Page 10 of Momcom Vacation

Delia

Sun, surf, sand, and a stress-induced migraine.

Eyes closed, I lie back in the reclining chair under our beach cabana. Beckett’s house does not lack for luxuries, that’s for sure.

Beside me, my phone buzzes every minute or so, each time a reminder of all I have to get done.

I should have said no, I should have stayed at home. But Liv wanted a girls’ trip, and I want to give her this weekend. We’re all neighbors, and sometimes the close proximity is too much, but other times, I miss being under the same roof as my three best friends. I miss the old days when we all lived in my then-crumbling brownstone together.

I should be reading the book on my lap. It’s this month’s book club pick,Learn Your Lesson. Hockey romance isn’t my favorite—I’m more of a small town girlie—but it’s spicy, and I got lost in it this morning when I should have been working on my speech for the groundbreaking next week.

“Why the long face? Do you need a B12 shot?” Shay brings a disgusting-looking green drink to her lips. I should want to heave at the sight of it. Instead, the swamp sludge makes me alittle nostalgic. Clearly I’m working too hard and not seeing my friends enough.

I tamp down on the sentimental emotions and glare at her.

On her other side, Liv rubs her belly. “She’s working too hard.”

“That’s nothing new,” Shay says. “You need to learn to delegate.”

My eye twitches. This is a discussion we have frequently. I love my friends, but they harp on my need to delegate, my need to slow down, and all the ways in which I am falling short. They mean well. They’re among the most supportive and loving women on this planet. But sometimes it’s as if we live in different worlds.

They want to help, and I love them for it. But I don’t need the reminders of just how badly I’m fucking everything up. I’m cognizant of that all on my own, thanks.

The last six months have been ridiculous. With Enzo’s support, I partnered with the Greater Boston Family Crisis Network, the largest domestic violence organization in the state, and founded a housing initiative for families in crisis.

Greater Boston is in the midst of a housing crisis, and there are not enough resources for families trying to rebuild their lives after experiencing domestic violence. As a prosecutor, my job is to put the offender in jail, but as a human, I’m compelled to help these families heal.

Dating the CEO of Boston’s largest construction company means I’ve got access to all kinds of resources. Currently, we are in the middle of renovating several multi-family properties, plus we’re going to use our brownstone—a.k.a. the mommune—to help other moms and kids.

Funding is no problem. Anymore, I’m practically surrounded by billionaires like Beckett and Cortney. Plus, I know half the members of the city’s pro sports teams. Knowing our efforts aresupported financially is a relief, but there is still so much work to do. Work on grants, permits, inspections, and filings is never-ending, and our first residents are set to move in this spring. Not to mention my regular caseload and children to care for.

And then there’s Enzo.

The man couldn’t be more perfect. Against my better judgment, I’m head-over-heels in love with him.

There just aren’t enough hours in the day to give him or our relationship the time they deserve.

It’s impossible to do everything perfectly. Be a mom and an attorney, start a charity,andmaintain a supportive, emotionally and physically fulfilling adult relationship? Despite my best efforts, I haven’t figured out how to do it all.

I pull down my oversized sunglasses and glare at my friends. There is no hiding anything from this crew, so I may as well rip off the Band-Aid.

“I haven’t had sex in a month.”

Shay gasps.

Liv bolts upright. “How?”

Dylan gives me a pitying frown.

Saying it out loud feels like a positive step forward. For so long I have been fixated on it, silently driving myself crazy. Maybe airing out my concerns will help me find a new perspective.

“Is it medical?” Shay asks. “I have a great essential oil blend.”

“Is he bad in bed?” Liv cups her mouth, her eyes wide. “Or did he stop putting in the effort?”

I sit up and set the book back down. At this rate I’ll never find out if the single dad and his nanny end up together. “It’s not medical, and he’s not bad in bed. In fact, he puts in a lot of effort.”

“So…?” Liv’s mouth turns down in confusion.

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