I wait for them to leave before answering the call. “Professor McKee? Hi.”
“How many times do I have to tell you to call me Eva, Rosie? You know I don’t like last names and titles.”
“I’m sorry. I panicked.”
Eva laughs, and I sigh, the panic melting. Kinda. Sorta. Not really. Eva’s the kind of professor you hope to have. Approachable, kind. She makes it her mission to make everyone feel comfortable in her presence. But still, it’s August, she’s the dean, and she’s calling me. If that isn’t reason to panic, I don’t know what is.
“Any chance you can pop by my office today?”
“Oh.” I might vomit. “Yeah. Totally. I have my son today. He doesn’t go to his dad’s until later. Is that okay?”
Eva pauses, and the panic in my stomach knots, pulling taut. “It would be for the best if it were just you and I.”
Definitely going to vomit . “Am I…am I in trouble?”
“Of course you’re not in trouble, Rosie. What kind of trouble have you ever gotten yourself into?”
None, but that doesn’t mean bad things haven’t happened to me.
“We need to talk, that’s all. It would be best if you were able to give the conversation your full attention, and I know how challenging that can be when you’ve got a little one to keep your eye on.”
My eyes burn, and I swallow the urge to cry as I start mentally cataloging all the worst-case scenarios. “I’ll drop Connor at his dad’s and come by.”
“Great. I’m here until three. And Rosie, try not to worry.”
The thing about anxiety is that you have no control over it at all. Your brain senses a threat, and every alarm in your head starts sounding. The nerves in your body jump, and you’re left trying to fight the urge to get up and run while every worst-case scenario plays out in your head. Sometimes, what’s hardest to wrap my head around about anxiety is that it’s so damn easy for people without it to just let the thoughts roll off their back, all while I look like I’m losing my damn mind over something so pointless. Because it is pointless, isn’t it, to worry about something out of your control? I just wish my brain got the memo.
My nails bite into my palms to stop the slight tremor in my hands before I call Brandon. It goes to voice mail, and when I call a second time, he answers with a groan.
“I’m trying to sleep.”
“Sorry to wake you. Something’s come up. Can I drop Connor off a bit earlier today?”
“What? When?”
“One, maybe?”
Another groan. “He’s not supposed to come over ’til four thirty. The guys are coming over to watch the baseball game.”
I try to rub the headache from my eyes. “I wouldn’t ask if it weren’t important.”
“Why don’t you ask your boyfriend to watch him?” His tone is sour, and I have no patience for it.
“Because you’re his fucking dad, Brandon, and frankly, I’m sick of you acting like you have better things to do than spend time with your son. Now can I drop him off early, or do I need to find someone else who cares about him?”
“Jesus, Ro, who shit in your coffee this morning?” He sighs, long and low, like he has to think about it. “Yeah, whatever. Drop him off, I guess. I’m not canceling my plans though.”
“Thank you, Brandon.”
“You owe me. You’re dropping him off three-and-a-half hours early, so you owe me those hours back.”
I hang up without a word, because I’m incredibly close to reaching my limit. I think I’m a pretty patient person, but Brandon has a way of testing every last one of my nerves when it comes to our son.
Connor wasn’t planned, I get it, but it’s been seventeen months and Brandon still acts like it’s a chore to father his child. It’s just another stressor today, and when I’m knocking on his condo door several hours later, I can’t help but want to wrap Connor in my arms and take him with me so I know he’s getting all the love he deserves.
Brandon opens the door, a beer in one hand, nacho chips in the other. “Hey,” he tosses out, his back already to us as he heads back to his living room where his friends are spread out on the furniture.
“No,” Connor whispers, staring up at me with wide eyes as I start taking his shoes off. “Mama, no.”
“You’re gonna hang out with Dada.” My smile is so fake it hurts. “Mama will see you tomorrow.”
“No.” He shakes his head, yanking at the hem of my dress. “No. Nooo !”
“Fuck,” Brandon mutters, scrubbing a hand over his mouth. “Here we go. Starting already.”
My chest tightens, and when Connor stares up at me with tear-filled eyes, my eyes fill too. I take his sweet face in my hands, swiping at the silent tears as they fall. “I wish I could stay with you every single day, honey. That would make my mama heart so, so happy. You’re going to stay with Dada tonight, and Mama will be thinking about you. When I pick you up tomorrow, I’m going to give you the biggest hug ever so you can feel how much I missed you.”
Brandon leans against the wall, watching me with disinterest. “You think you’re gonna stop smothering him anytime soon? He doesn’t need you to explain every single thing to him like he’s a baby; he needs you to leave. He’ll forget about you as soon as you walk out the door.”
I have this thing about fighting with Brandon in front of Connor. Call it being a mature adult who wants to model respectful relationships, but I don’t think airing our grievances in front of our son is a particularly healthy display of communication. Needless to say, Brandon and I are not on the same page.
I’m also about two minutes from snapping and punching my son’s father square in his tiny, useless dick.
So I close my eyes and breathe, rubbing Connor’s arms. I take his hands in mine and smile, giving him a tender squeeze. “Mama loves you, and I can’t wait to see you tomorrow. I’m going to miss you, but I hope you have so much fun with Dada and his friends.”
“Dada,” Connor whispers, beautiful eyes searching mine as he points at the door. “Bear.”
I press my lips to his tiny pout and pull him into my arms, hugging him tight. “We can see them tomorrow,” I murmur against his ear, savoring the way his little warm body melts into mine. I manage one more squeeze before Brandon pulls him away, leading him into the living room.
“Hi,” Connor says to the three men lounging on the couch. He points to the Batman logo on his T-shirt. “Ba-man?”
Three gazes flick to his before moving back to the baseball game on TV, and my heart sinks.
Connor roots through a small basket of toys, pulling out a plastic cow. He displays it proudly, grinning widely. “Cow. Moo-moo !”
“They don’t wanna play,” Brandon tells him flatly.
Connor places his hand on his dad’s knee, holding his cow out to him. “Ee-ya, ee-ya, bo?”
“I don’t know what you’re saying.”
“E-I-E-I-O,” I clarify gently, remembering the patience Adam showed him, the way he worked so hard to figure out what Connor wanted, how he sang and danced with him all through his living room. “He wants you to sing ‘Old MacDonald’ with him.”