Bulldozer (Hard to Love 3)

Roxy looks up at me and whines. “You gotta go out?” I ask her because she’s just a person trapped in a dog’s body.

“Already took her,” Hendricks answers. “Fed her, too.”

I look around, momentarily confused. Was he talking to me? I must be hearing things. I must be because he couldn’t possibly have said he did something nice for me.

“You took her to do her business? And you fed her?”

“That’s what I said.”

Okay, still a jerk. No miracle yet, but I’m keeping hope alive. “Gosh, are you always so bright-eyed and bushy-tailed in the morning? You’re killing me with all your positive energy. It’s just too much. Enough already.”

He levels me with his signature stabby gaze.

“Thank you. I appreciate it.” I grab the ibuprofen out of the cabinet, pop two, and catch Hendricks watching me. Weirdo.

“Amanda,” my ten-year-old shouts. Sam walks in wearing his Spider-Man pajamas and glass goggles, his hair standing up every which way.

This habit of him calling me by my name has been going on for far too long and I’m getting sick of it. “Can I stay home today?” he mumbles as he slides onto a stool at the kitchen island. I pour him a glass of freshly squeezed orange juice and he drinks.

“Good morning to you too, sunshine. And the answer is, no. I have a meeting with the building inspector in an hour.”

Yawning, Sam pushes the goggles up his head and rubs the sleep out of his big gray eyes. Poor kid. He’s been forced to accompany me to the studio every day. He brings books and video games, we take frequent breaks to walk Roxy and eat. Still, not exactly a child’s dream summer.

“He can stay with me,” says a deep male voice to my right.

Before I can even get a word out, my head starts automatically shaking. “No.”

“Yes!! Please, Mommy, pleeeeease?” Sure, now that he wants something I’m mommy. “PleasecanIstaywith the angry dude?” he gets out in one breath. Except for the last part, which he takes care to enunciate clearly.

“The angry dude?” the deep male voice repeats.

Double scoop of poop. I slowly turn in that direction and locate vivid blue eyes staring back at me, the coffee mug frozen halfway to his mouth. #SamePenis4Ever is written in a large gold font on the pink mug, my brother’s wedding date on the bottom.

I’m not a social media person. We certainly didn’t have any money for gadgets when I was growing up. And yet, for the first time I feel a strong urge to post a picture on Instagram.

“That’s what she calls you,” my son boldly announces.

Children, don’t you just love their honesty?

Heat blazes up my neck and scorches my face. I really didn’t need to give him another reason to hate me but it looks like that kind of day.

Meanwhile, Sam squints inquisitively at Hendricks over the rim of his glass. He licks off his orange juice mustache. His expression says he’s gearing up to speak. This is odd behavior because Sam has always been painfully shy around strangers. And yet, since we’ve gotten here, I haven’t once seen him look uncomfortable around Hendricks. Not once…Odd indeed.

“What’s your name?”

“Grant.”

“Please, Mommy. Can I stay with Grant? Pleeease?”

Okay, this is really odd. I chew a hole in my bottom lip as I deliberate how to proceed. I don’t want to discourage this newfound bravery. Then again…

“No.”

A black shroud of silence suddenly descends upon the kitchen. Elbows on the counter, Sam leans his face on a small fist and pouts.

There’s no way I’m leaving my kid with this guy. How’s he planning to kill time anyway, beer pong? Letting Sam take the Suburban for a spin perhaps? The dog, yes, fine––Roxy’s scrappy, a survivor. There’s not much he can do to her. My kid, however, my sensitive, thoughtful child––no.

The problem is that I have a hard time saying no to Sam. I’m always playing catch-up where he’s concerned and this moment is a perfect example. So even though I should stay at the studio office and work on figuring out the new software and research advertising, I have to make concessions.

“I’ll tell you what, if you get dressed quickly and make our appointment on time, afterward we can come home and spend the day at the beach? What do you say?”

With an exaggerated eye roll, Sam grumbles, “I guess.”

“Go get dressed while I finish making your waffles.”

I watch Sam walk out, then pour the batter I mixed on the hot waffle maker and pull the lever down, the delicious aroma filling the kitchen.

Hendricks continues his impersonation of a robot, hovering, watching, casting a dark shadow over everything. The entire side of my face, where he’s staring, burns from his relentless examination.

“Would you like some waffles?”

I did not fail to notice he ate the dinner I left out for him, baked salmon steak with a medley of mini vegetables––one of my best if I don’t say so myself. The washed plate sits in the dish rack as evidence. That’s almost two weeks and counting that he’s eaten the food I cooked. Dare I say this is a good sign?