Page 3 of The Southern Thirst Trap

“Honey, it’s fine. He’s four,” Alicia says, laying a manicured hand against my arm and looking up at me from heavily lashed brown eyes. “What are they going to do, give him detention for being late?”

“Well, I would’ve been back in time if the news segment hadn’t dragged on and the producers let me shorten my cooking demonstration to just one of the recipes rather than all three,” I retort.

I felt the minutes ticking by when I should have been out the door. Even TV magic with prepped bowls of ingredients, shoving the uncooked pans into the fake oven, and pulling out the pre-finished food to show how marvelous it could all look couldn’t get me out of that studio on time.

“The extra air time was so worth it!” she enthuses, brandishing her phone with a page of analytics pulled up. I glance at it for a second before returning my eyes to traffic. “Your social engagement went up sixty-three percent while it aired, and you have new channel subscribers and followers,” she sing-songs. Of course, she’s thrilled. It’s her job to see that my new cookbook,At Home With Harlowe: A Foulmouthed Foodie’s Guide To Eating Well, gets the best press and she wants me to ride the release week momentum as much as I can.

I shouldn’t have been such a pushover for the press my publisher and Alicia set up, knowing it was going to cause a scheduling conflict. I know it’s really good coverage that will likely drive up sales, but it’s still interfering with my son’s life, and that’s one promise I made to myself that I’m at risk of breaking.

“Breathe, Lolo. No use fretting over it now when you can’t do anything. Just call the school and excuse his absence, or whatever. That’s what I do for my boys,” Callie adds to the mix from her seat in the back under a stack of cookbooks. She’s never worried a day in her life, not for money, jobs, or the prospect of having her kid kicked out of school. She lives in a daydream bubble and somehow things just turn up roses for her, thanks to a mega-rich older husband who holds ownership in the Atlanta Condors football team.

I snake my phone out of my purse from the center console and fumble to pull up the school’s number. It’s just preschool, but they are incredibly strict with their schedule and I don’t want to be on the administration’s bad side. It costs an arm and a leg to keep Hendricks in this program, and there is a waiting list for years they could easily replace him with.

I never knew how savage preschool was until I looked into enrolling my kid in the best school I could find for his super smart little brain and learned firsthand that I should’ve signed him up when I found out I was pregnant. Lucky for me, I know the right people, mainly Callie’s husband’s acquaintance who’s on the board, and I carry just enough of a sparkle of former celebrity status that a spot was made available when Hendricks was ready.

The phone connects through my car speakers and the call is answered while the girls grow quiet.

“Hi, this is Harlowe Sorenson, Hendricks’s mom. I’m so sorry, I’m running late and won’t be able to drop him off until,” I pause and my eyes dart to the clock, then back to the gridlocked traffic, “probably ten.”

“Ms. Sorenson, that’s an hour and a half into the school day. Our policy allows late drop-offs up to fifteen minutes, but after that, the classes move quickly into their programming. Unfortunately, it’s too disruptive to the students’ academic and imaginative pursuits to have a peer join them later,” the receptionist informs me, her voice taking on a patronizing tone.

“That’s bull—” I stop myself before I curse out this woman who is probably paid minimum wage and has school policies she has to follow.

Giggles erupt, and Callie quickly covers her mouth with her hand.

“I’m sorry, but this is preschool. It’s not like it’s medical school. They fingerpaint and chase each other around before listening to stories and having a nap. Not exactly a rigorous curriculum of strictly academic excellence. I doubt any of these four-year-olds would bedisruptedby Hendricks arriving late.” I roll my eyes as I say it because it’s my fault my kid attends a pretentious preschool. I wanted him to have the best opportunities I could afford, and this place is ranked first in the Atlanta metro. I hear a supportive hum of approval from the peanut gallery in my car.

“Despite what you may think, our classes are designed to prepare young minds for their future, shaping their development and directing milestones to best cultivate their cognitive functioning. You will just have to keep Hendricks home today and drop him off tomorrow during the specified window. I’ve noted the absence in his file. I hope you’re aware that you only get three unplanned absences per term before you will be asked to re-evaluate your commitment to your son’s future.”

Alicia scoffs and stops her phone scrolling. Paloma clicks her tongue softly. I catch Callie’s worried expression in my quick glance in the rearview mirror.

Damn. The preschool staff lay it on thick. Hendricks has only been at the school for a few months, and he seems to love it. Guilt gnaws at me, knowing my career has gotten in the way of his happiness and education. Every day he comes home with a new story or fact that I end up having to look up myself just to see if he’s making it up. He’s an absolute sponge and is doing so well. I was a good enough student, with a demanding Asian mother who pushed for academic excellence, but I didn't go to college. I just went straight into modeling after high school. Hendricks definitely got his incredible brain and aptitude for learning from his businessman father.

“Fine. He’ll be in class tomorrow.”

I hit the hang-up button on the dash screen and look up in time to see the line of cars stopped in front of me. Gasps sound around me as I slam on the brake pedal. Adrenaline whisks through my veins, the tingly rush of fear an instantaneous cold draft. I manage to stop with bare feet between me and the next car, but quickly I’m rocked by the slamming of a car into my rear bumper. My head snaps back painfully from the momentum and I already know it wasn’t just a light scratch I can ignore. By some miracle, I was far enough back not to hit the car in front of me.

“Oh no, a motherfucker didn’t,” I swear, thinking of how much more this will set me behind. I don't have time to deal with a fender-bender today and all the complications that are going to add to my already haphazard schedule. I have more press interviews, and a signing at a bookstore tonight. “Are y’all alright?”

“Ay, Dios. I knew I-85 would be a horrible choice. It’s cursed,” Paloma mutters, clutching her seatbelt when I turn quickly to see if the girls are hurt.

Callie rights herself in her seat, her stack of books now on the floor and a stunned expression on her face. “Did someone just, like, hit us? How rude,” she says, without any irony at all.Bless her heart.

“Atlanta drivers are worse than LA drivers, I swear.” Alicia rolls her neck and resumes her phone tapping, hardly fazed.

“No, no, no.” I signal to get over to the shoulder. “This cannot be happening.”

“If we get this wrapped up quickly, we can still make the virtual interview,” Alicia says, her fingers flying over her phone, likely managing some PR magic I want no part of. She’s pragmatic to a fault, but damn good at her job, and I leave her to it.

I put my car in park and turn off the ignition with trembling fingers. The adrenaline is still running high and I’m not taking it well. Or maybe it’s combining with all the caffeine I’ve had to get me through the four a.m. wake up and early morning on set, jacking me up with anxiety and making me shake like a cracked-out chihuahua.

“Look alive, ladies. A man approaches,” Paloma says in her richly melodic voice.

“We are alive, Paloma,” Callie assures her, placing a slim hand on Paloma’s wrist with her big blue eyes opened wide.

Despite the warning, a gentle tap on my window startles me, and I look up to see the driver who hit me. He’s on the tall side and of average build, with dark hair, olive tanned skin, well-dressed, and good-looking enough for me to note about someone who just rear-ended me in traffic. He motions for me to get out of the car, and I do. I hear three doors open in quick succession after mine.Great. Now I’ll have a mob to witness the exchange of insurance.

“Ma’am, I’m so sorry. Traffic stopped suddenly and I tried to get onto the shoulder, but I still hit the edge of your bumper. I’ll take care of everything, but you’ll need to take photos and call your insurance.”

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