’ activities and doctors, makes my life work the way it needs to.

I spend zero time commuting so that I can fit more into every day.

And maybe I fit more into every day so that I don’t have the time to stop and think about if I’m doing the right things for my kids, and if they’ll one day appreciate living in an apartment instead of a house with a yard, and getting to do all of their activities so they can have well-rounded lives with hobbies when they’re my age instead of packing in everything they need to pack in for everyone else.

How is it that Levi never once complained about how difficult my schedule was to work with too, yet all I can think about since his mom left the other night is all the ways I haven’t been setting a good example for my kids, and all the ways I could be more flexible if I got just a little more sleep and had a little less to do every day?

And then all the ways that I feel lonely.

And a little hollow.

And how it’s my own fault because I’m the grown-up here, and how can I put all the blame on Levi for not being here when I keep myself so busy that I didn’t even realize Zoe had adopted a baby squirrel for an entire month?

My son eyeballs me like I’m an alien, and I wonder if I muttered any of that out loud in the last two seconds.

But then he lifts his stuffy. “Mr. Axolotl told you to move.”

“Don’t do drugs, Mom,” Zoe said.

“I am not doing drugs.”

“We talked about drugs today at school and you look like people who are on drugs, all spacey and running into people.”

One…two…three…

My phone rings, and I fish it out of my pocket so fast that I drop it on the floor before I answer, and when I flip it over— “Dammit.” The fudging screen is cracked.

And it’s not Levi calling.

It’s Yasmin.

Shit shit shit.

Four… five… six…

I swipe and answer, because let’s be real.

The only reason my screen wasn’t cracked before is that I upgraded from my last cracked-screen version six months ago, and I’d somehow managed to not find the right angle to crack this one when I dropped it.

Until now.

“Ingrid? I’m so sorry to bother you, but there’s a customer in the loft who won’t leave.”

Seven… eight… nine… “Me or the police?”

“You. I’m not worried, I just…well, I need to lock up and go.”

“Can you watch my kids for five?”

“Yep. I’m in the stairwell.”

I hang up, open my door, and there’s Yasmin. “Sorry,” she whispers.

I shake my head. “It’s okay.” We get this from time to time. Usually a woman who needs to cry it out a little more before heading back to her family.

Possibly I’m that woman tonight, and our late customer will be talking me off a ledge.

Because when Levi gets home from his tour on Sunday, I’m texting him and asking if I can take him out for dinner.

“I locked the front door so no one else can come in,” Yasmin says.

“You’re the best. Sorry about Hudson. And the squirrel.” I also need to let the squirrel go.

But it’s right before Christmas.

The kids are home most of the day with a very tolerant—for now—babysitter.

I tuck my phone into my front pocket, realize I’m wearing a slice of pepperoni on my left boob, and belatedly wonder if I have any pizza sauce smeared on my face.

Whatever.