After he’s got a fresh diaper on, I decide pants aren't important right now and I lower him to the ground. Despite his wet sounding cough and his grouchiness, he seems a lot happier already. In a mix of scooting and crawling, Jett follows me to the kitchen where I fill a kettle with water and set it on the stove.
He looks up as the burner clicks on, and I smile down at him, eager for my morning coffee. “You wanna start seeing more of Beau? Huh, Jett?”
I swear he recognizes the name. He slaps his hands to the floor, chanting, “Bo! Bo! Bo!”, and I can’t help but smile because even though we both feel like poop, we’re in the kitchen smiling about Beau. Both of us.
A month ago, I was wondering when we’d have a moment of honest, organic happiness. It wasn’t when I signed the lease because as much of a baby genius as I think Jett is, let’s face it, he had no clue the significance of me signing a lease to a new spot. It wasn’t our first night in the new house, either, because that entire night, I kept thinking how Dustin should have been there.
It’snow.
It’s this moment. With snot pooling under Jett’s nose, with boogers in the creases of my eyes, and both of us looking like we were ridden hard and put away wet—I realize Beau is the reason that Jett and I are currently smiling at each other like fools in the kitchen.
“Me too,” I admit.
* * *
Four hours later,and I officially feel like shit warmed over.
I spent forty-five minutes on the phone with my mom’s friend and my real estate agent discussing the final walk through for the space. That took all of five minutes to nail down. I had touh-huhmy way through a story about her grown son, Aaron, and how he owns his own construction company, is about my age and freshly divorced, looking for ways to keep himself busy. I couldn’t decide through my fevered haze if I was the thing to keep him busy or if work on my house or new rental space were, but either way, I wassonot interested.
Still, I took his number in an effort to sound polite, and who knows, getting a deal on having the studio floors stripped may not be a bad idea.
Goldie arrived in a record-breaking hour, and she, too, looked under the weather. I didn’t say a word, though, because she asked me to ignore it for now, so I am. She came in with her oversized Louis Vuitton duffle, equally large sunglasses, her dark hair in a messy but cute top knot, and a tray of Starbucks drinks just for us.
She’d brought me the Medicine Ball and a regular coffee for later. I tried to nap some after drinking my hot tea but couldn’t relax when I heard Jett whimper or cry. I knew Goldie was watching him but knowing he wasn’t with me while he didn’t feel well… I couldn’t hang. I had to lie on the couch and hang out with them.
Eventually, I dozed off with a daytime talk show playing on my flatscreen. One that Goldie put on, no doubt, but since it helped quiet my mind, I left it on. Waking up, I glance at my watch to find it’s nearing noon.
When I sit up, every single part of my body feels like broken glass. Sharp glints of pain, dull aches, and an all-over throb reminding me that I am not going to bounce back from this bug in a day like I’d hoped.
“I took your temperature when you fell asleep,” Goldie says, startling me. Standing with Jett on her hip, her messy bun still eerily intact, I wonder why I can’t look that cute as a mom. I wave a finger up and down the length of her body.
“You pull off mom bun, sweats, and baby on hip. How come I don't look like that?”
She rolls her eyes. “You do. It’s just your mental mirror is all messed up. Remember?”
Through the pressure in my brain, I manage to snort out a laugh. I’d forgotten that her Chardonnay haze had her thinkingself-esteemwasmental mirror. I kinda like it more than the real thing. “I remember.”
“You know you have to be fuck-hot to pull a twenty-six-year-old sizzler like Beau.”
I blink, only my face hurts so my eyes don’t get the message that a blink is done in unison, and instead my right follows the left. “First, don’t say the f-word in front of Jett.”
She slaps a hand to her mouth and winces. “Sorry,” she utters, looking guilty. I hold up a silencing palm to let her know I feel too shitty to care that much right now.
“Secondly, how do you know Beau is a sizzler?” I ask, drawing out the word because that is something my mother would say. “You sound like my mom, by the way. Sizzler is totally how she’d describe some dude she was trying to set me up with.”
Goldie slides Jett to her other hip, giving him a healthy bounce that makes him giggle a little. “Makes sense since your mom told me.”
Standing, I make my way to her, feeling a lot less dizzy thankfully, but no less achy. “When did you talk to my mom?”
She points to the front door, then looks at her watch, on the opposite wrist that holds up my son. Jett reaches forward and sticks his snotty fingers in her mouth, and she winces.
“When she came here like an hour ago,” she says, batting his hand away, disgust all over her face. It’s not until you take urine straight to your open mouth at 2 am do you really know the grossness involved in being a mom. Seriously. Snot and spit is child’s play.
“And she told you about Beau?”
She rolls her eyes, letting Jett play with the tiny heart on the end of her gold necklace. “I asked how hot he is because I knew he was over there with you last night.”
Oh shit. This fever is tap dancing on my brain. “What did she say?”