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Chapter 1
Amara
“What do you mean, you don’t have the cake?” I hiss into my phone. It’s my son’s sixth birthday today. I planned a party at the park this evening with all his friends from school. When his father, my ex, volunteered to bring the cake, it seemed like a small enough contribution considering his absence the last few years.
“I mean, I don’t have a cake.” The nonchalance in Justin’s tone drives me up the wall.
“The birthday cake was your only responsibility. I took care of everything else.” I pace back and forth in my new office. “The party is only four hours away. How am I supposed to find a superhero cake before it starts?”
“Not my problem,” he says. I swear, if I could reach through the phone and punch him, I’d do it right now. “And I probably won’t make it to the party either.”
“Don’t bother showing up unless you bring a big-ass cake with you.” I hang up on him. Pinching the bridge of my nose, I take a deep breath. It takes effort, but I manage to stop the tears before they gain traction.
Justin is such a bastard. I should never have trusted with him something so important.
Staring out my office window, I reflect on how different Justin is from my new boss, Patrick Cunningham.
When I first met Patrick, he looked like he’d been born to wear a suit. I was introduced to him with a few other new hires. When I accepted the position, I hadn’t realized I’d be working for someone who looked like their side job was an Olympic athlete. Wide shoulders, strong jaw, and smooth dark skin.
He might be a few years younger than me, but by the time the introduction ended, I felt like I might have been born to help him take the suit off.
Contrast that with Justin, and it’s like black and white—almost literally. In college, Justin seemed like such a good guy. He played guitar, he practiced painting, he marched in protests.
After a few years together, I realized that while Justin hoped the world would be a nicer, sweeter place, he’d rather not put any real work into making it happen. When I told him we were going to have a baby, he disappeared like a fart in the wind.
And like a chronic gastrointestinal issue, he showed up again a few weeks ago, claiming he wanted to be a better father. Stupid me, I wanted to give him a chance. Now, I have to find a cake in less than four hours.
Shit. I’ve only been at this job for two weeks. I hate to ask for time off early, but I have to fix this. Josiah deserves to have a great birthday party. Family comes first. It’s a lesson I learned powerfully in the year since my parents passed away. You never know what life will bring you, so you have to make the most of the opportunities to celebrate and make happy memories with the people you love.
But first, it’s time to vent a little to my girlfriends. I open up the group chat.
Me: Justin just called. He’s flaking on the cake.
Helena: Are you kidding me?
Quinn: What are you going to do?
Helena: Want me to make a public service announcement that he’s a lame ass bastard of a father?
Me: @helena, I’ll think about it. ( •`?•´ )? ?? Gonna try to get the afternoon off and find something.
Miriam: Let us know if we can help. <3 <3 <3
Me: Thanks. Wish me luck.
With another deep breath, I leave my office and head toward my supervisor’s space. When I started, Chad told me he picked the office where he could keep the best eye on people. I’ve had managers like that before. The kind that anticipate their employees doing the worst possible job. Ironically, it’s that attitude that lowers morale and productivity.
I know I’m going to take some flack for requesting time off on a Friday, but it’s too important. It’s not my fault—or Josiah’s—that his dad is an unreliable asshole.
Knocking on the doorframe, I wait for Chad to acknowledge me. He’s a relatively attractive white man in his mid-forties. This job is probably as far as he’ll go in his career, and he punishes the people below him for his own mediocrity.
“Yes, Amara?” he asks without looking at me, apparently too busy doodling on his notepad.
“Hello, sir. Thank you. If possible, I’d like to get the rest of the afternoon off for a personal emergency.”
He slowly raises his gaze to look at me, disbelief clear on his face. “You’ve been working here for less than two weeks, and you want to go home early on a Friday afternoon. Is that correct?”
“Yes, sir.” I don’t owe him an explanation, but maybe he’ll sympathize with me if he hears the whole story. “It’s my son’s sixth birthday. His father—my ex—was supposed to bring the cake, but he just called me and flaked.”
