The Fix (The Carolina Connections, #1)
Sylvie Stewart
Chapter One
Pants? Who Needs Pants?
LANEY
I awoke to a foot in my mouth.
No, not the old feeling of having said something horribly inappropriate that you immediately wish you could un-say, but an actual foot. In my mouth.
“Ung guh!” I spat. To say this was a disturbing way to begin one’s day would be a gross understatement—emphasis on the gross. “What in the … ugh.” My head dropped back to the pillow as comprehension dawned. Rocco’s size twelve with those cute little toes lay on the pillow next to my face, along with a small puddle of drool. I took in his sleeping form, passed out upside down in nothing but his Ninja Turtle underwear.
“We can’t keep doing this, dude,” I whispered to myself. My little exhibitionist, having contorted himself into some kind of inverted nocturnal backbend, had spent the night in my bed—yet again. Being awakened by small naked body parts was starting to mess with my head. Not to mention, who knew where those little feet had been? Oh, wait, I did. Blech.
Completely unprepared to get up for the day, I snuggled back into my favorite dogwood printed sheets and stared up at the ceiling. I was discovering that moving to a strange new house was rough on a kid. Hell, it was rough on me and I was twenty years older than him. All things considered though, Rocco had been a real trouper since leaving the only house he’d known at my parents’ and moving into the cute fixer-upper we now call home. But there were obviously still some kinks to work out—case in point, my rude wake-up call.
When my parents first brought up the possibility of their out-of-state move, I don’t think I had ever seen them so edgy. There was lots of hand-wringing and “um, well, you know” before I had demanded they just spit it out—I was halfway convinced one or both of them were dying of Ebola or something equally horrifying.
I’d been feeling increasingly uncomfortable for leaning on them so heavily since the little stick had turned blue, so it was almost a relief to have the decision to get a place of my own taken out of my hands. Turns out while I had feared our moving out would hurt my parents’ feelings, they had been afraid I’d fall to pieces without them. One come-to-Jesus conversation later and my mom was accepting a new position at the University of Richmond in Virginia while I was on the phone with a realtor.
The truth is, early on, I would never have survived a day of motherhood without the undying, and most importantly, non-judgmental support of my family and my best friend—as well as the financial, if not physical, support of Rocco’s dad. But it was past time for me to pull my big girl panties up and I knew it. All the support I’d received had allowed me to finish my associate’s degree and get a job which, while not being entirely stimulating, allowed me to take care of my kid and me. As far as single moms went, my situation was the dream, and I knew it.
Turns out there is something remarkably satisfying about holding ownership of the place where you lay your head at night, and our new house was adorable. It had bright white siding—after a power-washing from my dad—and black shutters that were mostly on straight. And it was topped off by a cheery bright red front door. The house was a ranch and it was a bit older, but it had three bedrooms, two baths, and a fenced-in backyard for Rocco and the dog I was sure we would eventually get. It was close (but not too close) to the stores and restaurants, and the street was nice and quiet. I loved it and I was proud of our new home, even if it did have some drawbacks—leaky faucets, a few uneven floors, and maybe a few more major problems. But that was okay. All of that could be fixed with time and a little help from my idiot younger brother. I hoped.
On the condition that he would help with the repairs and renovating, I had agreed to let him stay with Rocco and me. It was a win-win—my faucets wouldn’t drip, and my brother wouldn’t be homeless, considering that his previous residence had also been my parents’ house. Even he had to admit that, at twenty-two, following your parents to a new state in order to live in their basement was borderline Jay and Silent Bob. And besides, all his drinking buddies were here in Greensboro so there was that …
So now the house was ours and we were making it into a home. What I didn’t know before moving was that a new house breathes differently than your old one. It has its own voices and creaky bones to creep you right the hell out if you’re not used to them. And we were definitely not used to them—thus the previous month of waking up to Professor Underwear crowding my sleep space in an entertaining array of positions.
It was past time to get out of bed so I laid my hand on Rocco’s bare foot and pressed a soft kiss to his head. I inhaled the unique “boy” scent of sweat and the outdoors, trying not to wake him. The floor squeaked under my feet, and out in the hall I tried in vain to avoid the cockeyed floorboard that’s entire existence was centered around mocking my lack of coordination. One stubbed toe and several curses later I reached the kitchen and went straight to the vintage avocado-colored fridge for my morning coffee. Okay, what I actually mean is Diet Coke. Don’t look at me like that. There are plenty of people who don’t like coffee. And some of them are even over the age of thirteen.
One could say I am not a morning person. As in, I may be borderline vampire. All these people who wake up at the crack of dawn to enjoy a leisurely pot of coffee and read the paper completely baffle me. And don’t get me started on those five-a.m. gym weirdos. In my world, no sane person ever wakes up a minute earlier than it takes to frantically throw things together and arrive at the day’s destination a mere hair’s breadth from being tardy. And usually looking like their five-year-old styled their outfit. And hair.