Micaela
“Oh, my sweet girls!” Mom rushes into the living room and wraps her arms around Lexi and Georgia. “How are you?” She steps back to appraise them. “How’s school? Your parents? Oh! How’s your brother? I can’t believe he’s in high school.”
“Mom, breathe,” I joke.
“Sorry, I just can’t believe it’s been so long since we’ve seen them. Marco,” she calls out to my dad, who must be in the other room with RJ. “We should take a trip to California soon.”
“Yes, dear,” Dad says dutifully, making me snort out a laugh. That’s been his go-to answer for anything she wants for as far back as I can remember.
Mom playfully rolls her eyes. “Did you girls have a good night out?”
“Ugh.” Lexi moans. “My head hurts. I swear I’m never drinking that much again.” She plops onto the couch and drops her head back against the cushion.
“Shouldn’t have been drinking at all,” Dad says, walking into the room with RJ in his arms, who spots me and squeals in excitement. “Where’s Ryan?” he asks, handing my sweet baby boy over to me.
“At the gym,” I tell him, taking RJ from him. I kiss his cheek and inhale his sweet baby scent. God, I missed him so much.
“I’m heading there now.” He kisses my forehead. “There’s mail for you on the counter. Make sure you grab it. One looks like a bill.”
He kisses my mom. “I’ll see you later.”
“So, what are you up to today?” Mom asks once Dad is gone.
“I’m not sure.” I shrug. “Probably just hanging out.”
“I was thinking we could go shopping,” Mom suggests. “Then go to the spa and get manis and pedis.”
“Oh, yes!” Georgia agrees. “I’m dying for a good foot massage. I’ve been too busy with school.”
“Eh… I don’t want to drag RJ along. He’ll get bored and fussy.”
“Actually, Ryan said he would be over to get him after his workout.”
“You talked to him?” I ask my mom, confused.
“Just a quick conversation.” Mom waves me off and stands. “Why don’t I make something to eat to help with your hangover, and once Ryan gets here, we can take off?”
“Yes,” Lexi moans. “That sounds wonderful.”
We follow my mom into the kitchen, and I grab my pile of mail. I need to do a change of address so it comes to my house. I’m sifting through the stack, and most of it is junk. There is one bill, like my dad mentioned, from when I had RJ. My insurance only covered so much, so I’ve been making payments on the balance. At the bottom of the pile, I spot a letter from the University of San Diego and open it. It’s from the admission’s office. I requested to defer for one year when I found out I was pregnant with RJ, and they agreed. Now, they’re wanting to know—
“Everything okay?” Mom asks, peeking over my shoulder.
“Yeah,” I croak out, then clear my throat. “Yeah, everything’s fine.” I stuff the letter back into the envelope to read later, when I’m ready for my protective little bubble to burst.
An hour later, we’re fed and Ryan, as my mom mentioned, comes by to pick up RJ for the day. We spend the morning shopping—where Mom buys each of us a couple cute outfits—and the afternoon getting manis and pedis.
“You should get your hair done,” Mom says, while we’re sitting at the hands and feet dryers.
“For what?” I pat the top of my head. My hair is up in a messy bun, which is the norm for me since RJ is going through a hair-pulling phase.
“Just because.” She shrugs. “My treat.” She smiles a tad too wide, and I glance at her speculatively. She’s up to something…
“There’s nothing wrong with pampering yourself once in a while,” she adds. “Just because you’re a mom doesn’t mean you can’t feel pretty.”
She has a point, and it has been a while since I got a good trim. “Fine.”
Once our nails are dry, we walk next door to the salon. I’m assuming we’re walk-ins, and the place is busy, so I’m not sure if I’ll actually get in. But then Mom gives the lady at the front desk my name, and I realize she made an appointment.
Before I can ask her about it, I’m ushered to a chair, where I spend the next couple hours getting a trim, having my balayage redone—since I haven’t gotten it done in over a year—and then having my hair straightened. When the stylist is done, Lexi, Georgia, and Mom gush how beautiful I look.
“While we’re at it, why don’t we do her makeup?” Mom suggests.
“I don’t think—” I begin, but am cut off by the stylist.
“Yes! Perfect.” She flits around, applying my makeup, and when she’s done, I look like I have somewhere to go—kind of a waste if you ask me, but it does feel nice.