My sister shrugs, and her smile looks apologetic. “I’d love to stay and chat about the delicious treats we just had at Doctor Insomnia’s, but I have to get ready for a night out on the town.”
“On Wednesday?” I ask, as if it’s illegal to enjoy yourself midweek. Although the concept is foreign to me. I don’t get out much, even for coffee. Becoming a single parent has been a huge adjustment, especially since Rosie’s with me most of the time while Bridget is busy.
Hannah, on the other hand, parties like a rock star these days. Flip—whose real name, it turns out, is Phillipe, pronounced the French way—is constantly whisking her off to Broadway shows. New restaurants. Even the ballet.
I’m starting to think the man really loves her. I mean . . . he sat through a three-hour production of Swan Lake.
If that doesn’t say smitten, what does?
Still, I’m skeptical by nature, especially since all I hear is Flip this and Flip that. I’ve only seen the man once since the dreaded game night. A few weeks ago, I suffered politely through a brunch, where I drank a Bellini and tried not to judge Flip for mentioning his family homes in both France and Aspen.
Even if he does love her, he and Hannah are so obviously mismatched. I’ve been bracing myself for the day when she becomes another ex on his social feed. When he decides to move on from my sweet sister to a cold-blooded New York socialite.
Like the day her last boyfriend showed her his true colors. She’d moved in with Colin after a year of dating, but then learned the jackass had cheated on her. He’d begged her to stay with him, said it would never happen again, and when she said no way, he tried to hold all her stuff hostage. So, I went to her place, grabbed her things, and she moved in with Bridget and me for a few weeks till she found her own place.
I don’t want to see her go through that kind of hurt again.
But any day now she'll tell me that she and Flip have broken up, and that she’s heartbroken.
Today, however, is not that day. “Where are you going tonight?” I ask.
“To a benefit at the public library. It's a scavenger hunt! Flip and I love a good scavenger hunt.”
“That sounds magnificent,” I say, wishing I had a social life too. I haven’t had a lot of that recently, thanks to Bridget. But I love all the extra time with my favorite person.
She grins. “Later, Marky Mark. Bye Rosie.”
“Bye Aunt Hannah!” My daughter closes the door on her aunt and then scurries back to the kitchen, dropping her backpack and shedding her jacket right on the floor.
“Rosie! Where do those go?” I remind her. But seriously. “And you’re supposed to put your lunchbox on the kitchen counter, so it doesn't get stinky.”
“Okay, Daddy. I will. But, look!” She pulls something small out of the front pocket of her bag. When she opens her fingers, she shows me a perfect shiny little sphere marked like a black and white soccer ball.
“Is that a marble?” I pick it up and test its smoothness between my fingers. “It's beautiful, Rosie. Is it from that toy store you like?”
“We didn’t go to a store, Daddy. We went to the coffee shop. And Hannah’s friend was there, too. His name is Asher.”
“Asher,” I repeat stupidly as heat flares inconveniently along my skin “Blond guy?” With gorgeous hazel eyes and a face that could stop traffic?
“He bought cookies,” Rosie says with obvious glee. “Me ’n’ Hannah both had some. And he gave me this marble. He got it at a meeting for work. We talked about soccer, but he calls it football.” She takes the marble from my hand and holds it up to the light. “I told him my daddy has meetings too. But there aren’t any toys at your work. Except that one time you let me play with the stapler.”
I hold back a sigh. Even my kid is enamored with Asher St. James. What is that guy’s deal?
“Aunt Hannah says Asher is a photographer." My daughter pronounces the word with great care. “But he used to play sports on TV.”
Well, that just fits him too well.
Rosie tucks the marble into her pocket, and I make a mental note to keep those pants out of the washing machine.
“Can I play with my toys until dinner?” she asks.
“After you put your lunchbox by the sink and hang up your coat,” I insist.
“Okay, Daddy.” My darling child finally does as asked, then she hugs me once more and disappears into her room.
I sit down at the kitchen table and pick up my phone. And then I do something I’ve been trying not to do since game night. I Google Asher St. James.