Page 11 of The Homemaker
Then … I think of Murphy Paddon.
Callen Langston coaches lacrosse at the university, is obsessed with true crime podcasts, and knows a freakish amount of random information. He’s fun and easy. I’ve never met his kids, but when I mention them, he beams with fatherly pride.
After dropping out of college my junior year, spending fourteen months in a mental hospital, and seven years working odd jobs to find inspiration, I’ve given up on love and a successful career. But I take great joy in other people’s lives.
Some people are participants. Others, like me, are spectators.
“What was that about?” Callen asks as we put our clothes back on.
I exchange my dress for shorts and a tank top. “What was what all about?”
“Sex with you has been good, really good.” His cheeks flush as he buttons his jeans. “But that was next-level.”
I pull the tank top over my head. “I don’t know. When you said you were here early to make me dinner, it just …”
“Made you horny?” he chuckles.
“Something like that.” I grab his shirt and kiss him. “When are you going to Disney?” I pad my bare feet into the kitchen for an orange Olipop soda.
“Next week. Are you good with it?”
I pop the top of the can. “I think it’s cool that you and your ex get along well enough to take the kids on vacation together.”
“Lindee and Hawley.”
I narrow my eyes. “Huh?”
“You never say my kids’ names. My daughter is Lindee. She’s five, and my son is Hawley. He’s seven. You always refer to them just askids.”
“Thought we were keeping it casual.” I sip my drink.
“Alice, do you not like kids?”
“I like them.” I chuckle.
“If I were standing in line for something, I could easily strike up a conversation with a stranger, and it could lead to me revealing my kids’ names and ages. I’m not asking you to meet them or be their godmother.” Callen laughs, filling a glass with water.
“Lindee and Hawley are great names.”
He sips his water then nods. “Thanks. They’re great kids. Now, if you want to share something about your personal life, I’m happy to listen in a very casual way.”
“Thanks.” I smile.
“Thanks? That’s it?”
“What do you want me to say? I told you I didn’t finish college, and I’ve worked odd jobs for the past seven years.”
“But you never said why you dropped out of school.”
I sit on the barstool at the counter. “Why does anyone drop out of school?”
“Failing grades. Lack of interest or money. Life-changing event. Job offer that doesn’t require a degree. There are a lot of reasons. What was yours?”
I drum my fingers on the side of the can. “A friend died, and I lost focus and desire to continue with school.”
He eyes me for a beat before slowly shaking his head. “I’m sorry to hear about your friend.”
“Thanks.”
