I want to strangle the phone just thinking about it. I’m not mad at May; I’m just hating myself all over again for marrying that man in the first place. The only thing that keeps me from indulging in complete self-flagellation is the fact that he gave me three adorable babies. Miles wasn’t a complete mistake, but he was close.
“Oh, nothing much,” I say, not keeping the hatred out of my voice nearly as much as I should. “He just informed me as he was picking the kids up that he needs to drop them off early on Sunday.”
She snorts her disgust. “Of course he did. Did you expect anything different?”
She’s right. I know she’s right. Why do I always do this? I convince myself he’s going to be a good guy and a good father for a change, getting my hopes up. For what? To have them come crashing down, that’s what. It’s like I want to punish myself or something.
Good guys don’t do what he did and what he continues to do at every opportunity. Leopards don’t change their spots. Our own mother said that enough times that I should have internalized the wisdom, but alas . . . I have repeated her mistakes in my own life, marrying a philandering turdbasket. I think this makes me certifiably stupid. Dumb as a box of rocks, as my father used to say about the woman who gave birth to us. At least that man is gone from my life for good. He caused our family enough pain for two lifetimes with his drinking and aggressive behavior toward women, his lies, and the cheating on our mother. Now if only Miles would take a long walk off a short pier . . .
I jerk myself back to the present and away from my murderous thoughts. “I have no idea why I expected him to man-up or father-up. I should know better by now.”
“Well, don’t worry, because I have good news for you. Great news. Because I am such an amazing sister, and because I am pretty much clairvoyant, I already have a solution in place for you.”
This does not bring me comfort. Normally May is pretty good in the solutions department, but I can’t trust her to be totally responsible anymore, since obviously she thinks quitting a perfectly good job and joining a commando security firm where she gets stalked by killers is a good career move, and when you have three kids to take care of, you need at least one responsible adult around.
“I’m afraid to ask.”
She continues, ignoring my doubt. “Ozzie and I have made plans to come over one day next week and hang out at your place. And I have already purchased a gift certificate in your name that will allow you to go to the mall after work that day and treat yourself to a little something special while we watch the kids.”
I don’t know what to say to that. I’m not even sure I completely understand.
“You’re stunned, right? I knew you would be.” May sounds very pleased with herself, and I have to admit, I’m feeling pretty happy with her too.
“What did I do to deserve this?”
“It’s not what you’ve done . . . it’s what you will do.”
I close my eyes and take another deep breath. “I’m not sure I want to hear what you have to say next.”
“Trust me. You’re gonna love this.”
“Love what?”
“Just come to my work. In an hour.”
“Your work? No, I’m not doing that.” I’ve been there once before, and that one time was enough. I was not impressed with the downtown fight-club vibe it had going on. All those lockers and weightlifting equipment, with cars parked inside? No. It’s definitely no high-class photography studio like she used to have as her workplace. Not by a long shot.
“Why not? Come on, it’ll just take you like an hour, max. I promise you won’t be sorry. Ozzie is going to pay you.”
“Pay me? Dammit, May! I knew this was going to piss me off!” He’s trying to buy my approval; I know he is. Bastard.
She shifts into begging mode. “Pleeeasse, Jenny. Don’t say no! I really need you!”
“You don’t need me! Do I look like a Bourbon Street Boy to you? You need some kind of commando person.”
She laughs. “Commando person? What’s that?”
I can see the men she works with very clearly in my memory. “You know what I mean. People with muscles and tight shirts who punch people in the face for a living.”
“Don’t be silly. If I needed that, why would I call you?”
“An excellent question.” It’s silly that her response hurts my feelings. I know I put on some weight with my pregnancies that I haven’t lost yet, but I do plan to join a workout program one of these days . . .
“Just come. It pays five hundred bucks for less than an hour of consulting. You said you wanted to start doing some freelance stuff, so now’s your chance.”
I have a hard time breathing over that. “Did you say . . . ?”
“Yeah, I said that.” I can hear the smile in her voice. “Five hundred smackeroos and a gift certificate. Be there by five-thirty. And bring your laptop.” She hangs up before I can argue, smart girl that she is.