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The last time I made an error of judgment, it was in the form of a broken condom while propped against the arm of the couch, cheek pressed into the top of a cushion. It had resulted in my daughter. Even though I loved Gravity more than life itself and would never change the outcome of that so-called mistake, the trajectory of my life had changed completely because of it. I’d become a coward, too afraid of making mistakes.
But this was a mistake. This town. This job. This aimless life.
I deserved more, and so did Grav. I could always come back here. But something wild and rebellious and newly alive in me told me I wouldn’t. That once I broke free, I wouldn’t stop running. I felt like I’d just woken up from a years-long coma. Like I’d just come up for air after sitting at the bottom of a muddy pool.
I hastily grabbed my phone from the edge of the sink and called Cal before I even flushed.
“Dot?”
“Please tell me you’re accepting our offer.”
“I’m accepting your offer.”
“Attagirl.”
DYLAN
“Shit, shit, fuck, shit.” I banged my forehead against the steering wheel, my ponytail falling apart to match the rest of my life.
In the rearview mirror, I watched as Grav’s mouth hung open, her eyes as big and wide as the moon. She was buckled into her car seat, hugging Mr. Mushroom, her chubby penis-looking pink stuffie. She was hopelessly attached to the thing. A gift from Cal to me that had somehow ended up being my toddler’s transition object.
“Mommy!” she chided with a gasp. “Grandma will be mad when she hears.”
“I’ll let you drink Mommy’s soda if you don’t tell her.” I bribed her with a can of Coke.
“Okay!”
Our fresh start in New York had started off with a broken-down vehicle that couldn’t even roll to Row’s Fifth Avenue building and a line of twenty cars honking and yelling at me.
I fumbled with my keys, trying to fire the engine. I was literally ten feet away from the gates of Row’s parking garage when Jimmy decided to plotz.
“Wake up, wake up, wake up.” I jacked the handbrake up, then down, then up again. Rage suffocated me. This damn car.
When I bought Jimmy two years ago, proud of myself for not accepting Row’s charity in the form of a superior secondhand Silverado, it already had a hundred thousand miles on it and corroded doors that tended to dance in the wind whenever I went over forty miles per hour. But it was five hundred dollars below book, and I couldn’t resist the bargain. It left me money for Grav’s swimming lessons as well as the monthly book subscription her preschool teacher had recommended. I was now seeing the error of my ways.
I tried to turn the ignition again. Nada. Jimmy was deader than Armie Hammer’s career.
Another loud blare of honks thundered between my ears. Road ragers shook their fists out their windows, roaring profanity and trying to cut through the other lane.
“Get this old piece of junk outta the road, asshole.”
“Learn how to drive stick, rice turd.”
“D’you see the ass on that lady? She could ride my stick any day of the week.”
My face flooded with heat. Why me? I wished life would send me fewer lessons and more money.
I slipped out of the car, craning my neck as I observed the line of pissed-off drivers behind me to try to gauge who looked the least psychopathic and could be persuaded to help me push my car toward the parking gate.
“Mommy, I wanna get out,” Gravity moaned, her pink Skechers kicking the passenger seat in front of her.
“In a minute, honey.”
“I’m boooored.”
More honking. More profanity. Fifth Avenue was a four-lane street, aggressively stacked with midrise buildings on one side and Central Park on the other. One lane was for buses, and one was jammed with trucks. That left two lanes, and I was currently blocking one of them.
“I need help getting my car to this gate.” I flailed my arms in the building’s general direction. I was sweating and itching under my navy-blue sweatshirt and my baggy mom jeans. My hair was a mess. If I were a crier, I’d cry.