The Suite Spot (Beck Sisters #2)(6)
“Did she stay all night?”
Maisie nods.
I rocket out of bed and through the living room. From the window, I can see his car still idling in the driveway, his attention fixed on his phone. I’m wearing my pajamas and my feet are bare as I dash outside.
“What the hell is wrong with you?” I shout, slapping my palm on the closed car window, making him jump. The window whirs as it slides down and Brian grins at me as if I’m not making a spectacle of myself in front of the entire neighborhood. But Blackwell took the last fuck I had to give. “You were supposed to spend the night with Maisie, not your girlfriend of the week.”
“It was kind of a last-minute thing—”
“You know what?” I shake my head and shrug. “It doesn’t matter. I’m done.”
“Babe—”
“I lost my job tonight, Brian.” I cut him off before he tries to woo me with endearments and dimples. “And I realized, after four years of waiting for you to commit to me and Maisie … I give up. Losing you couldn’t possibly hurt worse than getting fired. At least I loved my job.”
His smile falters. “Wait. You got fired?”
“That’s not the point,” I say. “How long do you think it will take before Maisie figures out she can’t count on you? If you’re going to break her heart, I’d rather you do it now, while she’s too little to remember.”
He looks confused. “What are you saying?”
“If you can’t be fully present for your daughter, then you might as well not be around at all.”
Brian snickers a little, rolling his eyes. He thinks we’re doing the same dance we’ve done for the past four years. We blow up. He dates someone else for a few minutes. He makes a half-hearted attempt to be a decent boyfriend and father. And like a fool, I’ve always fallen for it. Not anymore. This dance is over.
“Call me when you calm down,” he says, his window gliding up.
I turn and walk back into the house, and when his tires squeal out of the driveway, I don’t turn to look. Eggs are soft-boiling on the stove and Mom is laying out a German breakfast of cold cuts, cheeses, and warm Berliner Schrippen rolls.
“Maisie,” I say, “did you and Daddy go to Lester’s for breakfast?”
“No.”
I pull in a deep breath and let it out slowly, taking a small plate from the cupboard. I slice one of the rolls and make Maisie a half sandwich with salami and Havarti, along with a little dish of blueberry yogurt. She’s been eating Oma’s German breakfast since she was a baby, so cold meats and cheese in the morning normally don’t faze her. I settle her at the coffee table with Fred and a fairy coloring book I’ve been saving for this kind of occasion.
“Mama?” she says.
“Yes, baby?”
“Are you mad at Daddy?”
“A little bit.”
“Me too,” she says. “He didn’t color with me, and he doesn’t ever tell me bedtime stories.”
My broken heart fractures even more. I refuse to speak ill of Brian in front of her, so I lean down and kiss the top of her head. “Maybe later we can go to the park near the beach and look for gopher tortoises.”
“Okay,” she says, her tongue poking out as she uses a purple crayon—her current favorite color—to fill in a fairy’s wings. “Mama?”
“Yes, Maisie?”
“Ich liebe dich.”
I push away the tear that tracks down my cheek and kiss the top of her head again. “I love you too.”
Back at the breakfast counter, Mom hands me a plate. “Are you going to tell me what’s wrong?”
“I, um—I was fired last night.”
“What? Why?” She keeps her voice low, but I double-check to make sure Maisie isn’t listening. She’s completely absorbed in her artwork. I share the whole story with Mom as I fill my plate, then hold my breath as I wait for her reaction. She’s at least a decade younger than Blackwell, but she left her home country to follow a man, so she might not share my opinion. I’m half-afraid she’ll tell me I was overreacting and should apologize.
“That is so unfair.” There’s an edge of anger in her voice, and she wags her egg spoon at me. “You should sue that verdammtes hotel.”
“I don’t want to sue the hotel, Mom. I want to forget this ever happened.”
“What will you do?”
I spread a bit of red currant jelly on my roll. “Find another job, I guess.”
“Are you worried other hotels won’t hire you because you were fired from Aquamarine?”
“Well, I wasn’t, but I am now.” I hadn’t considered that I might have ended up on some no-hire list. I drop the roll. “I need to go lie down.”
“You need to eat.”
“Mama, when are we going to the park?” Maisie pipes up from across the room.
I sigh. “As soon as I’m finished with breakfast.”
“Okay,” she says. “Eat faster.”
* * *
Maisie climbs the playground structure at Hugh Taylor Birch State Park while I sit on a bench and scroll through employment websites on my phone. There are always plenty of housekeeping positions available. I don’t think I’m too special to clean hotel rooms—that was my first job out of high school—but it feels like something to fall back on. A last resort kind of thing. I apply for a couple of reception manager jobs at chain hotels, even though a decade of experience and a degree in hospitality management make me feel overqualified. I don’t know what else to do—like when Dad left, and Mom had to take a second job so we wouldn’t lose our house. She kept going because she didn’t really have a choice. I have slightly more financial stability than Mom did, but I can’t afford to wallow in my misfortune any more than she could.