I went on a date with a guy who is closer to your age than mine, who turned out to be a real asshole, and now I’m alone in this big, scary house with nowhere else to go. “Nothing, Mum.” I smile. “I’m just a bit homesick.” I twist the blanket between my fingers. “Everything will be fine in the morning.”
“Are you going out and sightseeing?”
“I am.” I puff air into my cheeks. “Emerson met someone.” “Oh, is he nice?”
“He’s dreamy. His name is Alastar. He’s Irish.” I smile. “He’s different.” She laughs. “And what about you? Any men in your sights?”
“No.” I frown. “All the men I meet are idiots.” I hesitate for a moment. “I’m like a magnet to them.”
“He’s waiting for you, Brell. Somebody very special is sitting and waiting for you to come along. Any day now, he’s going to show up.”
I get a lump in my throat. I used to always think that someone, somewhere was waiting for me, but I just don’t know if I believe that anymore.
I’m losing my faith in the male species day by day.
“How are you and Dad?” I change the subject.
“We’re good. Actually, we’re thinking of coming over for a trip.”
My eyes widen. “Really?”
“Yes, it wouldn’t be for another six to eight weeks, but we thought we might come and stay in London for a week and then go on to Prague.”
“Oh, could you? That would be so great.” My eyes fill with tears again. “I would really love to see you.”
“Are you okay, darling? You sound off. It’s Friday night. I thought you would be out.” “I’m going out tomorrow night with Em. She has a date tonight.” “Have you met anyone else that you can go out with?”
“Emerson’s flatmates are really nice. I guess I might start going out with them if Em really likes this guy. I’m not sitting around this big, old house alone, that’s for sure,” I mutter, almost to myself.
“And how’s your job going? Are you getting everything done that you’re supposed to be getting?”
My eyes widen as I remember the uniforms that are still in the trunk. The uniforms. Shit. “I am,” I lie. “Mum, I have to go, one of the kids is calling me.”
“Okay, dear. I love you,” she says lovingly. “I’ll get back to you about my trip.”
“I love you, too. Bye, Mum.”
I hang up and go down to the darkened garage. I kick my toe on something that’s sticking out.
“Fuck it!” I snap as I hop around. Pain shoots through me. I flick the light on angrily and go around to the trunk to take out the huge bag of jerseys.
Are you kidding me? There are at least two loads in here. I drag the big bag back into the house. The light is on in the garage, but I don’t care, he can pay the damn bill. Now, to top off a great night, I have to stay here alone and do his washing, while he has no doubt gone back to the work function to continue to crack onto the stunning redhead.
I shove the first load of washing into the machine and turn the dial with force. My blood has risen to boiling temperature.
Stupid fucking asshole.
Where’s his fancy scotch? I’m drinking the lot of it.
Buzz, buzz, buzz, buzz.
I frown. What the hell is that? I punch my pillow, roll over, and close my eyes.
Buzz, buzz, buzz, buzz.
“Shut the hell up,” I mumble into my pillow. Why the hell is the alarm going off on a Saturday?
I hit snooze and close my eyes again. Why would it be going off? I didn’t set it?
Wait…
My eyes spring wide open.
The uniforms.
I throw my robe on and race to the laundry, pulling the jerseys from the washing machine and throwing them into the dryer. I go into the kitchen and flick the coffee machine on. I glance at the time on the oven. It’s 6:00 a. m. and it’s very quiet around here.
Oh, that’s right. The kids slept at Grandma’s and Judge Stupid is still asleep upstairs. I wonder what time the jerk got home?
I go to the window and peer down at the garage to see if I can see his Porsche in the driveway. Nope. He must have parked in the garage. Weird. I didn’t hear the garage door like I normally do. It annoys me that it sometimes wakes me up.
Damn it, I’m supposed to be on a post-date high right now, feeling relaxed and refreshed. Instead, I’m tired, menstrual, and I’m pissed-not a good combination to be in any situation. I hope that Tiffany bitch gets in my way today at soccer. I need an excuse to end somebody.
I make myself a cup of coffee and sit at the dining table. I want those jerseys dried and put away before anyone wakes up. Nobody will ever know I’m shit at this nanny gig.
My mind goes over last night’s events and I think I’m angrier now than I was last night, if that’s even possible. I get a vision of him being all witty and charming, and my blood boils.
I wonder… did he pick up that redhead in the end? I roll my eyes in disgust. Imagine if he brought her back here. What would I actually do if she walked down the stairs?
I pinch the bridge of my nose as I imagine them together or her in this house. I’d go batshit crazy if I saw her here now, no doubt about it. I’d probably lose control and karate kick Julian in the dick, too.
I smile as I imagine him doubled over in pain, begging for me not to kick him in the balls again.
Fucking twat.
God, I hate feeling like this. I thought my days of feeling like this were over.
I walk back to the laundry and open the dryer in a rush. The clothes are still wet. Damn it.
I walk back out into the house and look up the stairs.
He wouldn’t have brought her home. No way in hell.
I frown. Would he?
I blow out a deep breath because who knows? I mean, I never thought he would have treated me like he did last night.
Anything is possible now. I bite my lip, looking left and right to check that nobody can see me.
There’s nobody down here, stupid, I remind myself. He sleeps with his door a little ajar. If he brought her home, his door will definitely be closed. If it is… Heaven help him.
I tiptoe up the stairs. I just need to take a peek.
I peer down the hall and see his door is open.
I put my hand on my chest in relief. Thank God. But then I frown. His door, it’s too open.
I walk down the hall and look into his room to see his empty bed, unruffled, still made.
What?
He didn’t come home.
Are you kidding me? I storm back down the stairs like The Hulk. I go to the laundry and open the dryer, cursing when I see the clothes are still wet.
“Dry, motherfuckers!” I yell at the jerseys. “Do not mess with me today. Do you understand me?”
I get the second load out of the washing machine and begin to hang them around the heater on the small fold up clothesline. Why didn’t I think of doing this last night?
“Your stupidity astounds me,” I mutter under my breath.
I sit back down and make another cup of coffee, drinking every bit of it in silence.
He must be picking the kids up on the way home from Fucksville.
I get a vision of him walking in the door and me punching him fair and square in the nose, knocking him out. I’m sure if I looked in a mirror right now the whites of my eyes would be red. I’m like the exorcist before a kill.
I put my head into my hands.
Calm, calm… just keep calm.
He’s an idiot and you’re too good for him. He had sex with strawberry fucking shortcake last night.
I hear the car drive up the driveway, and I run to the window. Oh no.
They’re here.
I run to the laundry and start pulling the jerseys out of the dryer at double speed when something falls on the floor. Huh? I glance down and see a white thing. What’s that? I pick it up and see that it’s a very hot number seven.
My eyes widen.
I pull a jersey out of the dryer to see the number on the back of it is melting and hanging off.
Oh no.
What the hell?
I scramble through the jerseys. Sure enough, all of the numbers on the back are either completely fallen off or are half hanging off.
“Brelly!” Sammy calls from the kitchen.
I put my hands over my mouth. What the ever-loving fuck??
This can’t be happening. No… Dear God, no.
“Go and wake her up,” I hear Julian say to Willow.
“I’m awake,” I growl. “And in the middle of a nightmare.”
Willow comes into the laundry and her eyes widen when she sees the jersey I’m holding up. “Oh my God,” she cries. “What have you done?”
I wince and put my hands on the top of my head. “I don’t know!” I yell.
Julian walks into the laundry and his face falls as he sees the melted number two. “What the hell’s going on here? You can’t put those in the dryer. Don’t tell me you put those in the dryer!” he snaps.
“Of course I did!” I yell.
Willow starts crying and takes off upstairs, having a complete meltdown.
I know how she feels because I want to have one myself. This is unfucking believable.
Mr. Masters picks up the jerseys and starts to go through them.
“They’re all ruined,” he growls.
“What kind of crap jerseys can’t go in the damn dryer?” I cry.
“Every jersey in the damn world.”
Sammy snaps and punches his father on the leg as hard as he can. “Don’t yell at her,” he cries. “Stop it.” Then he bursts into tears.
My face falls. “Sammy, no, baby. It’s okay.” I pick him up and he howls into my shoulder. “Dad didn’t mean it.” I rock him as he has a meltdown, too. “You can’t ever hit Dad.”
Julian glares at me, and storms up the stairs to comfort Willow. I put my head on top of Sammy’s head as I rock him.
Yep…
Saturday’s off to a flying start.
Bring on the alcohol.
I sit in the fold up chair with Sammy on my lap as we wait for the game to begin. Julian took over the jersey situation this morning, because clearly, I couldn’t handle it. It turned out that there were two sets of jerseys in that bag, and combined with the ones that weren’t in the dryer, we nearly had a full team. Only four numbers were missing, and he ironed them back on temporarily while I freaked out. They are definitely going to fall off on the field, but at this point, who cares? I’m not talking to Julian, and Willow isn’t talking to me. Sammy isn’t talking to anyone but me, and this is one hell of a traumatic weekend.
Julian stands behind us with his arms folded, too wound up to sit down.
“Samuel, why did you hit me this morning?” he asks, unable to hold it in any longer.
I roll my lips, but I somehow keep my eyes on the field.
“Because I wanted you to stop it,” Samuel answers honestly.
“Stop what?”
“Yelling at Brelly. You’re going to make her leave.”
Oh no. “No, Sammy,” I say. “I’m not leaving. We were just having a discussion. You can have a discussion without anyone leaving.” I wrap my arms around him. Poor little kid.
“Do you promise?” he asks as he looks up at me with his worried little face.
“I promise. I’m not leaving,” I reply. “You don’t ever have to worry about that.” My eyes rise up to Julian, and he glares at me, furious that his own child chose to defend me over him.
I may kill your father, but I’m not leaving you, Sam.
He snuggles into my lap and the game begins. Soon enough, Sammy sees his little friend on the other field and runs off to play with him.
Julian and I watch the game in silence… until he chooses to speak.
“I’m sorry about last night,” he says quietly.
I stare at the field, unable to answer him.
“Aren’t you talking to me?”
I ignore him again. If I talk to him I’m going to lose my shit, and I have way too much dignity to do that here.
“What did you expect me to do?” he pushes.
“Stop talking,” I hiss. “I’m trying to watch the game.”
“Brell?” I hear a woman’s voice behind me, and we both turn to see Mr. Masters’ mother and father, Joseph and Frances, walking closer.
Oh, great. Just what I need. “Hello.” I smile as I stand to greet them.