Total pages in book: 90
Estimated words: 91065 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 455(@200wpm)___ 364(@250wpm)___ 304(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 91065 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 455(@200wpm)___ 364(@250wpm)___ 304(@300wpm)
“What’s that?”
“It’s burnout. When you’re on it too much, or it’s not giving the results you want, you burn out.” I pick at the food on my plate. “I’m not saying I want to give up, I’m only saying . . . if I see one more man holding a fish, or read one more biography where the guy is searching for his partner in crime, I’m going to explode.”
“What’s wrong with saying you want a partner in crime?” Dad’s fork is suspended in the air. “Your mom is mine.”
They really are cute.
And close.
Which is one of the reasons it hasn’t been easy to find a man who wants to dive in headfirst and commit to me.
“Why can’t you meet someone at the grocery store?” Mom finally says, dabbing at the corner of her mouth with the napkin that was on her lap. “I don’t understand why you’re still single. You’re a beautiful girl, Margot. You’re funny, you’re smart.”
I stare at her. “I wish it was that easy.” Believe me, I have my eyes on more than the produce when I’m at the store, no stone left unturned and all that.
Not that I’ve been looking hard the past few years. It’s only recently that I’ve decided to launch myself into the Datingverse.
“What about Ricky Robinson, Paul and Nancy’s son?” Mom asks. “He recently got divorced. He’s living with them right now, but only because his ex-wife bled him dry.”
“Bled him dry? He sounds fun.” And just what I’m looking for. A man who lives down the hall from his mom and dad, with a bitter ex.
“Don’t be judgmental,” Mom scolds me. “He has a good job at a wealth-management firm.”
A finance bro?
No thanks.
I don’t care who his folks are—I do not need to date the man living in a basement. And despite the inquisition and the frown upon my mother’s face, I know my parents and Wyatt are my biggest supporters.
They’re always there to lift me up when I need it most and want me to be happy. The problem is, they think that road to happiness includes a man, and that ideology isn’t likely to change.
“Pump the brakes on giving him my number.”
Mom’s lips purse, but she gives me no argument.
“So no dates yet?” Dad attempts to lighten the mood by continuing to pry, as if this were the only available topic of conversation in their Rolodex of topics.
“No dates,” I reiterate. “I’m working on it.”
He makes a humph sound, head down, focusing on his plate. “How is work going?”
So glad he asked! So glad he changed the subject!
“Great. I lucked out this year—no parents have complained so far. No injuries, no accidents.”
Yet.
I love being a first-grade teacher, but occasionally it’s not as fun as it sounds, especially when I have a student who cannot seem to behave themselves. Or keep their hands to themselves. Or is prone to crying or getting into scuffles on and off the playground.
This must be my year because so far, so good.
Twenty little angels I am pleased to call my students.
“Well, aren’t you lucky.” Mom smiles. She knows all my work-related business—she’s a teacher, too—and although we’re not in the same school district, she knows what it’s like.
She gets it.
“Can I be excused to use the bathroom?” my daughter asks, napkin set on the table, halfway out of her chair.
I nod. “Yes, of course. Do you know where it is?”
Her head bobs up and down. “Around this wall and toward the back.”
I tilt my cheek so she can bend and give me a smooch. “Don’t take long. If you’re not back in ten minutes, I’m sending out a search party.”
Kidding, not kidding . . .
The remaining three of us watch as she bounds off, destination in a spot with low visibility.
Dad clears his throat to gain my attention. “So. Have you heard from Colton?”
I groan.
Of course they would bring him up.
The good news is, they didn’t bring up Wyatt’s father in front of her.
“No, I haven’t heard from him.” Nor do I expect to.
I was seventeen when we met.
I wouldn’t call us high school sweethearts, though. We didn’t start dating until we ran into each other at a fraternity party my sophomore year while attending the same university. I was in school for elementary education, and Colt was getting his bachelor’s in business, and one drunken night during Greek formal . . .
Wyatt was conceived.
The thing is, we were never a couple.
We dated here and there, but it wasn’t serious—and so, Colton is in her life, but it’s the sort of strained relationship between two people sharing a common bond and not much else.
Our child is our bond.
Did we try to make it work? Sure, of course. Why wouldn’t we?
No one wants to be an unwed mother.
But it didn’t take us long to realize we weren’t meant to be, and now Colton has Wyatt every other weekend and his holidays and takes her on his family vacation once a year.