Page 67 of Scoring Chance

After filling out more job applications in the morning, I spend the afternoon cleaning up the house. I do a deep clean that is months overdue. Scrubbing layers of dust off the shelves. Vacuuming in between the couch cushions. Wiping off dust that accumulated atop the ceiling fan blades. Mopping—not Swiffering—the floors. With what little energy I have left, I dump something edible into the crock pot for the kids and run to make a PTA meeting for the fall carnival.

Des and I have a boisterous dinner with the kids where we go over our embellished backstory once more. Uncle Des and I were friends for a long time but recently realized that we love each other very much. Uh, where’s the embellishment on my end?

Once we put everyone to sleep, I collapse on my own bed with a basket full of laundry needing to be folded. The laundry never ends. The kids are asleep, the dishwasher hums faintly in the kitchen, and I’m left alone with my thoughts—and the mountain of stress sitting on my shoulders.

And yet, all I can think about is the way Des looked at me earlier. The soft edges of his smirk when we nearly bumped hips in the kitchen. The quiet, lingering way his gaze settled on me when he thought I wasn't paying attention.

I’m still sorting laundry when he pads into the bedroom in an old Vertical Horizon T-shirt clinging to life and flannel pants that somehow still make him look unfairly good. His hair's damp from the shower, curling slightly at his temples. I like seeing Des with shaggy, uncombed hair, a natural version of himself that he rarely lets the world see.

“House looks great,” he says, pulling a pair of socks to fold from the basket, the tip of the laundry iceberg. “Didn’t know you were gunning for a job with a cleaning service.”

“I’m trying to make sure your boss doesn’t think I’m raising these kids in a dumpster.” I snort, folding the last pair of Dean’s shorts. If he had his way, he’d wear shorts all year round. It’s a three-round negotiation getting him to switch to pants in the winter. He’s totally going to be one of those college guys wearing flip flops to class in January.

Des falls onto the bed beside me, his knee brushing mine, warm even through the fabric. It takes him a few tries to fold one of Davy’s T-shirts.

“Do you do your own laundry?” I ask him.

“Laundry service and dry cleaning. I ship it out. They do their magic.”

“I hate you.” The day we brought home Lena from the hospital, the laundry went from a once-a-week occurrence to a nonstop part of life. I think I’ve developed callouses from all the folding.

“One of the great joys in life is paying someone to do something you don’t want to do.”

“Do you miss being in your luxury apartment? Do your leather couches and impressionist wall art cry out for you?”

“I write them postcards.” His eyes travel around the bedroom, one of the only rooms I didn’t deep clean. I doubted Stan would be in here, unless he really wanted proof we were playing house. But a sweet, wistful smile crosses Des’s face as he takes in the room’s imperfections. “I don’t know. I think this house is growing on me.”

“That’s just a fungus.”

He snorts a laugh, and it’s music to my ears.

“One of the benefits of unemployment is having the time to clean. I may clean the fridge tomorrow.”

I create piles of sorted clean clothes on the bed. Des quickly catches on.

“How’s the job search going?”

“Nothing yet.”

“You’ll find something soon.”

“Yeah.” I can’t meet his eyes, instead choosing to stare intently at a pair of my boxers.

“What kind of jobs are you applying to?”

“Ones similar to what I had been doing,” I say, hearing the mumble of shame in my voice.

“But you weren’t crazy about that job. What is your dream job? What would you love to be doing?” Bless him, his eyes light up.

Des is ambitious. He has lofty career goals and the fire in his belly to make them happen. I’m realizing more and more that I don’t. My lofty goal is a job that pays the bills, keeps my kids fed, and provides health insurance. Des would reel in horror if I told him that, though.

He’d never fall in love with someone who didn’t share his drive. Four kids and a dad who lacks career ambition? No way.

“I’m wiped. I’ll fold the rest of this tomorrow.” I put the folded piles into the basket and bring it to the corner, where it can sit atop my hamper.

Des pulls back the covers. He pats the empty space next to him. That lazy, slightly smug smile beckons. I feel that stupid jolt of awareness again—the one I’ve been trying to bury since last night.

And yet, once I fold myself into bed, and Des wraps his arms around me, all the chatter in my head stops. There is no heated blanket or body pillow that can mimic the comfort and warmth of cuddling with another person. It is nature’s anti-anxiety remedy.