Page 3 of The Single Dad

Hookups like these are so much easier when the women know what to expect—which is nothing. Things only get awkward like this when they start to assume that they’re in for anything more than a one-night stand.

It’s almost two by the time I’m done in the shower, and I’m bone tired. But I still trudge down the hall before I collapse into my bed. I always make a point to check on Archie while he’s asleep whenever I get the chance, and I want to make sure that the woman’s exit didn’t wake him.

I open his door a crack, careful not to make a sound. He’s still fast asleep, curled beneath his blanket, his blue teddy bear tucked under one arm.

The nerves in my jaw soften as I watch him, and my teeth unclench. It’s late. Odds are, he won’t remember this tomorrow—and even if he does, I can just tell him that she was a friend of mine who stayed over a little too late.

Closing the door, I turn away, back toward my own waiting, empty bed.

* * *

Riley

“Longest. Shift. Ever,” I groan into my phone’s speaker as I slam my apartment door behind me, shucking off the black mini-apron I wear at my job as a waitress.

Through the phone, Noah laughs. I kick off my shoes, not bothering to line them up neatly by the doormat, and pad through my small apartment toward the bedroom.

“You’re laughing,” I say, chastising him, “but I’m serious. I swear, the customers today were ridiculous. It was like they were conspiring against me.”

“No, no, I don’t mean to make light of your struggles,” he says. He uses the same tone he used to use when we were kids in foster care together, that faux-innocent, “who, me?” voice that sometimes managed to fool adults. “Please, tell me more.”

“We ran out of zucchini, and the truck doesn’t come until Thursday, so we had to strike a couple items off the menu. And guess what everyone wanted today?”

“The zucchini stuff?”

“Of course,” I sigh. Quickly, I slip my hands under my shirt, unclasping my bra. I snake it out from under the hem, tossing it onto my bed before shuffling back out into the living area. “So how were things on your end?”

Noah and I make a habit of keeping in touch with each other regularly. I talk to him like this most days. We were close when we grew up together in foster care, and have stayed close since.

“Oh, you know,” he says. “Finally closing that deal with those pain-in-the-ass clients.”

“Customers are the same, no matter what kind you’re dealing with,” I say sagely, sinking onto my couch. “What did they want?”

“Well, at first, they were trying to rush things—speed the process along. And then, once we were finally close to wrapping the whole thing up, they started to get cold feet. Delayed us by a week, at least.”

“God, that sucks.”

“Tell me about it.”

“You know,” I say, teasing, “maybe you should quit all that and get into the foodservice game, like me. Waiting tables, that’s where it’s at.”

He chuckles at my joke, but then says, “Oh, c’mon, Riley. You know you’re not gonna be a server for long. You’re so close to getting your dream job. I just know it.”

“I hope you’re right.”

I’ve been out of grad school for almost a year now, throwing my resume all over the place. It’s been hard to find jobs that line up exactly with my goals, but I’m not willing to compromise on my career.

I want to find a job that will let me help kids like me. Kids who grew up in similar situations, who need someone to advocate for them. And if I can’t find that kind of career, then I’m going to have to wait for it to come along.

I can be patient. It’s worth it.

Right?

“Of course I’m right,” Noah says confidently. “Hey, weren’t you going to hear back about that latest one today?”

“Oh, my god! You’re right!” I reach over to the coffee table for my laptop. “Thanks for the reminder.”

My heart is in my throat as I open the computer and type in my password. I tab over to my email, and my breath catches when I see the new message. It’s from the company that interviewed me for that social work job.

---