The clattering of dishes wakes me up. I roll out of bed and look at the clock. 6:05? Seriously? I shuffle downstairs in my pajamas.
“Hey,” Will says, wiping his hands on his jeans and pouring me a cup of coffee. “How’d you sleep?”
“OK,” I say, remembering how last night ended and feeling the resentment creep back in. I know I shouldn’t be competing with an eight-year-old for his attention. I tell myself to suck it up—for now. I say hi to Addie, who’s sitting at the bar, drawing.
“Hey,” she mumbles. Will hands me the coffee cup. I take a sip then sit down at the bar and tap on my phone.
“Can you put that away?” he says, a bit testily.
I look up to see what’s caught Will’s attention. I assume he’s looking at Addie, but he’s looking at me. “Huh?” I say.
“Your phone. We have a no screens at breakfast rule.”
I stare at him. “Oh, um, I always do a few stories in the morning,” I say. “They do well. And this is work.”
He shakes his head at me. I don’t want to make it an issue, but at the same time, I’m bothered. He’s not my father, and yes, I’m in his house, but he can’t tell me what to do.
“If she gets to be on screens, I should get to be on screens,” Addie says.
“It’s work,” I say again.
Will exhales loudly, then asks Addie to set the table, but she looks at him like he has two heads.
“Why are we sitting at the table? We never eat breakfast at the table.”
“Because there are only two stools and there are three of us.” He places three white plates, cutlery piled on top, in front of her. She doesn’t budge.
“So what, we’re just going to…start eating at the table?”
“Addie, what’s the big deal? We always eat at the table whenever we have people over.”
“Not for breakfast. We always eat breakfast at the bar.”
“And now we’re eating at the table,” Will interrupts sharply. “Set the table. And not another word out of you.”
Addie storms to the dining room and slams the plates onto the table, the cutlery sliding off and clattering to the floor. She comes back to get glasses, making a big production out of reaching for them. I look to Will, unsure what to do. “I’m not much of a big breakfast person,” I whisper. “I’m not even that hungry.” Because it’s not even 7 a.m.
But what I could use is more coffee and silence to figure out how I’m going to execute the series of photos I had planned for a new tea client. They’d approved three concepts for shots—one in my tub, one on my couch and one at my marble bar. Showing the Zen life of living alone, having a cup of tea whenever you want. But Will’s bathroom is too grimy, his couch is threadbare and his bar is a very well-used butcher’s block in front of a chipped blue wall riddled with off-kilter framed photos of him and Addie. The only saving grace is that the wall is the Pantone color of the year. Could I spin that somehow? Unlikely. And how am I supposed to evoke that Zen feeling when I feel completely stressed out?
“Don’t leave,” he says. “That’s the worst thing you could do. She’s just hungry.”
“I am NOT hungry!” Addie shouts as she enters the kitchen. “I HATE when you say that—and it’s not like I can eat because you still haven’t finished making breakfast!”
So this is what life with kids is like when you’re not eating ice cream sundaes, watching movies or riding the Scrambler. That’s the thing—I knew it, I just wasn’t prepared to deal with it on a Monday morning at 7 a.m.
My cousin Lena calls while I’m rushing to an event for a new dating app, to tell me that she doesn’t want a spa gift card for her baby shower gift. While I know I should be happy that she’s happy she’s about to become a mom, my real emotion is disappointment. Even though she had a tough time last year after her business went bust, I figured once she returned from taking a breather in Cambodia she’d be back to her usual self and back at the No Kidding groups, filling us all in on her latest start-up idea. Now that she’s about to become a mom, she feels like somebody that I used to know. The old Lena would never have even told me what gift not to give—especially not calling more than six weeks beforehand to do so. But since I have no intention of actually showing up at her shower, I take in her rant as well as the details on where she’s registered for items she really needs as a single mother. Which is how, an hour after leaving the dating app event with a code to redeem my free dating credits, I end up taking a thirty-dollar Uber to Babies R Us to get the gift, have it sent to her and remove it from my mind. Now, I’m staring at the seven-page printout of items. I scan the store for someone to help me. Why on earth didn’t I do this online?
“Can I help you find something?” A salesclerk has popped out of nowhere.
“Yes. With this.” I thrust the papers at her.
“Is this for you or for a friend?”
Do I look pregnant? “A friend,” I say, telling myself to stay focused. Stay focused.
“Looks like she’s received a lot already,” the clerk coos, scanning the list. “OK, let’s see what’s left and you can pick something out. When is she due?”
“Can you just grab whatever? Just—whatever you think makes a good gift and I’ll meet you at the cash? I don’t really care what it is.” My breathing is shallow. It feels hard to get any air.
But she’s not listening. She’s walking around the store, pulling items off the shelves, showing me packages big and small, bright colors. My eyes are swimming, and there’s a loud ringing in my ears. I can’t do this. “How about this breast pump?” she asks. “It’s a portable one, for on the go. In a pinch, you might say.” It feels like the aisles are closing in on me. Soothers and teethers, socks and bibs. I squeeze my eyes tight, open them, trying to get rid of the spots that are forming, but they’re growing larger.
“Are you OK? Ma’am?”
Everything goes black.
I come to and see a bunch of strange faces staring down at me, bright lights behind them. For a split second, I consider that I’ve died. Am I in heaven? Then I realize I’m still at Babies R Us. So, hell. I sit up, to concerned murmurs. “You fainted,” someone says. “Do you have low blood pressure? Diabetes? Are you pregnant?”
So many questions, fired at me.
I tell them all that I’m fine.
“Should we call someone for you?”
I’m not about to call Casey or Xiu or Gloria or Will and tell any of them that I fainted in a Babies R Us. Instead, I call an Uber and head to Izzy’s—she’ll get a good laugh at my story.
“Do you think that there’s something wrong with me?” I say over wine later, on her couch.
“So much.” She grins and uses the remote to change the music on her sound system.
“I’m serious.” I fold my legs under me on the couch.
“There’s nothing wrong with you,” she says. “You have a conscience. I think you have a lot going on and your feelings are valid. You’re suddenly living with this guy you’re super into, and his daughter, and realizing, this isn’t the life you had planned out for yourself and yet, you don’t want to end things with him…”
I take a large sip of wine then put my glass on the table and turn toward her.
“It’d be one thing if I were a lawyer or doctor or any other job really, but this isn’t just my feelings about kids, it’s my whole career, my whole life. It feels like I’ve put so much into all of this, that I can’t abandon it all for one guy, regardless of my feelings for him. Even if his daughter is very sweet, and we get along just great. This afternoon must mean something. I can’t even go into a baby store without having a panic attack? Clearly it’s a sign. A warning.”
“Uh-huh.”
“What do you mean, uh-huh?”
“Well…it could also mean that you’re stressed and tired and didn’t eat a good lunch. There are all kinds of reasons for fainting. I hardly think you can blame it on a teensy pair of socks or a breast pump.”
I sigh. “I don’t know, Iz. Don’t you ever think it’s weird that we never babysat? Like, doesn’t every teenage girl babysit? But not us? We never babysat. And we even took that babysitting course at the YMCA. We were fully qualified babysitters yet we never babysat. It’s weird.”
Izzy laughs. “Are you kidding? We wanted to babysit but couldn’t because those stupid twins on Oxford Street got all the families. Remember they had those full-color flyers? And that jingle?” Izzy hums a tune that I vaguely recognize.
“Oh yeah. I forgot about that.”
“How could you forget? Bitches.” Izzy breaks out in song. I laugh, and sing along with her until we’re both laughing so hard that my stomach aches.
Did we really never babysit because two other girls got to all the families before us? All this time I thought we didn’t babysit because we didn’t want to spend time with little kids, because we didn’t have the foundation for maternal instincts that all our friends were experiencing around the same time. If Izzy’s right, am I wrong? About everything?
Feloise opens the large door to her Forest Hill home and lets me in. Her curly hair is wild, and she’s wearing a leopard-print jumpsuit that only she could pull off. “Thanks for making the trek over to Never-Neverland,” she says as I slip off my shoes.
“I like coming here. This house feels like a hotel.” The entrance is grand, with a large round table, a massive bouquet of peonies in the center. A spiral staircase leads to the second floor and multiple doors lead to various other large, empty rooms. Feloise bought the house with her ex, and it always surprises me that she kept it after the divorce. As she leads me to the backyard, the pool is just one of the many reminders that this feels like a house made for a family with children.
“A hotel that’s breaking down. The pool heater’s leaking, the dishwasher’s on the fritz and I’m pretty sure there’s mold in the basement. And those are just the issues I’m dealing with this week.”
I sit in one of the cushioned chairs and pour myself a glass of water from the carafe on the coffee table. “It sounds like a lot of work for one person,” I say sympathetically.
She fans the air with her hand. “Oh woe is me, the barren spinster. I could sell, but I like being the Wild Woman of the West in this neighborhood. The last thing I’m going to do is be a total cliché and live in a waterfront condo,” she says. “No offense.”
“None taken. I’m not on the water,” I say lightly.
“Alright, let’s get down to business, shall we?” She flips open her iPad case and rattles through the list of requests she’s gotten in the last two weeks—for social media collaborations, videos, brand sponsorships and speaking engagements. “Oh, and the Stay-a-While people said you put the contract on hold? What’s with that?”
“Oh,” I say, exhaling. “My apartment flooded, so I had to pause.”
“What? What do you mean, your apartment flooded?”
I shrug. “It’s fine and I should be back in it next month.”
“When did this happen and when were you going to tell me? And where are you staying?”
“At a friend’s,” I say, trying to keep my expression neutral. “I’m just going to use the washroom.” Back inside the house, I head toward the large bathroom on the main floor, one that’s connected to a guest room. I sit on the edge of the tub and put my head between my knees. It feels wrong that I haven’t told Feloise the truth, but she’s my agent. And sure, I was there for her when she went through her divorce and she was there for me when Eric and I split, making sure my schedule was packed so I wouldn’t have time to feel sorry for myself. But it’s not like we tell each other everything, not like best friends would. But at that thought, I feel even worse. Because I don’t have a best friend. Sure, Gloria and Xiu and Casey are my closest, but even they don’t know what’s going on with me. I didn’t call them when my apartment flooded, and now they think I’m staying with Izzy, because that’s what I told them. Why am I lying to everyone?
But of course I know why. I’m lying to everyone because, right now, I can barely handle my own truths, or figure out what to do about the fact that I’m falling in love with a single dad and going against everything I believe in. And right now, I don’t need anyone else’s opinions influencing me.
I check my reflection in the mirror and then head back outside to Feloise. Thankfully, she’s moved on from my personal life to goal-setting and has a Q4 spreadsheet on her screen. I focus in on my career and let the other stuff fall away—for now, at least.
As the days pass, my relationship with Addie seems to be getting worse, even though I’ve tried all my tricks: asking her to watch a movie, to paint her nails or to help her hang LED lights in her room. And yet, she tries her best to ignore me as much as possible, focusing all her questions at Will, and pretending that I’m not even there. After dinner one night, Will says he needs to take a call with a client and tells Addie to help me clean up, but as soon as he’s out of sight she puts the plate she was clearing from the table on the counter and says she has to go to the bathroom, then runs up the stairs. I stand in the middle of the kitchen in my tank top and jogging pants, annoyed because I know there’s no way she’s coming back down and now I’ve got to clean up this mess alone, and figure out why Addie has turned on me. If I were in my apartment, I would’ve had dinner in peace, in about ten minutes instead of forty-five, and it would’ve been takeout and now I’d be working or reading a book or watching TV and not worrying about who’s mad at me and why. “I didn’t sign up for this!” I think as I let out a frustrated scream. It’s clear that Addie doesn’t want me around. And frankly, I don’t want to be in a house where I’m not wanted, either.
Part of me knows that I should go upstairs and talk to her, but I don’t want to. I don’t want to take this on. It’s too much. So, instead, I stick to dishes. And then, after I finish cleaning the kitchen, I walk around the rest of the main floor, tidying up Addie’s toys and throwing out bits of garbage, grumbling that I’m spending my free time in this way and yet still preferring to be alone than deal with anyone else and their emotions.
Will comes down the stairs while I’m sitting on the couch, staring at my phone. “Where’s Addie?” he asks.
“Upstairs.”
“Why?”
I sigh. “I don’t know. She’s mad at me about something.”
“Well, did you ask her what’s going on?”
“No because she doesn’t want to talk to me,” I say, feeling childish. Will calls me out on it. “You’re the adult. You have to talk to her.”
I sigh. He studies me. “Are you OK?”
I shrug. “I think I need some fresh air. Do you want to come?”
He shakes his head. “Yes, but no. I can’t leave Addie alone. She’s eight. Plus, I should get her to bed anyway.”
Of course.
I slip on my shoes, pull on my jean jacket and head outside. I feel ashamed of myself for leaving the house when I know the right thing to do is to go talk to Addie. And yet, I’m frustrated with Will, but when I try to figure out why, it all feels so immature. That he didn’t praise me for tidying his place, when he didn’t ask me to? That he didn’t jump at the chance to come for a walk with me, when I should’ve realized he can’t leave Addie alone? That my entire night is gone with nothing to show for it? And yet, if I overanalyze the evening, I know that I cleaned his place to avoid talking to Addie, which is the same reason I’ve left the house for my so-called walk.
After doing a large loop around the neighborhood, I head back to the house, prepared to talk to Addie about how she’s feeling.
Inside, the main floor is dark. I take off my shoes and walk up the stairs. I hear Will and Addie chatting in Addie’s room.
“I don’t get it,” I hear Will saying. “I thought you really liked Kit.” I stop at the top of the stairs, listening to their conversation.
“As a friend,” Addie replies. “I thought she was our friend. But now she just, like, lives here with us. And you never even asked me if it was OK. You just told me this was happening. I didn’t get any say at all. You always say that it’s you and me and that this is our house but then you went and asked her to live here and you didn’t even ask me what I thought.”
My heart pounds. “And Millie said that Gillian said she’s trying to be your girlfriend.”
“Oh Honey, no. She’s not trying—”
“You’re supposed to live with your family. She’s not our family.” Addie is sobbing now.
“Oh, Kiddo.” Will’s voice is kind. I imagine him reaching over and pulling her close. “I know it’s weird to have any other woman here. Someone who isn’t Mom.”
“She’s not even a mom.” Addie’s voice is getting louder. “She doesn’t want kids. She doesn’t even like them.”
“That’s not true,” Will says slowly. “She likes you,” he says.
“So what? Haven’t you looked at Instagram? Gillian says she hates them. And it’s true, she’s always saying all this stuff about how great her life is without kids.”
Shit. When did she see my Instagram? But of course she’s seen my Instagram. I showed it to her when we were on the ferry, so many weeks ago. And she told me she has her own Instagram account. Why didn’t I block her—or explain to her what my account’s really about—months ago, before she discovered it on her own? Clearly Will is wondering the same thing because there’s silence.
Then he speaks: “You know Instagram isn’t real, right? And hers is especially…complicated. Don’t think of it so much as her, but as a company she works for. And unfortunately that company’s kind of awful to work for, but it pays her a lot of money.”
Addie sniffs. “Whatever.”
I move toward the bathroom, my hands shaking as I open the door and then close it behind me and lock it. I turn on the tap, then slide down to the cold tile, my back against the wall. I grab an S hand towel and wipe away a tear. Two tears. A lot of tears. Addie is right. And so is Will. About all of those things. About me.
“I can’t do this,” I tell Izzy as we’re power walking along the boardwalk the following afternoon. I’m finding it hard to keep up. I’m not sure where things stand with Will and me. We’ve barely spoken since yesterday. He went to bed early, claiming he was tired, and this morning I had to be at the Women in Business office at eight for a meeting. I know I’m avoiding the situation, too, because frankly, I don’t know what to do.
“I feel like I’m walking on eggshells. I don’t know whether to stay or go, but I know that I hate how this is going,” I say. “I wish my apartment would just be finished and I could go home and this could all go back to the way it was.”
“So leave,” she says, checking her watch, and I wonder what she’s keeping track of—distance, heartbeat, calories burned? Or is she secretly checking her texts while I complain about the mess I’ve got myself into for the second time this week?
“Harsh,” I say, sitting down on the bench. Izzy taps at her watch and sits down next to me.
“Maybe, but real,” she says. “The thing is, I think you don’t want to leave. I think you want to be in this relationship with Will, or you wouldn’t be staying with him. You could’ve stayed with Roddy and me, with any of your other friends, or gotten a short-term rental somewhere, an Airbnb, anything. You’re not broke and in college. And you’re not an idiot, you’re not bad to look at—”
“Gee, thanks.”
“You could get another single guy. Someone without baggage.”
“She’s not baggage,” I say instinctively.
“See?” Izzy stretches her legs out and begins doing triceps dips. “I’m not saying you made the wrong decision,” she puffs. “I’m just saying that you’re a smart woman who knows what she wants. And I think you want to see where this thing with Will goes. But now you’re afraid.”
“Of course I’m afraid,” I say to her. “I’m a woman who’s made a very successful career convincing women to be child-free by choice and now I’m doing whatever it is I’m doing with this great guy and…”
I take a deep breath, looking out at the water, debating whether to actually say it aloud. “I think I’m falling in love with Will.” I pause. “But it’s so much more complicated than simply my feelings for him. There’s Addie, and she’s a person, too. And how my relationship with Will could affect her is just as important as how a relationship with a man and his daughter will affect me. And right now it feels even more complicated because she appears to hate me because, in a nutshell, she thinks I hate her.”
“So press Play.” Izzy stands and starts walking again.
“What?” I get up and jog to catch up to her.
“You’re hitting the Pause button. Over and over. I can see it. You’re afraid to commit. But I’ve heard you inspire all these women who hang on your every word, looking up to you for advice. You’re the one who’s always telling them to own their decisions, that nothing matters except what they think of themselves, and when they want something, to go for it, Michelle Obama-style. So now you have to practice what you preach. Come on.” She pumps her arms. “Let’s keep going.”
As we speed walk the rest of the boardwalk, I look out onto the shoreline as the waves crash in. I once took a surfing lesson in California. After an hour of practicing on the sand, we went out into the water. I thought it would be easy, but each time a wave would come, I’d struggle to stand, fighting the wave as I tried to keep my balance. And failing. Time after time, until I was exhausted and frustrated. The instructor, a lanky blond guy, pulled my board, me lying on top of it, to standing water. “The key,” he drawled in his SoCal accent, “is to commit. Hesitation creates instability.”