I cry at that part, too. I cried the first time I read it out loud, when Dylan was two days old and slept through the entire thing. And I’ve cried through it every time since, even though it’s been sitting on the shelf in Jane’s room for at least five years now.
“This is a weird thing to say, but you know my wife died, right? I never know who knows and who doesn’t, and I never know how to bring it up without ruining the moment.”
“I know,” I say. “I mean, I don’t know anything other than that she died. I’m sorry.”
This is where an awkward silence should go, but our silence is already comfortable.
“So,” he says, “do you have a dead spouse you’d like to tell me about on your night out?”
That’s my cue to tell this perfect young widow about the demise of my marriage. Which I’m pretty sure is over, given that Mike hasn’t even texted me since I kicked him out. Jesse either isn’t judgmental or has a very good poker face, because even after I give him a play by play of discovering Mike’s digital affair, he’s still listening. Not just hearing my words, but listening, with his whole body.
“God, Amy,” he says, not breaking eye contact, “that sounds like a nightmare.”
“Anyway!” I say sarcastically. “Cheers to fucking up our kids!”
“Amy,” he says, smiling, “we’re all fucking up our kids. But you’re a really, really good mom.”
Never in my life have I heard a sexier sentence come out of a man’s mouth. My head turns off, and my body takes over. I want this guy more than I want the appetizer platter that was just delivered to the table next to us. I want his pretty mouth all over me. Or at least on my mouth. Sure, it’s been over a decade since I had a first kiss, but how hard can it be? Nothing is hotter than two parents making out in public, right? I’m going for it. I bite my lip, I tilt my head. I let my hand reach for the collar of his shirt and—thunk—that is the sound of my face smashing against Jesse’s. I wasn’t sure if I should go left or right, and I changed direction halfway through, and I think I grazed Jesse’s cheek with my incisor. Yeah, I’m pretty sure I bit his face.
“I am so sorry!” I blurt out.
Jesse laughs and rubs his cheek. “It’s obviously been a while since either of us has kissed anyone. Maybe we should try that again?”
I nod, smiling so hard I feel like my cheeks might break right off my face. We get it right the second time.
And the third time . . .
* * *
To: McKinley Mom Squad
From: Gwendolyn James
Subject: Mom Squad Update
Hello, Ladies:
The following weeks are a crucial time for our children, and therefore ourselves.
Fall is a time when the rhythms of life naturally slow down, preparing us for rest and renewal. Let us take our cues from the world around us and continue to embrace the season of change we find ourselves in.
To that end, I have attached the updated parameters for our classroom Fall Festivities. The document includes updated guidelines on games (per Carly T.’s suggestions), nutrition (including new custom recipes for children on keto-vegan diets), and décor (with Pantone swatches to help create a cohesive brand story across the school).
Thank you so much for your compliance and your dedication to making this school an incredible place for children to learn and grow.
In Love and Style,
Gwendolyn James
PS—get 20% off my eCourse Fall into Happiness with code GWENDOLYN.
To: McKinley Mom Squad; Gwendolyn James
From: Carly T.
Subject: RE: Mom Squad Update
Thanks so much, Gwendolyn, for acknowledging the seriousness of BINGO and Scavenger Hunts as gateways to gambling, and a slippery slope when it comes to our children.
To: Carly T.
From: Hannah R.
Subject: RE: RE: Mom Squad Update
Have we fully considered the implications of eliminating BINGO from school celebrations? Generations of people have enjoyed this game, and it helps our younger children with number and letter recognition, hand-eye coordination, and time management.
Just my thoughts!
To: Hannah R.
From: Carly T.
Subject: RE: RE: RE: Mom Squad Update
Thank you for your email, Hannah. While I like you as a friend, I do think we fundamentally disagree about childhood development. I’d like to put a pin in this conversation until it can be moderated in a face-to-face discussion with a member of the McKinley faculty.
24
Principal Burr
867.
I always thought I’d retire someplace like Arizona or Florida. Twenty-some years in Illinois means that I’ve earned the right to bake my bones wherever I please, in either a godforsaken desert or a godforsaken swamp. But I’ve been looking at places in Arkansas lately, and I have to say the price is right. For just a fraction of what it costs to live in Scottsdale, I could have a turnkey townhouse on the edge of the Ozark Mountains, where it’s possible to golf at least six months of the year. One of the communities has a hospital right on the premise, so you can just die on site without wasting money on an expensive ambulance ride.
Jan says no way, she did not spend twenty-something years on her feet as a nurse to retire in hillbilly country. But Jan also spent the last twenty years spending her little heart out buying diamond-like necklaces on TV, so I don’t think Jan understands the financial reality of retirement.
“SIR?” MY SECRE— ADMINISTRATIVE ASSISTANT ALWAYS ANNOUNCES himself before he knocks, which makes absolutely no sense. Rick was hired by the school board after Gwendolyn noted there was a gender disparity in our workforce here at McKinley. “Our children need more positive male role models,” she insisted. I agree, but Rick? Rick can’t be a role model, he isn’t old enough. The kids do seem to love him, though. Maybe because he looks like a second-term eighth grader?
To hide all my web surfing, I found a desktop image that looks like my email inbox. If anyone ever catches me off-guard, I just press “command H” and all the windows disappear, leaving only a photo of a full email inbox. You learn all kinds of tricks when you’ve been doing the same job for over two decades. Rusty the janitor used to hide his whiskey in an emptied bottle of bleach on his cleaning cart. It worked for years, apparently, but all it takes is one mix-up and the school needs to find a new janitor.
“Sir.” Rick’s eyes seem to be rolling wildly. Is he having a seizure? “Gwendolyn James is here to see you.”
I have just enough time to hit command H before Gwendolyn pushes Rick aside and strides into my office in a blur of blond hair and heavy perfume.
“Principal Burr,” she says, coolly, “we need to talk.”
THE SECRET TO TALKING WITH GWENDOLYN IS APPEARING TO write down whatever she is saying. The other secret is to make sure she doesn’t see what you’re writing, because after twenty-eight minutes of her monologue, your mind is going to wander and you’re just going to start making your to-do list. I straighten some papers on my desk, including the credit card statement I meticulously review every month, because at this stage in the game, every penny spent is a penny we don’t have to spend in retirement.
Usually when Gwendolyn wants to meet with me it’s because she’s discovered a new potential allergen in our school or because she wants to make sure the kids have access to aura cleansing at least once a week.