Page 7 of Playing Flirty

Now, that was a question I had an answer to. I slipped out of his grasp and grabbed my laptop.

“Oh, here it comes.” He laughed, rubbing his hands along his beige chinos. “Rose Marie Jones’s infamous Life Goals spreadsheet.”

I navigated to the spreadsheet and opened the tab for my five-year projection. “Oh.” I breathed out a heavy sigh before clearing my throat. “I’d have finished this stupid MBA, and that would lead to the department head promotion—so that’s cool, I suppose. Good news is, I’d already be married and have a kid. Or I’d be pregnant. I left some wiggle room.”

A flush crept across my cheeks at having made these decisions without him. “And there’s a whole bunch of other stuff, but you don’t wanna know.” I slammed my laptop shut before he could see that my Life Goals had me listed as “engaged” a few months ago—before Shaun and Neema.

Perhaps he was planning to propose or perhaps business proposals were the only ones on his mind.

“How about you?” I asked.

“I’d like to be the COO by then,” he said without hesitating, as if the words had been sitting on the tip of his tongue. Like me, he had it all planned out.

Patrick leaned back, his eyelids drooping. I closed my own eyes, picturing my future. Department head at M&G Group. Married to Patrick. Kid on the way. We’d have a house, and we’d stay in that house and build a home. It wasn’t a bad future. It was better than the unknown—or what I’d had.

His eyes fluttered open. “If I want to reach that goal, I better get going.” Standing, he straightened his shirt before popping his phone and wallet into his pocket.

“You can stay the night. There’s space on my bed.” I rolled out my aching neck and pointed at my bedroom.

“In between the piles of board games and books?” He offered me half a smile. “I’m exhausted. I need a proper rest before tomorrow.”

“Golf with the boys?” I walked to the door and opened it.

“It’s like your board games, except I network while doing it.”

I searched for an appropriate response, but before I could think of anything, he kissed me on the top of my head.

“See you soon, babe,” he said as he turned and left me standing in the doorway.

“Well, good luck,” I whispered to his back.

It occurred to me that I hadn’t told him I loved him. But I was frustrated—frustrated that I hated my job, frustrated that I had already paid the full fees for a degree program I was not enjoying that would further push me toward a corporate lifestyle, and… well… I was frustrated with him too. But I didn’t like to think about that. Mostly, I was frustrated that, even with all this frustration, I was too scared to change any of it.

Walking back to my bedroom, I did what any mature adult would do: I video-called my mom. She answered on the first ring. I loved that about her.

“Hi, Rosie.”

Her smiling face melted away my unease. Most people told me I resembled my mom—same full lips, light brown eyes, and pitch-black hair and what my mom called her “winter skin tone”—but I had my dad’s straight nose.

“Mom.” I beamed, enjoying the weight lifting from my chest. I had changed into my ugliest, most comfortable pajamas since no one would see them anyway. “How are you? Where are you?”

“Baby, we are in the most beautiful place in the world—Grand Baie in Mauritius. This morning, I fancied myself a taste of coconut and a man climbed the tree and hacked one off for me.” She scrambled around, searching for something.

Finding her glasses, she slid them onto her face. I grinned at the missing arm, but it didn’t seem to bother her. My parents were unconventional, for lack of a better term. Apparently, I was conceived during their honeymoon next to theVictoria Falls. My parents copulated beside this landmark because they were overwhelmed with its beauty. Thankfully, my dad had the foresight to put up their tent before they went sightseeing.

And I’ve always wished she didn’t feel the need to tell me that.

I crawled onto the corner of my bed. “That sounds amazing. How’s Dad enjoying it?”

“He loves it. I think we may never leave. He’s found his calling and joined a group of local fishermen.” Her Indian accent made an appearance. It had mostly faded by the time I was a kid. My grandmother blamed it on spending too much time with “the whites” (i.e., my father, whom she did not approve of).

“Oh, please don’t say that. You have to come back eventually. It’s been six months without a visit.” I let out a nervous laugh and looked away. I didn’t want her to know that I still needed them.

“Why don’t you come to us? You’ve been working long enough to have some savings for a bit of adventure. You used to love it. I have proof!”

My mother showed family photographs to anyone willing to look at them. Most of them were of me as a baby—on trains and planes and sleeping while strapped to my mother’s back, a trick she learned in South Africa.

The photos became fewer as traveling became more expensive and I started costing a full ticket. My dad started flipping houses, and my mother did whatever she felt like doing—everything from knitting hats for homeless people to hosting “baked bake sales.” (I learned my lesson the hard way with those as I had my first and last unsober experience. Surprisingly, it was a hit among the housewives.)

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