“I need her on that twentieth,” Sergei was telling Rachel as Theo approached. He didn’t quite mean to butt into the end of Serg’s regular Wednesday evening time with his daughter. But also he’d kept thinking about Rachel since that encounter at the gas station, and now she was in his brewery. So he ignored that he was interrupting, and approached.
She didn’t glance his way, just narrowed her eyes at her ex. “Did you put it on the calendar?”
Sergei tossed his head, which Theo had picked up on as his go-to impatience gesture. “You know I need her every July twentieth.”
“You should have put it in the custody agreement, then. Or at least bothered to add it to the calendar. The deadline to claim extra summer days passed weeks ago.”
“Don’t,” he stopped to kiss at Hannah’s neck, making her squeal. Lowered his voice. “Don’t invent problems because you can. I’ll call my lawyer if—”
She took Hannah from her ex and pivoted. Spotting him, she moved the two steps to bring them close. Theo scanned her face, searching for signs she needed him to offer an out from the heated conversation. Or a hug. He’d gladly offer her a hug. What he didn’t expect was that she’d snug Hannah into his arms and ask him to carry her away for a minute.
He hitched the girl up onto his shoulder and nodded. As Rachel turned away from him, Theo glanced at Sergei, who shrugged. He started away, but Rachel’s voice was combative enough for him to hear her say, “Yes. Call your lawyer. Go for it. Be sure to tell him how much back support you owe while you’re at it.”
He got Hannah over by the kitchen before he could hear more. Not his business. Not. And if Rachel or Sergei either one needed him to be involved, they could make the ask directly.
Or he could stop thinking up scenarios that would put him in the middle.
“Juice or water or milk?” he asked Hannah, and set about getting her a snack. He’d seen her smush several bites of his chocolate-banana pie into her mouth over dinner, so he skipped the cookies, stacking a pita and a scoop of hummus and some olives in a bowl.
A few minutes later, Rachel found their little alcove. She smiled, shoulders dropping into softness, as she spied Hannah playing spyglass with an olive. Andres still did the same thing sometimes. He’d done it himself, according to the pictures from his childhood. Maybe a Greek kid thing, maybe a food with holes in it thing. Either way, it was cute.
He stood to offer Rachel the seat beside her daughter. She drew him a couple steps back, though, and offered up a complex, eyebrows-raised smile.
“Thanks for taking her.”
He didn’t squeeze her shoulder. He didn’t lean down to kiss her cheek. Or her mouth. He didn’t suggest a date, or that he could follow her back to her place after she had a chance to put Hannah to sleep.
But he didn’t keep his mouth shut, either. “No problem. Seemed like you two had things to discuss.”
She rolled her eyes. “Yeah. You could say that.”
She stopped. He didn’t want her to stop. “So, what’s so important about the twentieth of July?”
“Name day for Iliana.” Rachel nodded at her olive-smashing daughter. “She’s Hannah Iliana Groff.”
“Groff and not Matsouka?” He wouldn’t have pegged Sergei as someone placid about his child not carrying on his name.
“We were divorced before she was born. And yes, it irritates him. But I let him give her Despoina’s mother’s name, and now they flip out if they can’t have her on her name day.”
Back in February, Depy and Sergei had both given him gifts on his name day. His own parents, they said, had almost forgotten to call. They were on a Valentine’s week cruise, so it wasn’t like he’d expected to hear from them. Either way, a call was better than the years upon years of discounted heart-shaped boxes of candy he’d grown up with.
“My family name days are more low-key,” he told her. “But even though it’s not a big production, they still make some sort of celebration. I’ve got one set of cousins who go all out. Balloons, bands, ponies, parades.”
“Parades?”
He grinned. “Okay, maybe not parades. And a pony just the once, I think. But name days are a big deal to Greeks. I guess it’s hard on Sergei and his mom to wish Hannah many years if they can’t surround her with flowers and trinkets in person.”
Rachel’s shoulders were rigid again. She dipped a napkin in his glass of water and began wiping olive debris off Hannah’s hands. “I was embroiled with Sergei for over six years. I know how name days work in Greek-American culture, Theo.”
“Oh.” He watched to see if shutting him out was deliberate. He had the sinking feeling it was. “Right, of course you do. I wasn’t trying to—I mean, I thought, you know, from their point of view....”
She had Hannah on her hip, bag on her shoulder, and all defenses in place. “No one needs to tell me about their point of view. They have that well under control. Thanks for keeping her from overhearing us.”
“Rachel, listen.”
“Gotta go. Say bye, Hannah.”
He forced a smile as he caught the girl’s blown kiss. As he sank back down at the messy table, he held on to her imaginary affection, and the all too real sense that he’d blown his chance to show Rachel that whatever her problems with Sergei had been, he himself had sprung from a different source.
One of those motherhood side effects no one warned about: habitual early rising. Like, ridiculous amounts of early, sometimes. Also, snapping into full alertness as soon as the internal clock buzzed her senses. Not a peep from Hannah’s room, so Rachel stretched and snuggled up with a pillow. Five whole minutes to stay sunk into her mattress, before cereal and clean up and clothes and cycling to daycare.
Scrolling her phone, she caught up on the group text from the night before. Serena and Natalie one-upping each other with pics of unsuitable wedding dresses. Gillian threatening to block them both. A stream of emojis from Serena, followed by a snide poem courtesy of Nat’s fiancé Evan. All so much like the good-natured bickering back when they’d shared an apartment in college. The sense that they’d always be in each others’ corners, even if they couldn’t decide on the most effective use of that corner’s space. She’d come into the roommate situation as the outsider, still at sea trying to navigate the huge university after a couple of years of small town community college. Gillian, Serena, and Natalie absorbed her, lifted her up, guided her both logistically and emotionally.
And she loved the gals. Hundred percent pure love and appreciation for their friendship, their acceptance, the way they, as individuals and as a group, looked out for her and for Hannah. God knew she wasn’t going to say no to anyone looking out for her in life, not after all those years of second place and leftover and afterthought and rejection.
So her love was true, and she never wanted to take away from any of them. But first Serena and Dillon got engaged, then Natalie and Evan. Both worthy men, both great fits—for her friends. She wouldn’t want either guy herself. Dillon too restive like her; they’d never be quiet together. Evan too focused on achievement and externals. He was sweet, goofing around with Hannah, and would probably start his kids’ college funds the day their social security numbers were established, but Rachel couldn’t imagine him holding Hannah’s hand and talking her through the death of a pet or the casual cruelty of a kid at school.
What donned steel capped boots and kicked at her sternum wasn’t envy of her friends’ specific relationships, but jealousy that their lives held the possibility to jump into romance without considering anyone but themselves.
Seven months pregnant when her divorce was finalized. Dating wasn’t on the radar for close to a year—life was too full of diapers and getting back to work and finding a place to live independent of Depy. Of separating heartbreak and anger and healing from the intense process of falling madly in love with her infant.
Her heart healed. She chiseled away at the Matsouka family obstacles until she’d sculpted a shape for her life that was independent of Sergei and his mom. Those final shards weren’t easy to smooth out, but she had a plan. Goals. She’d even drawn herself a picture, one day when she and Hannah were coloring. Hannah told her to make a flower box like the one they’d planted on their balcony, so Rachel colored in the planter, and several daisy-like shapes. She’d been contemplating adding some tulips, since they were the only other flower she could draw, when Hannah stopped her to count the petals. Rachel watched her point and mangle the order of numbers, and silently tallied the petals on her own.
There were nine flowers and eight loops of petals per flower, because she wasn’t artistic but she was methodical about the few things she did draw. When Hannah went back to her coloring page, Rachel added one more daisy. And though she knew the number almost to the penny, she logged into her bank app to check her savings account. She had three thousand four hundred saved towards the cushion of eight thousand she needed to ensure she and Hannah could survive six months without losing their apartment, if she ever lost her job and Sergei stopped paying child support again. Instead of letting herself remember the ten thousand she’d saved before Sergei left his last job, she drew a tenth flower in her box and colored in thirty-four of the petals.
She kept her garden pegged to the freezer with a couple of the shrinky-dink magnets Hannah once brought home from craft day. Every time her balance climbed, she filled in another petal. Twice she’d had to squeeze spare petals onto completed flowers—Hannah’s rotavirus meant time off work and way too many meds, and she’d let herself go over budget for Natalie’s thirtieth birthday gift.
But no matter how contrary she got about life as she budgeted and bargained her way to financial security, her garden was growing. Almost two-thirds of the petals were colored in. She—unlike her ex—wasn’t in arrears to anyone.
It cushioned the kicks of jealousy, knowing her safety net stretched tight beneath her and Hannah. Because dating again—and Rachel liked the occasional date, she refused to dislike it, no matter what it had led to with her past relationships—wouldn’t stop being difficult thanks to her permanent label ‘single mother.’ She’d seen the dismissiveness online and in person. No one felt like adding a toddler to his pro column. And she refused on principal to view Hannah as a negative. So no matter how independent and positive and strong she was, Rachel couldn’t just go meet a man and start a relationship. Hooking up, yes. That, as Serena pointed out when Rachel first ventured out of her apartment to sample barhopping with a babysitter at home, was easy.
The post-bang follow-up conversation though?
Wanna do this again?
Sure. How about Friday?
Maybe, I have to check with my sitter.
You have a kid?
Yep, a one-year-old daughter.
And there it stopped. Sometimes she got platitudes about being a single mom. Sometimes she got vague compliments about a child the guy hadn’t met. Sometimes the honest recoil and backing away. Her protests about not looking for anything serious never mattered, so she stopped bothering, and then stopped saying sure to the re-match. Now with Mary Lynn turning in her thirty-day notice to move, she wondered when she’d bother to find someone new to babysit on nights she had custody.
Better not to text that thought to the love-struck brides-to-be in her friend group.
Anyway, she wasn’t tied to the idea of a relationship. Being single? Plenty of perks. And Sergei’s whole self was an object lesson to single people yearning for a partner.
But damn would it be a freedom to go through the new coupledom explorations Serena and Natalie had—tussling over how they like their coffee, debating when and how much to tell their families. Taking it slow or fast or whatever happened to suit, getting het up over concerns like moving the furniture or mean-spirited sisters.
Not “Your flirty texting game is cute but I can’t play and coax broccoli into my kid at the same time,” or “I spend ninety percent of my non-working time potty training a toddler, so I can’t drop everything to bop out to the beach with you this weekend,” or “Stop asking; sleeping over is never an option.”
Her baseline was different. She’d never think of Hannah as a hindrance—well, maybe the potty training, but not otherwise—but, oh. The eternally lost freedom of irresponsibility.
Flinging back the covers, she got up to attack the to-do lists of the day.