Page 14 of Say Yes to the Hot Mess

His little nose starts to scrunch up, his lips curling down, and when he starts to squint his eyes, I know it’s time to feed him before a full-on riot starts. I love him, but that boy can scream. So I lean down and unbuckle him from his car seat, picking him up.

“Oof,” I say, wincing when I feel a wet patch on the back of his onesie. “Gross. You came out of your diaper, little man. Let’s get you changed.”

And so I spend the next hour with Archer, feeding him and bathing him. My body is still making more milk than he can eat in one feeding, though, so I end up having to pump as well, stowing the extra milk in my freezer where I’m slowly amassing a small army of freezer bags. After that I let him hang out in his swing for a bit. Then, when his little eyelids start to droop, I settle into the rocking chair in his room and begin to soothe him to sleep. My mind is still full of thoughts about moving, though, and even as Archer drifts off for an afternoon nap—because his midday nap got interrupted by Dexter’s phone call—I find myself growing more and more stressed.

My impulse is to pull out my phone and call someone, to talk to someone about Dexter and about having to find new accommodations. Scarlett, maybe. Or I could try Carter or Sam, I guess, but something has me holding back. What would I say to them? What would they say to me? It’s not like they could do anything to help. If anything, Carter would probably feel pressured to vacate my parents’ house so that I could move back in, and I don’t want that. He likes it there better than at his old apartment, and though he hasn’t said anything, I think he might even be planning on living there with Sam after they’re married—assuming I don’t come back first.

No. I don’t want to bring Carter into this.

A small, brutally honest part of my mind whispers that there’s another reason I hesitate to call him: I’m jealous. Jealous of what Carter and Sam have found in each other and hesitant to subject myself to the love that oozes from their very pores.

A wave of shame rolls over me at this. I have no right to be jealous, and Carter and Sam deserve every happiness.

I just need to figure out how to make my own happiness,withouta partner. I need to take care of myself and my child rather than waiting for someone else to show up.

Something inside of me stills when this thought crosses my mind—something relaxes, some knot of tension that’s been tugging at my insides. My eyes widen. I don’t know where this realization is coming from; it’s not like I don’t already know that I’m single. But somehow I’ve never thought of it in these terms.

I look down at Archer. “We’re on our own,” I say slowly, even though he’s fast asleep. “For the foreseeable future, we’re alone.I’malone. So I need…” I trail off, thinking hard. “I need to figure out how to be okay with that,” I finish softly. “No one is going to rescue us, Archer. No knight in shining armor.” I swallow, my eyes tracing over his tiny, perfect nose, his squishy lips, his stubborn little chin. “So it’s up to us. We’re on our own.”

* * *

I’mawoken the next morning at the crack of dawn, and I am not thrilled about it. Archer woke up to feed three times in the night, but he’s quiet now, so it takes me a minute to figure out what pulled me out of my sleep. When I hear what sounds like a garbage truck beeping outside my window, I frown.

Today isn’t trash day.

I climb slowly out of bed, nearly falling on my face when my foot gets caught in the covers. I rub my eyes as I squint out the window, trying to figure out what’s going on.

But as soon as my sleep-addled brain starts working, I realize what I’m seeing: a moving van, backing into the driveway next to mine, beeping incessantly to make sure everyone in the state of Florida knows to get out of the way.

Am I finally getting a neighbor? Someone to borrow a cup of sugar from? Someone to share the hot tub with?

An image flashes through my mind of some old couple in skimpy little swimsuits, bodies wrinkled and saggy, making out in the hot tub like a couple of teenagers—

And I swallow against the sudden urge to vomit. Nope, we’re going to have to figure out a schedule or something, because that is not the kind of thing I want to stumble upon without warning.

I continue to creep unashamedly, hoping to get a glimpse at my new neighbors. Or it could just be one neighbor, I guess; either way, I’m anxious to see them. I watch as several buff guys in blue shirts begin rolling up the back of the moving truck, jumping in with practiced ease. The movers, clearly, so that’s no help. Why do these people have so much stuff? The duplexes are furnished.

But then another man joins the movers, and my focus turns to him. I squint a little to get a better look. I don’t see his face; his head is turned the other way, and he moves too quickly into the truck. He mills around at the opening, his back to me, and he seems to be pointing things out to the movers. This has to be him, then. He looksgoodfor his age—broad shoulders, powerful frame. I would never peg him as being over fifty.

I press a little closer to the window. From behind, this man looks familiar. Something about his posture—spine straight, shoulders back—and the clothes he’s wearing. There’s no way he’s a professional mover, because he’s dressed in what looks like a dress shirt and khaki pants.

Adress shirtandkhakis. To unload boxes from a moving van. Who does that?

But when he turns around, I have my answer.

“You!” I gasp, the word garbled due to the fact that my entire face is now pressed up against the window. I’m going to leave one of those squashed-face marks when I move, and it’s not going to be pretty, but I can’t bring myself to lean back just yet.

I watch wide-eyed as Dexter freaking Anthony, Mr. Condescending, Mr. You-Can’t-Live-Here, carries a large box labeledBooksfrom the back of the moving truck and down the ramp, disappearing around his side of the duplex. He carries it effortlessly, too, which is irritating. What part of being a complex manager is keeping him so strong?

Maybe he draws strength from all the souls he sucks out on a daily basis.

Or I guess it could be a really light box. Like maybe there aren’t very many books inside, and maybe they’re all children’s paperbacks.

Becausethatmakes sense.

I snort, finally stepping away from the window and shaking my head. Then I march myself straight downstairs and out the sliding door in the kitchen, the one that leads to the back yard, because that’s where Dexter was headed.

And it only takes half a second to find him—he’s weirdly frozen in place on the patio, the box of books apparently still in his arms, his back to me. I step outside and move so I can see him better. What is he doing? What’s he—

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