Wrong Place, Right Time(3)

I sigh, realizing that for at least the next thirty minutes I’m probably not going to be able to enjoy my peaceful weekend as I’d hoped; no meaningful phone conversation between my sister and me ever lasts less than a half hour. I put the wineglass down, lift the phone up closer to my face, and type out a text with my thumbs.



Me: Please tell me there are no bullets involved.

May: No bullets, but I need ur help.

Me: Romance advice?



The mean-sister in me is hoping her relationship is on the rocks. Maybe if she weren’t under Ozzie’s thrall, I’d be able to talk some sense into her, convince her that wedding photography is a much safer and more practical career than security surveillance.



May: No. Computer expertise.



Ugh. So disappointed. That’s the last thing I want to talk about right now. I just ended a fifty-hour week of straight-up coding. No, thank you.



Me: Forget it. I’m off the clock.



My phone rings, and my sister’s name comes up on the screen.

I battle with myself; do I want to come to her rescue again, or do I want to get into the bathtub and forget all this nonsense for a little while?

A text beeps and a tiny message pops up.



May: Answer ur phone.



Mutiny rises up in me. I put my cell down on the counter, grab the bottle of wine and my glass, and walk down the hall. I will have my bath, I will have my relaxing weekend, and I will not be doing any computer work for anyone, because if I have to look at another string of code in the next forty-eight hours, I am going to run away, join a cult, change my name to Feather, and marry a man three times my age with a beard down to his belly button who wears only hemp. His name will be Free. Short for Freedom, of course.

At the bottom of the staircase, as my foot is lifting into the air to begin the climb toward my bliss—otherwise known as a bathtub with bubbles and wine—my phone beeps again in the kitchen. I stand on one leg like a damn flamingo, battling my conscience once again. Bath or sister? Bath or sister?

The mutinous mean-girl in me wants to ignore her, but the single mom who’s been rescued by May more times than she can count pauses. May did, after all, move into my house a year ago, while I escaped to our family cabin and got my shit together after Miles left me. And she’d do it again in a heartbeat if I needed her to, because that’s the kind of sister she is. Maybe I can just answer her questions over the phone.

I walk quickly back to the kitchen and grab my cell off the counter. Another text is waiting for me along with a photo of my sister. Her eyes are crossed and she’s looking as pitiful as she knows how.



May: Pretty please?



Knife through the heart. She totally knows how to play me. I push the buttons that will connect me to my sister’s phone and put the cell to my ear.

She picks up on the second ring. “Thank you so much, Jenny. I really appreciate it. I need your help.”

“Yeah,” I say dryly, “I got that.”

“You know I wouldn’t bother you on your me-time weekend if it weren’t really important.”

I roll my eyes. “Fine. What is it? Make it quick and make it snappy, sister. I have a date with something hot and slippery upstairs.”

“Uh . . . ew. What is it? A dildo? That’s kind of gross that you’re sharing that with me.”

“No! Gah! Not a dildo! It’s my bubble bath, fool!” My face is flaming hot. As if I’d tell her that. Now I know she’s mental. “What do you need? Come on, I’m on the clock here. I have only forty-two hours left.” I look at my watch and hate the fact that I’m wishing my kids could be gone longer. Worst. Mother. Ever. I will not be winning any Mom of the Year awards anytime soon.

“Ummm . . . errr—”

I cut May off. “No, ma’am. Huh-uh. There is no ummm and there is no errr; there’s just you telling me what you need really quickly, me giving you my answer, and then me hanging up and getting into the bathtub.”

“Wow. What did Miles do?”

I want to strangle the phone just thinking about it. I’m not mad at May; I’m just hating myself all over again for marrying that man in the first place. The only thing that keeps me from indulging in complete self-flagellation is the fact that he gave me three adorable babies. Miles wasn’t a complete mistake, but he was close.

“Oh, nothing much,” I say, not keeping the hatred out of my voice nearly as much as I should. “He just informed me as he was picking the kids up that he needs to drop them off early on Sunday.”

She snorts her disgust. “Of course he did. Did you expect anything different?”

She’s right. I know she’s right. Why do I always do this? I convince myself he’s going to be a good guy and a good father for a change, getting my hopes up. For what? To have them come crashing down, that’s what. It’s like I want to punish myself or something.