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Rubbing my sweaty palms against my pants, I make my exit. “O-kay, I’ll just be on my way then.”
“Will you come back?” Mae’s soft voice cuts through the tension. Her head hangs a little, and it takes every ounce of my being not to tip her chin up. A woman like her should never lower her gaze … to anyone.
For my job security, I keep my damn hands to myself. “Absolutely.” I nod, the tone of my voice leaving no room for uncertainty.
“Good,” she clips. “We’ll see you out.”
Queeny starts for the front door and I follow, wishing I had something clever to say to break the ice between us. I’m usually good with one-liners, but today has me rattled. This is a good contract and I’d like to keep it, so I let Mae lead for now.
As soon as I get to the threshold of the opened door, I turn and say goodbye to Isabel, who is wildly waving, “Bye-bye.”
“I just want to say—”
“Can we not?” Mae’s brows lift with her plea. It’s more of a desperate request than a brush-off, so I let it slide. “It’s been an awful day, and I just need some time with my daughter.”
Ever polite, I hook up the side of my mouth. “Of course.” I lift my hand in a small wave before skipping down the porch steps and walking to the train station.
I don’t look back. The past is done. Over.
Tomorrow will be better. It always is.
I’m not a quitter, and I won’t give up on this family because something tells me they need me more than they realize.
Chapter 5
Apology Pancakes
Mae
Women have an innate ability for certain laws of nature. Take motherhood, for example. No one really knows how to do it until you pop a kid out and have to learn real fast. But in the grand scheme of learning a new craft—something as complicated and fragile as raising a child—women master this skill at the speed of light.
Before Isabel, I never burped a baby. Never saw a documentary about it. Didn’t have time for a baby-gas class. But as soon as I gave birth, I instinctively knew when she needed a pat on her back to release the air cramping her stomach.
There are other things I know from primal instinct alone: when my daughter is going to be sick before the first sign of snot; when she’s upset, my arms ache to comfort her; I can tell by the rise and fall of her chest if she’s dreaming. However, all my talents are summed up in managerial skills and diaper changing.
When it comes to cooking, I have a charred thumb.
Beep beep beep!
“Fuckshitdamn! Shut up, or you’re going to wake up Isabel,” I hiss at the smoke alarm as I ineffectually wave a dish towel in the air to dispel the smoke. It doesn’t work.
This is the third batch of pancakes I’ve burnt. A cloying sweet-smoky smell saturates the air, and even if these things do come out less than black, there’s no way they are edible.
But I’m not a defeatist, so I whip up another batch. “If you had just apologized last night, you wouldn’t be torturing yourself right now.”
When I got home after work, I was too ashamed to rehash what had happened. I didn’t want to be reminded of how I’d dismissed my daughter. So I gave Remi a short hello, scooped Isabel out of his hands, and pretty much pushed him out the door. I just needed time to decompress.
“But nooooo, you had to go all postal on the hot manny. Who, by the way, is perfect for your daughter,” I continue my self-rant, slopping another pile of batter on the skillet. “Did that stop you? It sure didn’t. You just—”
“Knock, knock.”
My head swings to the threshold of the kitchen, where Remmington is leaning like a cocky Calvin Klein model.
Did he just hear my word vomit?
“Mmm, smells good in here.” I’m pretty sure he’s being sarcastic, and his gravelly voice isn’t helping anything, except for waking up parts of my body. “You makin’ breakfast, Queeny?”
“Yes, and don’t call me that.” I’m as petulant as my two-year-old sometimes.
