Once it’s on, I slide my feet into a pair of champagne espadrille wedges that make my calves look amazing while still being comfy. I assess myself in the mirror and smile—I’m no supermodel, but it’ll do. I spritz myself with my perfume, slick a coat of shiny pink gloss across my lips and smile. It’ll definitely do.
I can hear Tatum in the living room, and when I enter the room, it’s all I can do to stifle a laugh. She has somehow managed to lug her tea set from her room, along with her Barbie castle, a plethora of stuffed animals, and four feather boas. “Wow, looks like you have big plans for Uncle Nate.”
“Yes, Mama.” She nods solemnly. “I does.”
“You do,” I correct her gently.
“Dat’s what I said.” She crosses her arms over her chest.
I squat down so that we’re eye to eye. “You said does Tater Tot. When you refer to yourself, you say do. Does that make sense?”
She tilts her head to the right, thinking before replying—which is so like my girl. It’s something else to watch her think through things. “I fink so.”
I’m about to haul myself back to standing when there’s a hard knock on the front door, followed by the sound of it opening. “Where’s my girl?” my brother hollers as he steps into the room, and Tatum rushes to him, knocking me flat on my ass.
The oomph sound I make causes both of them to look my way. My brother tries to hide his smile, the faint laugh lines around his eyes give him away.
“Mama! Did I…do…that?” We both smile at her use of the word.
“It was an accident, baby girl. No worries,” I say, soothing away any worries she may have had. Nate extends a hand down toward me and helps me up.
The second I’m steady on my feet, Tatum grabs the hem of my dress. “Mama! I gotsta potty!”
“Then go, Tater Tot! Call me if you need help.” Like a flash, she takes off down the hall to the spare bathroom, leaving Nate and me alone.
He wastes no time grilling me. “So, who’s the lucky loser tonight?”
“He’s not a loser. His name’s Kevin, and he’s twenty-nine and works in accounting.”
Nate scoffs. “Total loser. Bet he still lives at home too.”
I roll my eyes. “He does not. His profile says he lives in the suburbs just outside of Bay Ridge.”
“Suburbs totally equals his mom’s basement.”
“You dipshit, we live in South Alabama. We don’t have basements.”
Nate holds up his index finger and tips it my way. “False. They aren’t common here, but they exist.”
“Whatever. Your argument’s weak, and you know it.”
“Your argument’s weak,” he whines, attempting to mimic me in that annoying way only a sibling can do.
“Mama! Mama! I did the poops!”
The toilet flushes as I walk down the hall toward the bathroom. “You did?” I ask enthusiastically, clapping my hands.
Honest to God, if someone would’ve told my seventeen-year-old self that I would be this excited over poop in a few years, I would have laughed in their face—and I mean laughed hard.
“I did! And I wiped my butt too!”
I widen my eyes and give a little gasp. “Well, aren’t you just all grown? You know what this means right?” Tatum shakes her head. “It means…dance party!”
My little girl squeals and immediately we begin jumping around, waving our arms and stomping our feet. No doubt, we look nuts—but potty training this kid was tantamount to making water flow uphill. So, this is absolutely a dance-party-worthy feat.
At the sound of our commotion, Nate ventures back to the hallway, where we’re shaking what our mama gave us. Ever the doting uncle, he doesn’t come empty-handed. No, sir. He’s armed with a glass of chocolate milk topped with whipped cream and a swirly straw.
Tatum looks up at him, all doe-eyed, batting her lashes. “Dat’s for me?”
“Sure is. A little bird told me you’re using the potty like an old pro!”
“It’s true! I am!”
She reaches for the beverage, but I stop her. “Not so fast, Tater Tot. You gotta wash your hands first!”
Once she’s as germ-free as a three-year-old can be, we retreat to the living room, where she instantly snuggles up to my brother on the couch. “We watch Poppy?” she asks, reaching for her chocolate milk.
“Poppy?” he asks. “Oh! You mean those things with the hair!”
“Trolls,” I inform him through a laugh.
“Yeah. That.”
“It’s on Netflix,” I tell him, scooping up my purse from the table by the door. “Y’all have fun. I won’t be late—call me if you need me.” I walk over and press a kiss to Tatum’s whipped-cream-sticky cheek.
Nate’s voice stops me right as I’m about to step over the threshold. “Same goes for you. Call me if you need me.”
5
Natalie
Kevin and I met through FindLoveOnline. Yeah sure…judge me, but how else am I supposed to meet men? At the grocery store? Get real. That shit only happens in books and sitcoms. Initially when we made plans for tonight, he offered to pick me up, but I declined and offered to meet him there, for two reasons.
One: the last time a date picked me up from my apartment, my overprotective brother—who’s a cop, in case I forgot to mention—had his buddy run his tags and check him out. A gross misuse of power, if you ask me. Then again, homeboy ended up having a warrant out for his arrest. Turns out Paul liked to deal pot to high schoolers on his off days.
Which leads me to reason numero dos: Paul the pot dealer. He was a mega wake-up call for me. These dudes have no business knowing where I live, and I was incredibly naive to not suggest meeting them from the start—especially with Tatum.
I realize this makes it sound like I’m going out with random men nightly, so let me set the record straight—I go out once a month, if that! Between working at the café, my online classes, and my sweet Tater Tot…well, let’s just say I’m busy as fuck. Truthfully, I wouldn’t have it any other way. Even on the most stressful days—you know the kind…
You wake and you’re out of coffee, your kid’s favorite sippy cup is M.I.A., your car doesn’t want to start, you manage to grab a coffee at the Circle K only to spill it on your shirt, aforementioned kid has the meltdown to end all meltdowns in the middle of the store, and by the time you finally make it home, the only thing that sounds good for dinner is half a bottle of wine, but you have to cook. Can’t feed your toddler fermented grape juice for dinner—pretty sure that is heavily frowned up, not to mention illegal.
But even on the most hellacious of days, I wouldn’t change a thing.
Well, maybe one thing…it’d be nice for Tatum’s dad to know she exists, but that’s a story for a different day. Thinking of Alden always makes me melancholy, and that’s definitely not the right mindset for a first date.
* * *
Finding somewhere to park ends up taking longer than the drive over. After looping the block four times, I finally manage to snag a spot about half a block from South Bay Kitchen—the eatery we’re meeting at. When Kevin suggested we eat here, I immediately said yes, as it’s an absolute favorite of mine. Their chef uses only the best local ingredients and breathes new life into longstanding traditional Southern dishes.