Odd Mom Out

“So can we get my costume tonight?” Eva repeats.

Frowning, I look at her and run my hand over her head. “Baby, I’m so behind. I’m going to have to work tonight.”

“Again?”

“Unfortunately.”

“But why? Why are you working so much at night?”

I think back on the week, on the parent meeting at school and the case of the blues with not getting the Freedom Bike Group. “I’m working as hard as I can.”

“But all you do is work.”

“That’s not true.”

She clamps her jaw. She’s furious with me. “Fine,” she says smartly. “Whatever.” And she marches into the house.

The next morning, I’m back at my desk the moment I wake. It’s Saturday, and hopefully Eva will sleep in so I can get a jump on the work still piled high on my desk. But Eva doesn’t sleep in. She’s at my desk in less than a half hour, a gloom-and-doom expression on her face.

“There’s no milk,” she says tersely. “And no bread. No frozen waffles, French toast, or microwave bacon left. There’s nothing to eat, Mom.”

“How about eggs?”

“They’re old.”

I lean away from my computer, sigh, rub at my neck and then my nape. “Can you eat cereal dry?”

“No!” she explodes. “No, I can’t. And I’d go to the store myself if I could drive, but I can’t. I’m nine. I’m your kid. I’m a child.”

Oh. Right. Right. I know that.

I push hair behind my ears, struggle to smile. “You want me to go to the store?”

“Yes. Please.”

“Now?”

“Right now.”

I nod. I expected that. I knew it was coming. “Do you want to come? Keep me company?”

She’s still angry with me, angry that I’m working too much and not spending enough time with her. Angry that she’s an only child living with a single mother. “No,” she answers bluntly.

I should have expected that, too. I reach for my sweater, tug it on. “I’ll be back soon.”

I race around the aisles of QFC, trying not to feel guilty that we have no groceries and that I’ve left Eva home. Eva, being nine, has already taken a junior baby-sitting class at Overlake, where they taught her basic CPR and infant and child care tips, but I’m never quite comfortable with her home alone, even if she is.

I shop quickly, grabbing bagels and bread, frozen waffles and French toast, fruit, milk, yogurt, eggs, butter, cereal, coffee, and just for good measure, I go back for a box of doughnuts.

It’s while I’m deliberating on the kind of doughnut—-miniature chocolate-covered or miniature powdered sugar—that I sense someone behind me. Turning, I see Luke examining loaves of bread.

He sees me about the same time I see him, and he straightens, broad shoulders just getting wider, bigger.

His head’s taller than the top shelf, and he dwarfs the bakery section, making the aisle even narrower.

He’s wearing a navy cotton shirt, long sleeved and clean, and faded jeans that just barely outline the hard quads and hamstrings beneath.

How can this man be a CEO with millions (billions?) in the bank? It’s impossible.

“Hi,” I say, my voice less than steady.

His expression is somewhat quizzical, definitely reserved. “You’re bad at returning phone calls.”

“I’m sorry,” I apologize. “I, uh, wanted to call. I meant to call—” I break off, shake my head. “It’s been a bad week.”

“You could have called and talked to me about it.”

There’s a definite rebuke in his voice, and I flush. I really, really like him, yet I’m also mad at him.

I’m mad that I didn’t know he was Luke Flynn of BioMed.

I’m mad that he’s not just a medieval foot soldier, but the powerful lord.

I’m mad because I don’t want him to be more successful, more wealthy, more anything than me. It makes things harder, more complicated. I liked it when I thought the power was equal, that we were equals. Now I’m scared again. Scared and vulnerable, the two emotions I never want to feel.

“I didn’t know you were the founder of BioMed,” I blurt out, my face still blazing hot.

“Tiana told you,” he guessed, his expression even more shuttered than before.

I nod.

“She interviewed me for a piece last February,” he adds.

I nod again, emotion running hot and cold inside me. I’m scared. Scared to care so much, scared to want so much, scared to think he’s got it all together while I’m still just trying to figure life out.

“And that’s why you didn’t call,” he continues.

I manage the briefest of nods.

For a moment, we stand utterly silent in the middle of the bakery section, in front of the freshly baked breads and glass case of doughnuts, Danishes, and breakfast rolls, and I’m sad, really sad, because I know I’ve hurt Luke, and I didn’t mean to hurt him. It’s just that I’m so confused.

I need to say something, apologize. My hands flex around the cart’s handle as I struggle to find the right words. But Luke doesn’t seem to have the time or patience.

“I’ve got to get going,” he says with a cordial nod. “You have a good weekend.”

My tentative smile freezes. I feel that terrifying cold swoosh of disappointment. I don’t want him to just leave, not like this, not without him understanding.

“Luke,” I say, and he stops, turns to look at me.

“Do you ever have one of those weeks where everything goes wrong?” I say to him. “Where you lose a huge account and your daughter’s furious with you and your mom gets lost because she keeps forgetting who she is and where she lives?”

Luke just keeps looking at me.

I’m feeling so scared and nervous, but I hate being afraid, so I take a deep breath and press on. “I really did want to call you. I thought every day about calling you, but my life is so messy, and I’m still trying to carve out a niche for myself in business, and you’re . . . you’re . . . you.”

“Me,” he repeats, stepping back toward me.

“Yes.”

His forehead furrows, and he looks at me long and hard, the blue gaze narrowed. “You know what I liked about you, Marta? You were sexy and smart and funny, and you didn’t care about who I was or what I had. You liked me for me.”

“And I still do,” I whisper.

“No, you don’t. Not if you can’t call me when you’re having a bad week because you’re afraid I won’t care because I’m Luke Flynn, founder of BioMed.”

My face burns. My insides feel icy. A huge lump is filling my throat, pressing down into my chest. He’s mad at me. He doesn’t understand. This whole dating thing is so new and it’s scary, but I’m trying, I’m really trying. Six months ago, I wouldn’t have even considered a date, much less opening my life for a relationship, but I want to change my life, I want to change me, though it doesn’t happen instantly. I don’t change that fast.

“It was a really bad week,” I repeat, mortified that my eyes are burning and tears aren’t far off. I haven’t cried in front of a man since I was a teenager. Please, God, don’t let me cry now. “My mom has Alzheimer’s, which is why we moved back here, and Eva hates me right now because we don’t have milk and she doesn’t have a Halloween costume yet. My staff wants to mutiny over this lost account, and they blame me because I did leave a presentation early, but Eva was sick and I’m a mom first and will always be a mom first now—”

I break off as Luke closes the distance and wraps his arms around me.

My chest heaves, and I squeeze my eyes shut as the tears are so close.

I feel lost.

Really lost.

Luke’s hand rubs my back. “Everyone has bad weeks.”

I’m ashamed I’m near tears, yet his arms feel so good and he feels so warm and so strong, and for the first time in days I don’t feel as if I’m going to snap in two.

“I’m sorry,”

I say against his chest. “I’m sorry for not calling. I really did want to call you. I wanted to hear your voice. It would have been so nice.”

“Okay,” he says.

“It’s not okay. Forgive me.”

“I have.” And he releases me.

I step back and look up into his face. “Really?”

He smiles, and he has such a gorgeous smile. His teeth are straight and white, and they make his blue green eyes deeper. “Really.”

I smile back, and as I smile I feel a burst of fizz inside me, as though I were a can of carbonated soda, and my sadness lifts and dissipates like our morning coastal fog.

“So you’d go out with me again?” I venture.

“Any time, any place.”

Hard to believe a moment ago I was near tears, as suddenly I’m happy, that giddy, light, dizzy kind of happy where everything feels good and looks good. I don’t even know why except that I’m standing here with Luke and he’s said he’d go out with me and he’s not mad at me anymore.

“Do you have plans for tonight?” I ask.