“Why?” I wrinkle my nose. “I’m learning how to bake, not going on a date. Looking cute is not high on my priority list.”
“It should be. I refuse to let my best friend meet Mr. Cookie in a frumpy get up.”
“I’m not sure if I should be offended by your insinuation that my normal look is lacking.”
She exhales slowly. “You’ve gotten into the habit of dressing for comfort.” I open my mouth, and she holds up a hand. “Which is fine, if that’s what makes you happy. It’s not okay when it’s a way to hide. You’re stunning, and I want to see you step back into that slay mode. After everything happened, Clem had to be your first concern. I understand and respect that. It’s been a year now.”
“And?” I swirl the wine, watching the pink liquid trail back down the sides of the glass.
“It’s time for you to spend some time on yourself. You’ve done the mental work.” She places her hand over mine. “Let me help you do the outside work.”
“With what time?” My excuse is lame. Though I hadn’t been the one who’d done wrong, I was judged. I got to hear the spiel about losing my man. The mentality had done damage to my psyche and esteem. I couldn’t control gossip. So, I wore nondescript clothing, hoping to blend in and go unnoticed. Rocking the boat meant stepping away from the safety I get from anonymity.
Keeping my style business casual and trying not to draw attention to myself gave me a sense of control. The apprehension drying out my throat feels like manacles. I’ve responded to the small-town lies and judgment for long enough.
“We can make time now.” She meets my gaze. “It’s important, and you deserve it. Which is why you need to drink up. We’re going shopping on me.”
“Whatever we purchase, we need to be able to wash it. No dry cleaning only pieces allowed. We know what happens in my kitchen when I bake.”
“Yes, it gets hot. I’m hoping that trend will continue.” She nudges me with her elbow. “If you know what I mean.”
“He’s a cook, not a male escort.”
“It’s 2021. Why not both?” She pops a slice of cheese in her mouth, and I laugh, and it feels fantastic.
I STAND AT THE END of the driveway and smile as the banana yellow bus pulls up. Seniority and a killer computer system setup allows me to leave work and finish up the rest from home to be here when she gets out of school. I nearly pulled my hair out shifting schedules, making deals with my company, and dedicating an office to work last year. But now it runs smoothly, and I’m happier than I’ve ever been.
“How was school, Clem?” I ask, holding my arms out for a hug as she gets off the bus.
“It was okay.” Her voice is muffled by my waist, but she sounds a little off.
“Anything interesting happen?” Pulling away, I wave at the bus driver, Mrs. Swanson, and throw my arm over Clem’s shoulder to guide her into the house.
“No.”
“So you sat there all day and didn’t learn a thing? I better get a refund from the school then.”
“Mom,” she whines.
“What?”
“Nothing interesting happened.”
“Ah. That sounds more like it. Third grade is so dull.” I use a valley girl accent, and she giggles.
“We did testing today. That’s why I said that.”
“So, no specials?” I suddenly understand her sullen mood. She loves music, computer, gym class, and art. Missing out on any of those would sour the school day.
“No, and I wanted to work on my art project, too!” Her lips pucker into a pout, so like her father’s.
A brief pang passes through me. It was the betrayal that hurt, not the dissolution of marriage. I allow myself to feel the hurt before moving forward. Keeping it in had left me an angry mess. Thank God for therapy and time.
“Your snack is on the counter.” She walks toward the kitchen island that continues to gleam post-professional cleaners coming in to fix the chaos the fire left behind.
“Ants on a log.” She picks up the snack, heads into the living room, and places her book bag on the couch for me to go through.
I remove the navy-blue take-home folder and flip through the homework and returned, graded pages. Clem’s a great student. Good at math, which she must get from Jackson, and she has an enthusiasm for learning I love seeing. Reaching into her book bag, my fingers brush a crumpled piece of paper. I pull the pink paper into the light.