Page 5 of One Bride for Three Single Dads

The band was playing, so I walked in and began to dance. I found a guy, and I danced with him. I made sure that I was reflecting enough light that Tony would be able to find me from any position in the room. Hence, the sequins.

But when he did see me, it didn’t really go as planned. In my imagination, he was going to ride a surge of jealousy all the way across the room, sweep me up, take me out to the Volvo, and fuck me cross-eyed. Then he would see the error of his ways, and we would begin our relationship over again, with the new agreement to reenact cross-eyed sex on the four-times-a-week plan.

Didn’t happen. Instead, Tony saw me dancing with a stranger, finished his eighth shot of tequila, walked over, and punched the stranger right in the nose. Then he got knocked to the floor and broke his elbow in a guitar-career-ending-way, and got arrested.

I bailed him out in the morning, and the first thing he did was tell me to move out.

I didn’t get the bail money back or anything.

But Emily came to my rescue. She offered me shelter—well, she finally caved in and reluctantly agreed is a more accurate representation—and that is how I came to be living on Emily’s couch.

But I am going to make the most of it. I swear. That is why every day I get up, get dressed, get cleaned up, and make that beautiful broad a cup of apology-and-rent-substitute coffee before her alarm even goes off.

Because I may be impetuous and flighty and flaky and every other word you would use to describe a twenty-two-year-old dropout with no money, no boyfriend, and no job, but I can only get better from here, right?

So that is the plan.

The birds are chirping outside like it’s the start of a Disney movie when I tap gently on Emily’s door and wait for her grunt of acknowledgment so I can deliver the java to her bedside.

Her room is super clean and organized. It almost looks military. She sleeps in a twin bed, even. She says it keeps her humble, and also reminds her that sex is for married people and she has no intention of breaking that moral no matter what.

We are not always on the same page, Emily and me. But still, we are soul sisters.

“Hey there, Emily-poo,” I whisper as I slide the coffee next to her alarm clock. “Good morning.”

“I found you a job,” she announces abruptly from under her sleeves, which are currently crossed over her face, shielding her eyes from the light.

I wince, knowing she can’t see my face.

“I am looking everywhere,” I whisper back at defensively. “Something will happen very soon, I promise!”

Her arms unfold, revealing her cranky morning face, angry freckles and all. She halfway sits up and scowls at me.

“Didn’t you hear what I said? I found it. A job for you. It’s perfect.”

Plastering a smile on my face, I try to look as enthusiastic as a human can possibly look.

“What do you know about childcare?” she grumbles sleepily, trying to dislodge a strand of hair from the corner of her mouth by pushing it with her tongue.

My stomach twists. What do I know about childcare? Not a whole lot. I know I don’t love it.

My mom married a guy who had two sons, about ten years younger than me, when I was fourteen. I swear the major reason that they got together was because I was at a very convenient babysitting age.

They could go out every night, and they basically did, leaving me with two out-of-control preschoolers who were practically feral.

The boys didn’t like me much, and I definitely didn’t like them, but of course I had to take care of them anyway. What else was I going to do?

So I ended up mastering the art of franks and beans, chicken nuggets and fish sticks, while inventing cheap ways to entertain them that didn’t involve violent TV shows.

I learned pretty quickly that ‘monkey see, monkey do,’ and if I didn’t want to spend the whole night being pretend-murdered by the little hooligans, we had to find something more peaceable to do than watch violent TV shows.

“Jolene? Did you ever babysit or anything?”

“Well, of course I did,” I reply politely, folding my arms around my waist. “Doesn’t everybody? But I’m not a professional. I don’t have a certification or anything.”

“You don’t need a certification,” she sniffs as she pulls the coffee cup closer to her face with both hands.

“And Tony kept the Volvo, you know, so I’m kind of limited by the bus…”

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