Page 36

Jessica
See you soon!
Samantha
Bye bye lover girl!
I leave my phone on the nightstand and head to the bathroom. Closing the door behind me, I catch sight of my reflection in the small, slightly foggy mirror above the sink. The light fixture above flickers before settling into a dull glow, casting my face in a harsh light that seems to highlight every sleepless night and worry line.
"Great," I murmur, turning the cold tap on to splash water on my face.
The bathroom is as modest as they come—a reminder of the humble reality Olivia and I live. Cracked tiles pattern the floor, and the shower curtain has seen better days. But it's ours, and after everything, that means something.
My gaze drifts to the chipped paint on the door frame. It's nothing like the polished studio my ex promised when he swept through my life with grand plans and even grander lies. "We'll be rolling in it," he'd said, his arm sweeping through the air as if to showcase the invisible empire he conjured from nothing but hot air. My savings had vanished with him, leaving Olivia and me to rebuild from scratch.
I force the bitterness down, shaking off theghost of broken promises. "Not today," I insist, meeting my own eyes in the mirror.
With a comb, I work through the tangles in my hair, pulling it into some semblance of order. I'm no stranger to making do, and years of practice have made me adept at hiding the signs of a rushed morning or a sleepless night.
"Okay," I exhale deeply and turn towards the bedroom, "let's see what we've got."
Standing in front of the closet, I let out a sigh. Clothes hang in neat rows, but none of them scream “casual breakfast with a man who happens to be the focus of all local mom gossip.” I thumb through hangers, my fingers brushing past blouses and cardigans before stopping.
"Stop it, Avery," I chide myself. "You're not going to the Met Gala."
Rummaging deeper into the closet, I pull out a pair of well-worn jeans and a simple turtleneck sweater. They're comfortable, familiar, and most importantly—they don't try too hard. I slip them on, feeling the soft fabric against my skin, a silent reassurance that I'm making the right choice.
"Let's keep this about the development, nothing more," I remind myself, glancing one last time in the mirror before grabbing my bag and heading towards Olivia's room to get her up.
"Today is just another day," I say aloud, convincing myself more than anything. "Just another day."
I head towards her room, ready for the usual coaxing and cajoling to get her dressed. But when I push the door open, there she stands, already in her favorite polka-dot dress and matching socks, looking up at me with that self-satisfied grin only a ten-year-old can pull off.
"Look at you," I say with a laugh, "all set to conquer the day."
"Mommy, can you do my hair?" she asks, trotting over with a hair tie in hand.
"Of course, sweet pea." I take the elastic band from her and motion for her to sit on the floor in front of me. With deft fingers, I brush through her chestnut locks, drawing them back into a neat bun atop her head. The simple hairstyle softens her eager features, and for a moment, I see myself in her—a reminder of the innocence I once knew.
"Perfect," I declare with a light tap on her shoulder. She jumps up and twirls, her dress fanning out like a blossom in spring.
As we grab our jackets and head to the car, Olivia skips ahead. The weight of the impending awkward coffee shop encounter sits heavy on my shoulders, but Olivia's carefree spirit is contagious, and I can't help but smile.
"Mom, do you like Coach Victor?" Her question comes as casually as if she's asking about the weather.
I pause, keys in hand, and look at her curious face. "What makes you ask that?"
"You always seem mad at him," she points out with a thoughtful tilt of her head.
"Olivia, honey," I start, ushering her into the car before sliding into the driver's seat. "I'm not mad at him, not really. It's complicated. I just disagree with some things he wants for our neighborhood, that's all."
"So, that doesn't mean you don't like him as a person?" Her voice is hopeful, and as I glance in the rearview mirror, I see her wide brown eyes waiting for an answer.
"Exactly," I confirm, backing out of the driveway. "Sometimes grown-ups can disagree without it meaning they don't like each other."
"Good," she says, nodding as if she's settled a great inner debate. "Because I like him. And I want you to like him too."
I'm hit with a pang of something—guilt, maybe, or the realization that Olivia's world is simpler than mine, where liking someone isn't entangled with past hurts or future fears. But for her sake, I muster a smile and a nod.