Page 20 of Single Mom's Daddies
She touches my elbow. “I’m rooting for her. For you both. I really am.”
I whisper a thank-you, but I can’t make myself look up. Not until her heels click away down the hall and she disappears behind the billing desk again.
I take a long breath. Then another. But it still feels like drowning when I look at my little girl’s face. Grief comes early, the counselor said. It comes faster when you can’t pay your bills.
After another eight yawns, I tell Ivy goodnight and head out. I cry for six seconds in the car. That’s it. That’s all I’ll allow.
Then I wipe my face with the sleeve of my hoodie, pull myself together, and drive home in silence. No music. No podcasts. Just the low hum of my tires on pavement and the occasional rattling breath I try not to let turn into another sob.
The apartment is quiet when I step inside.
Ivy’s shoes are still by the door, rainbow laces trailing. Her favorite plush otter lies face down on the couch, half-buried in one of her soft fleece blankets. The air smells faintly like apples and antiseptic. I haven’t had time to cook in two days, and the trash needs to go out.
I toss my keys onto the counter and pull my hoodie over my head. It smells like her shampoo. I fold it up and set it aside, trying not to think about how much smaller she looked in that hospital bed than she did yesterday. I know it’s an illusion, but I see it every time I see her.
There’s no time to break down again.
I wash my face, change into soft pajama pants and a tank top, and clip my headset into place. It’s almost seven. Prime time.
I log into the portal using my operator name—Jasmine 143—and switch my profile to “Available.” Within two minutes, the line buzzes with an incoming call. I recognize the ID immediately.
Banana Jack. Of course.
I take a deep breath and tap “Connect.”
“Hey there, stranger,” I say, soft and sultry, slipping into a voice that’s smoother, warmer, and ten years more carefree than I actually feel. “Long time no peel.”
He laughs. Always does. It’s high-pitched and nasal, like he’s permanently congested. “You remember me.”
“How could I forget you?” I murmur. “I’ve been craving potassium.”
He groans like that does it for him.
I roll my eyes and head into the kitchen, headset still snug. My laptop screen glows softly from the living room, the session clock ticking up by the second.
He’s breathing heavy already. “Tell me what you’re wearing.”
I open the fridge. “Mmm, something light. Breezy. Just a tank top and panties. Maybe a little sheen on my skin from all the—heat.”
“You got anything…ripe?”
God.
I grab a pack of tofu and nudge the fridge closed with my hip.
“Ripe how?” I ask, keeping my tone flirty.
“Fruit. Like a banana. You got one?”
I open the produce drawer. One banana. Speckled. Starting to brown.
“I do.”
“Ohhh yeah. Grab it.”
I do. I set it on the counter and get a knife to slice tofu for dinner while he keeps panting.
“Now just hold it, real gentle,” he whispers. “Like you’re gonna slide it down real slow.”
