Page 80 of Say Yes to the Hot Mess

It feels good to be back home, even though we weren’t gone for very long. I will miss being able to see the ocean from out the window, but this view isn’t so bad either—soft green grass and palm trees waving cheerfully overhead, providing dappled shade for me as I go.

I round Dex’s lawn, holding Archer close as I walk, and then heading up the front steps until I’m at his door. I kick his door rather than knocking with my hand. I feel like a barbarian.

But he opens a minute later and swings the door open wide, inviting me in without saying a word.

Considering the last time I was in here I was chasing a bird around, I’m eager to get a better look this time. Nothing much has changed, from what I can tell; I’m still surprised to see a stack of mail on the counter, an unfolded blanket draped over the back of a chair, one lone ceramic mug on the end table by the couch. Little signs that Dex isn’t a robotically neat and orderly person, like I originally expected him to be.

The space has a cool, detached vibe, with furniture in shades of charcoal and black and appliances in silver. It reminds me of an office building, which makes me smile. Dexwouldlive someplace that makes me think of an office, with his endless supply of button-down shirts and boring ties. He’s so much warmer and more personable than he comes off on the surface, but very little of that shows in his home.

“Well,” he says from behind me, seeming to watch as I take in my surroundings, “let me go grab your things.”

Ah. Right. There’s a reason I came over here, and it was not to marvel at Dex’s living room or see what insights I can gleam based on the way he does or doesn’t fold his throw blankets.

“Yeah, thanks,” I say, nodding and looking at him.

“Just a—”

But he breaks off at the unmistakable sound of the front door opening. And then, even more unmistakably, comes another sound:

“Dexter, sweetie? Are you here?”

Dex looks at me, his eyes wide, and I match his expression.

“No way,” I whisper incredulously. “She wouldn’t.”

But she would. Shedid.Because Nancy Anthony is above all social codes. Nancy Anthony does not do plebeian things likeknock on doorsorask permission.

She strolls around the corner, the click of her heels preceding her. She’s the picture of impeccable fashion, hair smooth, clothes unwrinkled, despite the fact that she can’t have arrived in town much sooner than we did.

“Mother,” Dex says faintly, and I snap my gaping mouth shut. “You have toknock.”

“Oh, of course, darling,” she says, waving an airy hand. “Next time I’ll remember. I was just helping your grandmother get settled in and thought I would drop by. Now what’s—oh.”

That “oh” is for me. And then, as Nancy’s eyes drift to Archer, still out like a light, herexpertly lined eyes widen.

“Mother,” Dex begins, but she holds up one bony hand. She takes a step closer to me, and I turn away instinctively, shielding Archer from her reach or her view.

“You’re a mother?” she says, her voice colored with surprise.

“I am,” I say shortly.

Her head swings in Dex’s direction, and she points at the baby. Knowing what she’s about to ask, I say,

“He’s not Dex’s child. The father is my ex.”

Adrenaline is coursing through my veins, and for the first time I understand, reallyunderstand, the fight or flight response. My brain sees that Nancy Anthony may be a threat to my child, no matter what form that threat takes, and as a result, I’m practically shaky with caged energy. It’s a strange, jittery feeling that has me wanting to chase her out of the house.

“Dexter,” she says, looking at him. “You can’t—that is to say, achild—that’s not something you’ve ever talked about—and out of wedlock—”

“Don’t judge me,” I say, cutting her stuttering off. “Don’t even think about it.” My voice is cool; Archer is cradled protectively against my chest. I’m frankly very surprised to hear myself speaking so forwardly, and I don’t know where this nerve is coming from, but I can’t seem to make it stop—and I’m not sure I want to. “Don’t stand there and assume you know me or what I’ve been through. I’m not married to the father of my child, no. It was a bad situation. He wouldn’t have been a good father or a good husband. I did what I had to do to give me and my child a safe, happy,securelife.” Shaking my head, I go on, “You have no right to condemn me for making the best choice for my baby. And seeing as your son has no problem with Archer, I don’t see why it’s any of your concern.”

My chest is heaving, my breath coming fast. That same buzzing energy is still quivering just beneath my skin, and I think if I held my hands out in front of me, they’d be shaking like leaves.

But you know what? Maybe I can’t change a tire or fix my own dryer, but I can stand up for myself and my child. The realization makes me stand up taller, my back a little straighter. It feelsgood.Not the telling her off part—although yeah, that didn’t suck—but just knowing that I can count on myself to speak up if I need to. Besides, if I have to choose between the ability to fix household appliances and the ability to have a spine and protect my child, I’ll choose protecting Archer every time. I’ll always choose the ability to say what needs to be said.

To my complete and utter surprise, she takes a step closer to me. “I care about my son. That’s all. I want him to have a happy, uncomplicated life—”

“I think you should go, Mother.” Dex finally speaks up, though I have to admit I’m grateful he let me speak for myself. “I’ll call you later, all right?”

---