Page 111 of Movers and Shakers

I barely slept. I was too busy trying to put the pieces of mysanity back together. But not sleeping didn’t help and I was exhausted when I finally woke up out of my mostly restless slumber.

My anger was interrupted by a phone call. It was Tom.

“If you’re calling to ask how I am, then the answer is not good.”

“I was calling to check in, but I was also calling to see if you wanted to go out. We’re getting breakfast. Want to join?”

“You and Max?”

“Yep. Selena’s in Atlanta visiting her best friend.”

“I . . . I don’t know if I’ll be any fun.”

“Trust me, Max will be enough fun for us both.”

Usually, I would stay alone and wallow in this. People didn’t get to see me when I wasthisupset.

Seeing the second dining room chair was a reminder of how things had gone so downhill. Max was a cute kid who’d proven to be a bundle of laughter and joy anytime I saw him, so maybe going out with Tom and him would do me some good.

“Okay. Where do you want me to meet you?”

“Have you ever been to Biscuit Love?”

“No, but I know where it is. I’ll meet up with you in a few.”

I slowly got dressed, putting my hair up into a messy bun. I drove to the restaurant in pure silence, unable to listen to anything. I pulled into a spot, seeing Tom getting out of acarof all things.

“Is that a new car?” I asked.

“Yep. The truck, even with airbags, is a safety risk.”

“It’s nice,” I said. “At what point are you getting the minivan?”

The joke felt wrong, considering my shit mood, but it helped.

“On kid three,” Tom said with a straight face.

“I want a sister!” Max said.

“Let me and your mom get married first. Then we’ll talk.”

“Little man knows what he wants,” I said, able to crack a small smile. Max was so happy, it was infectious.

“Oh yeah,” Max said. “I’ve been an only child for too long, and honestly‍”—he lowered his voice—“Mom and Dad need something else to focus on.”

“Too strict?” I asked.

“There’s just too much love.”

“Sickening,” I replied, but I smiled at Tom.

The restaurant smelled like biscuits and citrus. It was decorated in pink and white with a touch of dark stained wood—a Nashville classic.

“I want an orange juice,” Max said immediately. “They make it fresh here.”

“You can’t say no to fresh-squeezed,” I replied.

We got our meals and found a table; I was happy to be out of the apartment for a bit. Max was content to talk about everything. And it was nice to listen to a kid and not relive Rose’s and my doomed conversation over and over again.

---