Page 4 of Hard Hat Hottie

“Darn it,” Alec sputters, snapping his fingers as he spins on his heel and sprints back toward his bathroom without missing a beat. I only asked him to do one thing. One. How did he manage to miss his toothbrush?

Biting the inside of my cheek at what I might find, I quickly grab his Spiderman backpack and unzip it to ensure he hasn’t removed everything I arranged, replacing it with Matchbox cars and gummy bears crammed into its depths. It wouldn’t be the first time that’s happened.

“Mom, do you have any sunscreen?” His older brother startles me with a stealthy entrance.

“Oh. Justin, you scared me. Yes, in the pantry. Why? Has your dad made plans for the weekend?” The thought is both surprising and encouraging.

“I doubt it. But it’s hot, and me and Alec spend a lot of time outside. You’re always putting it on us, but they never have any.”

My sharp kiddo. I pull him to my side and ruffle his hair. “I’m so proud of you. You know that?” Walking to the pantry, I reach inside and retrieve a bottle of lotion and make a mental note to buy two from here on out. Not that they spend that much time away. Jimmy and Rob barely have them every other weekend. Which, again, is just fine by me.

“You know it’s not their fault.”

“What?” I frown.

“They weren’t taught how to raise children like girls were.”

Crossing my arms over my chest, I give my child a teasing glare. “That sounds suspiciously like something your dad would say.”

Justin shrugs his shoulders and grins. “It was actually Alec’s dad who said it.” A feeling of self-satisfaction washes over me. My eight-year-old is mature beyond his years. And not to be smug, but there’s no way he got that from his Y chromosome. I’ll always love his father, divorced or not. But that man has no interest in expelling energy on anyone but himself. Including his kids.

Both of my ex-husbands are equally ridiculous. Although, I guess I need to accept some of the blame. I should’ve known better, but married them all the same.

I grew up the daughter of an overworked single mother. While my mother and father never divorced, the union wasn’t worth the paper the marriage certificate was printed on. My father may have listed our home address as his place of residence, but he strolled in and out of his temporary abode, and our lives, at will. It was as if there was a revolving door at our house. Looking back without the rose-colored glasses, it’s more than likely he only returned when he was short on money or a place to stay. I know from first-hand experience my husbands would’ve each done the same if I hadn’t shown them the door and made it clearthatwasn’t happening. Sure, if they were ever hurt or in dire straits, I’d help them in any way I could. My love for them never faded, just the illusion our relationship was the type you find in fairy tales.

My mother took my father’s disappearing acts in stride, continuing to work two jobs, always placing my needs above her own. I’m sure she must’ve been exhausted, but never let it show. With the exception of allowing my father to treat both of us like a doormat, she set the bar high for motherhood. And I’m bound and determined to do the same for my boys.

Growing up in that environment, I made a promise to myself I’d never settle for that treatment from a man. And I haven’t. Yet, it didn’t stop me from falling hard and pregnant with their children before allowing enough time for the behavior to reveal itself.

Ding. Dong.

“I’ll get it! Let me get it!” Alec hollers as he thunders down the steps, a toy car in each hand.

“Careful, wild man. And where’s your toothbrush?”

“Grrr.” He throws his head back in frustration before whirling around as if he’s about to retrace his steps when the doorbell rings again. Suddenly, the metal toys ricochet off of the floor as he races to the door.

“For gosh sakes, Alec, you’re going to give me vertigo,” I mutter, watching him spin about the foyer.

“Dad!” my youngest shrieks before plowing into Rob.

“Hi, buddy. I was wondering if we had the wrong house. What took you so long?”

Really? It was a hot minute, Rob.

“Mom was making me get my toothbrush.”

I roll my eyes until they land on Jimmy, who’s standing at the base of the steps, his focus glued to his cellphone. Instinctively, I look to Justin. My poor kid. If I had something a little less dangerous than this mug of hot coffee in my hand, I’d throw it at his father’s phone.

“Hi, Dad,” Justin says stoically as he comes to the door. “I love you, Mom.” Giving me a one-armed hug, he hesitantly descends the cracked cement steps to stand next to his apathetic father. My heart aches at the sight. Would it kill him to greet his son with a bit more enthusiasm before zoning out to social media or sports? He hasn’t seen the boy for weeks. Heck, he’s probably lining something up with his one true love.

His bookie.

“Hold tight for a sec. I’ll run and grab Alec’s toothbrush and toothpaste,” I tell them.

“Harlow, you act like he’s never spent the night before. He’s got a toothbrush at the house.”

Balling my fists, I place them on my hips and lift one brow in question, unsure I believe his assurance. Sure enough, he takes a step back, his shoulders tight, a perplexed look crossing his face. This man has no flipping idea if Alec has toiletries at his house or if he merely uses the ones I pack for him. I’m certain of it. “It will only take a second,” I repeat before dashing up the stairs. At least I can count on Justin to ensure his little brother will brush his teeth and wash up before bed.

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