Page 3 of Man Flu

The word: date is added to our two-day-long running Words With Friends game. How did he end up with those letters? That might explain all his skipped turns.

At least I have an N left, and there’s a perfect spot next to an O.

A message appears in the sidebar. “Really? A bet was a bet, and I won the last five games in a row. You agreed to go out to dinner with me if that happened.”

“I’m so sorry. I can’t,” I tell him.

“Why not?” he responds just as fast.

“I’m still not ready to be back in the dating scene.” This is the third time I’ve broken a proposed date with him. Something is holding me back, and I don’t know what it is.

“It’s me, Hannah. There’s nothing to be nervous about. We’ve been playing Words With Friends for an entire year. It’s not like I’m rushing things.”

“Dickle.” I shake my head every time I type this man’s name. I don’t laugh like Brielle does, but he will not tell me if Dickle is his real name or just a fun username. “I love our conversations, and I don’t want to ruin them.” That’s what this is. With Tinder or a blind date, I can run and hide. I don’t feel like I can do that with Dickle anymore.

“Well, maybe you should find someone else to play with,” he says.

No! Come on. Why can’t anyone be patient? What’s the rush? I don’t understand how it can it be so easy to lose good things in my life. Not that Rick was good, but I thought he was at one point. Whatever. Now, I have no Dickle to play with. Men are so hard to understand. He even told me that he appreciated our conversations mostly because they excluded the most private information in our lives, and that wouldn’t work if we knew each other in person. Doesn’t he realize that?

“I’m sorry you feel that way,” I tell him before closing the app. I suspected this would happen eventually. Words With Friends never should have added a messaging portion to the game. It was nice not having to chat when attacking someone with a ninety-point word. Sadly, I’ve gotten good at the game since it’s my only real hobby outside of being a single mom.

I place my phone down, and the display doesn’t even have time to go dark before the stupid thing starts ringing. I look down at the caller ID and curse life. Why? What could it possibly be this time?

I click to accept the call from the school and bring my phone up to my ear. “This is Hannah Pierce.”

“Hi, Mrs. Pierce, this is Miss Ellen, the school nurse. I have Cora here with me.”

I used to have a five-second heart attack every time the school nurse called, but I’m pretty sure I’m on their speed dial now. “Hi, Miss Ellen, is Cora all right?”

“Oh yes, but she has a bit of a hangnail, and it started to bleed.” Cora, a hangnail? She has found more excuses to get out of school than I could have ever taken credit for at her age. She has the imagination and creativity of a mastermind.

“Can you put her on the phone, please?” I tell the nurse.

Brett, the vice president, my direct boss, picks this moment to walk into my office and takes a seat in front of my desk. Unfortunately, he’s heard more than his fair share of my conversations with the school nurse.

“Hi, Mom,” Cora says.

“Cora, sweetie, I need you to pull the hangnail off your finger, have Miss Ellen give you a Band-Aid, and go back to class. Please, Cora. I can’t leave work this morning. You don’t want Mommy to get in trouble, do you?”

“But, Mom, it hurts, and it’s bleeding a little. You know I hate blood. It makes me sick, and I might throw up. If I throw up, I’ll have to come home anyway. It’s the school rules.”

“Cora, okay, I understand. Can you put the nurse back on the phone?”

“Hello, Mrs. Pierce. How would you like me to handle this situation?”

“Could you please clip the hangnail and put a Band-Aid on her finger?”

“No problem, I just wanted to let you know we have her down here at the nurse’s office,” she responds.

I love how even though she calls me almost every day, it’s as if I didn’t speak to her just a day or so earlier. “These calls make me very nervous. Is there any chance we can save the hangnail calls for true concerns?” I’m probably out of line for asking, but it’s seriously at least three days a week, and it’s usually a mosquito bite, a splinter, a paper-cut, or a hangnail.

“I’m afraid I can’t agree to that. It’s the school policy that we notify you when Cora comes down to the nurse’s office.”

“Ok, great. Talk to you tomorrow, then.” I hang up, frustrated as always.

Once I take a breath and unwind, I look up at Brett, whose eyebrows are hiked up an inch, and I’m wondering what he’ll have to say about this.

“Seriously, that nurse is out to get you,” Brett says with laughter.