Page 6 of Fake As Puck
I look around. Dinner’s on the table. One kid is naked except for a sock. The other is holding a remote I did not give to her.
“Dinner,” I say, wiping something orange off my arm.
The three-year-old belts out a loud crying sound of out of nowhere. Cue the mom has entered the building.
“Charlie, inside voice,” Tessa says weakly from the kitchen island, where she’s sorting through a mountain of mail still in her work clothes.
“This is my inside voice,” Charlie screams back, then demonstrates her outside voice by shrieking like a pterodactyl.
Baby Emma, not to be outdone, starts crying and throws the remote across the room. Because apparently whenever mom comes home, it’s time to scream and cry and let it all out.
“I swear they were fine just a minute ago,” I plead, hoping she’s not mad at me as I pick up the remote and place it above the TV. I always feel like I’m failing when her kids start crying. It’s overstimulating and overwhelming, but I need the money.
“They’re like this,” she says, bringing her kids into a hug. The baby starts pushing the three-year-old out of the way, and now they’re fighting.
“Have kids, Liv. It’s so fun,” she smiles sarcastically.
“I promise not to forget to take my birth control,” I tease, and she gives me a look. Now’s not the time for a joke. She got pregnant with Charlie because she had forgotten.
“Mommy’s so tired,” she says to her girls. “You’re so snuggly, and now I could fall asleep.” She turns to me. “Did you shower them yet?”
I shake my head. Shit. “No, but I can. I will. You had a long day, and I’m still on the clock.”
“You’re a lifesaver,” she says, handing me Charlie. “Thank God you were free last minute.”
Free. That’s one way to put it. The truth is I cleared my very empty calendar because twelve dollars an hour is twelve dollars an hour, and my rent isn’t going to pay itself.
My phone buzzes as I hold crying Charlie. It’s a payment reminder for rent.
“You okay?” Tessa asks, following my gaze.
“Just living my best broke-girl life,” I joke.
“I thought you had that freelance thing.”
“I did. Then they decided they didn’t need a writer, they needed an ‘AI content optimization specialist.’ Whatever the hell that means.”
“Yikes.”
Baby Emma starts crying, so she rocks her, following me into the bathroom.
I get the two kiddies in the bathtub when Tessa’s phone starts ringing.
“Drop it like it’s hot. Drop it like it’s hot,” the ringtone starts singing, and I immediately know who it is.
My stomach does this stupid little flip that I immediately squash. Because we don’t do that. We’ve established clear boundaries about West-related stomach flips, and it is not allowed. Nope. Stop it, stomach!
Tessa answers, putting it on speaker as she stares in the mirror.
I start the bath for the kids as they fight over a bath toy when there are ten more behind them.
“Yo,” comes West’s voice, tinny and chaotic. “You busy?”
“Medium,” Tessa says. “What’s up?”
“Okay, so, slight emergency.”
“What did you do now?” Tessa asks, immediately switching into caring sister mode.
