Page 54 of The Single Dads Club
“Felix? He’s off today.”
Of course he is.“Look, I need someone sentout ASAP. I was told this would be dealt with within twenty-four hours, and it’s now been almost three days.”
“There’s no need to get upset, sir.”
My barely restrained temper flares. “I strongly disagree. I have a building full of tenants without air-conditioning, inJune, and your company can’t get its shi—” I catch Grier staring at me with huge, fascinated eyes. “Uh,stufftogether. Now, will you be over there by the end of the day, or should I find another contractor?”
A long pause. “I’ll send someone.”
“Thank you,” I reply icily, then stab at theEnd Callicon.
For Christ’s sake. Can this guy wipe his own ass, or does he need me to help him with that too? The only person who enjoys that privilege is my two-year-old daughter ... whose hand is currently,oh my fucking God, about half an inch from the glowing red burner on the stove.
My heart kicks into overdrive, and I yank her back. “No!”
Grier’s face crumples, her bottom lip drops, and she howls in outrage.
“We’ve talked about this, baby girl. The stove is for grownups. It’s dangerous, way too hot. You’d get a big, big owie.”
Still screaming bloody murder, she shakes her tiny fists at me. “Bad Daddy!”
“I just want you to be safe, sweetheart.” I glance back to discover that she’s somehow outwitted her spill-proof sippy cup and dumped milk all over the table.
Shit. We have less than an hour before I need to drop her off at day care on my way to work, and she’s still unfed, wearing pajamas, and now too pissed off to let me rectify any of those problems. And what the hell is that smell?
Fuck, the food!
I shove the pan of burned eggs onto the counter and turn off the stove. My phone rings again, and I snatch it up, ready to bite Doug’s head off—then freeze. It’s not his number on my screen like I expect. It’s my mom’s.
“Hello?” I say, trying to restrain the claws of worry that are already grabbing at me.
Why would she call at this hour? We just had our weekly chat a few days ago, and she said she was feeling fine then.Calm down, maybe she just wants a favor.
“How are you, sweet pea?” Mom’s voice is mild and so tired, it makes my heart hurt.
Grier abruptly stops flailing. “Gamma?” she asks, looking up at me with a furrowed brow. She’s too perceptive sometimes.
Sitting down, I pull her close and stroke her soft curls, as much to soothe myself as her. She wiggles a little, but stays with me. “I’m fine. What about you? Are you doing okay today? Do you need something?”
“I just got done talking to my oncologist, and ...”
“At six in the morning?”
“Yes?” She sounds confused. “Why not? I was right there in the hospital.”
A spike of panic shoots through me, followed quickly by guilt. I totally forgot it was time for her monthly chemo session.
“Anyway,” she says, “we had a long talk, and, well ...”
My stomach has knotted into a tight, painful ball. “What’s wrong?”
“Well, there’s no easy way to say this ...” She hesitates, and my stomach twists.
“Mom, just say it.”
She clears her throat. “He estimates about six months.”
The floor falls out from under me. I open my mouth but nothing comes out.
