“Yes.” I sigh.
“So Roman is her son?”
For a high-functioning person, it shouldn’t take me so long to really think about that. Dr. Hawkins asking me to babysit his son is—on a mind-numbing scale—the equivalent of asking me to look after a piece of my idol. Quite possibly the most important piece of her life.
I’m nauseous, so nauseous I have to sprint to my room, take out another new journal, and list all of my fears. My predictions never come to fruition, so I list every possible fear to prevent anything bad from happening.
Roman gets kidnapped … on my watch.
Roman chokes and dies on a grape … on my watch.
Roman gets attacked by a mountain lion … on my watch …
CHAPTER SEVEN
Mixed Signals and Matching Bibs
Elijah
“Blue or green?” I hold up two shirts as Roman jumps on my bed.
“Boo!”
“Blue it is.” I slip on the short-sleeved shirt and button it while my mini-me giggles with each jump.
The spaghetti is done, resting in a strainer while the sauce simmers on the stove.
Salad in the fridge.
Roman’s favorite homemade cherry popsicles in the freezer for dessert.
Why am I so nervous I can barely button my shirt? Oh, that’s right. I haven’t been on a date with anyone but Julie. Does six kids in the eighth grade going to a movie together count as a date as long as I held Candice’s hand? God, I hope so. Otherwise, my dating track record is pathetic.
“It’s not a date,” I mumble to myself in the full-length mirror. “It’s dinner with Roman and a woman that might babysit for me.” I laugh at myself while ruffling my damp hair into something resembling a stylish look. When did I start talking to myself? And why are my hands sweaty?
“Listen, Daddy! Listen!” Roman jumps off the bed and runs toward the stairs.
The doorbell rings again.
“Slow down, chief.” I follow him down the stairs. Dorothy is thirty minutes early. “Rules, Roman. You don’t answer the door. Remember?”
He fights with the deadbolt, yanking on the lever handle. “She’s here. Babysitter’s here! Open the door!”
I had to explain the reason for our dinner guest, so I told Roman we were thanking Dorothy for the superhero cape, and that if things went well, she might babysit him sometime. I don’t need a babysitter. I have joint custody of Roman, parents to help out, and two older sisters in Portland who jump at any chance to watch Roman.
“Oh, hey, guys.” I smile at the two young kids at the door, selling something. Someone is always selling something. I have a credenza by the door with cash in a drawer for all the kids in the neighborhood who come around raising money for activities like Little League and band trips.
We make our usual exchange of money and a handshake promise that they’ll eventually return with ten tubs of popcorn or whatever I just purchased for thirty dollars. Just as I start to close the door, a familiar white Audi Q5 parked across the street catches my attention.
“I think that’s Dorothy’s car. Think we should go see?”
“Yes! Come on, Daddy. Let’s go!” He runs into the yard, no shoes. I quickly catch up to him, scooping him into my arms. “Let me down. Down, Daddy!” He giggles as I vibrate my lips onto the tiny areas of exposed belly. “Stop!”
I shift him upright onto my hip and knock on Dorothy’s window.
She jumps, closing the visor mirror and meeting my gaze with her wide eyes. Dorothy’s freshly glossed lips pull into a tiny smile as she rolls down her window. “Hi. I’m early. I just wanted to make sure I knew where I was going.”
“Hi.” I have more to say, but I just want to stand here and let her obvious excitement to see me soak into my skin, all the way to my bones. I’ve nearly forgotten what that look of adoration—from someone who isn’t my mom—feels like. It’s pretty damn good.
“Hi, Dorfee,” Roman greets her while pressing in on my cheeks, making my lips into fish lips.
“Hi, little Romeo.” The corners of her mouth continue to climb up her face.
He giggles. “My name is Roman!” My cheeks take the brunt of his excitement as he relaxes the pressure on my lips, but only to play a tough game of patty-cake with my face.
“Let’s ask Dorothy if she wants to come inside.”
“Dorfee, you come inside. Pa-sicle, Daddy!”
I step back and open her door, unearthing a bit of ingrained manners. “Pasta before popsicles, little man.”
“Thank you.” Dorothy climbs out, wearing a pink skirt that flows just below her knees, a pink and yellow floral, sleeveless blouse, and white flats.
“You uh …” I clear my throat. “Have something on your cheek.” I point to my own cheek in the same spot as the brown smudge on her face.
Her hand flies to her cheek, rubbing it furiously. “It’s chocolate. I was just checking my face when you knocked on my window. I stopped for ice cream on my way here.”