Page 5 of Accidental Dad’s Best Friend (Unintentionally Yours #7)

Izzy

“ W ould you wear these?” Cassie, my co-worker at Poppi’s Boutique, is wearing a pair of orange pumps that just came in today’s shipment, peacocking them in the body mirror in the corner of the shop.

“Orange isn’t really my color.” I answer, pinning price tags on other pieces of new merchandise.

“I like orange,” she says with a swirl of her skirt before smiling at me through plum-colored lips.

“Yeah well you can pull it off,” I smile back, walking around the register to hang a couple dresses on the NEW rack.

“So could you! You just have to be confident, Izzy.”

That’s easily said coming from a girl like Cassie.

At five-foot seven she’s naturally thin with perfectly perky tits and beach waved blond hair and a Blake Lively smile.

Girls like Cassie can pull off anything and with real confidence not forced.

I on the other hand, with hair that in the right (or wrong) light is almost the color of those shoes, hips that have always been luscious to put it nicely and tits that even five years after giving birth to my son still look like they’re holding milk do not have the luxury of wearing shoes that grab the world’s attention.

Most days, I do my best to avoid it. And not just because I’ve spent the last year hiding in western Colorado.

“I’ll stick to my neutral tones, thank you.” I tell her.

“Beige. So sad.” Cassie clicks her tongue and takes the shoes off to set them on the NEW rack as well.

“What was that?” I ask.

“That’s what people are calling moms like you.” Cassie makes her way back to the shipment rack and tugs out a green dress.

I follow her. “I’m sorry. Moms like me?”

“Yeah,” she sighs. “Moms that are understated and afraid of color because their entire identity is being tired and fully devoted to their children but not in an I’ve let myself go sort of way.

Although if the only colors you wear are skin tones with the occasional muted purple, that’s a Sad Beige Mom way of letting yourself go. No offense.”

My mouth pops open. “Everything that just came out of your mouth was offensive. I’m not beige. I’m wearing pink!”

Her eyes draw up and down my shirt. “A muted pink.”

“Is that even a thing? Also, Jaxon does not consume my entire life.”

Cassie stops and gives me a look. “Do you ever go out?”

“I had wine with you last week.” I point at her.

“We poured chardonnay in our Stanleys and took Jaxon to the trampoline park. That’s not going out. Going out means going somewhere without kids in a room that doesn’t smell like feet.”

I laugh, reaching for another stack of clothes. It’s almost time to open and we haven’t even organized the NEW rack yet. Our regulars know we get shipments on Tuesdays and they’re probably already lurking, local coffee from the shop down the street in hand.

“To be fair, most bars also smell like feet.” I giggle. But Cassie isn’t laughing.

“Fine. I never go out. But how would I? I’m a wash up journalist raising a five-year-old boy by myself on retail wages.”

“You also have that blog,” she points out.

“Which only brings in enough money to pay for the trampoline park and maybe the wine.” I add.

“That’s what I mean, Izzy. You need to live a little. I get that you’re a single mom and it’s tough. But that’s all the more reason to let your hair down once in a while. Let loose a bit. Go on a date.”

I actually laugh at that. “No offence, Cass, but I am not interested in dating.”

“It’s dating, Izz. Not skydiving. What’s the worst thing that could happen?”

“Considering the last time I went out with a man I got pregnant and then never heard from him again? I’d say the odds are against me.”

Cassie shakes her head. “They’re not all deadbeats.”

And for a moment, I feel a pang of guilt.

Cassie knows I got pregnant accidentally five years ago.

But she doesn’t know who Jaxon’s father is.

Jaxon doesn’t know who his father is. Actually, even the father doesn’t know that he’s the father, or that Jaxon even exists for that matter. And I plan to keep it that way.

I do feel bad lying. When I moved to Grand Junction, a town four hours west of Denver on the other side of the mountains, I drove with two suitcases in my Jeep and nothing else. The pregnancy test sat in the cupholder so I could remind myself of two things:

I couldn’t stay in Denver as much as it hurt to leave. Not after the way I lost my last job. And certainly not accidentally pregnant by a man I vowed to never get involved with again.

None of this was the baby’s fault. I was going to move away like the girls in those cozy romance books and start over in some cute town, in a cute house with a cute job raising my cute baby.

Some of those boxes have been checked. Grand Junction is beautiful.

My job as a sales manager of Poppy’s, a chic clothing store nestled on Main Street is about as Cute TM as it gets.

And the house that Cassie and I live in belonged to her grandmother and despite being old and a little rickety here and there, is pretty adorable.

But what isn’t cute is how much private school costs.

Considering the fact that five years ago when I missed my period, I took a drug store pregnancy test and drove across the Rocky Mountains the moment the two pink lines popped up, I have been living like a ghost in some way.

Public schools have public records. It’s easy to figure out who goes where and between my overbearing father (who also doesn’t know Jaxon exists.

You can judge me later when you know the rest of the story), and my reputation in the journalism universe, I can’t risk people harassing us.

“Maybe you’re right,” I say. “Maybe there are decent men in the world. But I’ve never dated one. My father isn’t one. And between working here day in and day out and writing my blog in the evenings after Jaxon goes to bed, I don’t have time to date.”

“You know I still find it hilarious that you were fired from Slay for calling all the bitches out on their shit and now you’re writing a blog about all the sketchy people in the writing industry.

I’m sure you’re not very popular in the journalism world even if you do have half a million subscribers. ”

“I care more about subscribers than CEOs,” I say, flipping the SHUT sign to OPEN and unlocking the door.

“Clearly. You bash them enough.” Cassie grins like it’s the one interesting thing I do. It might be to be honest. I know I’ve gotten a little more boring since I moved here, but part of that is because I live my entire life feeling like I’m being followed.

“I don’t bash anyone,” I state. “I simply tell the world when they’re being lied to by the media they thought they could trust.”

“Girl gonna get cancelled…” Cassie mumbles under her breath. The door opens and several women walk in, coffees in hand (called it). We switch to customer mode with smiles and hellos and while I continue to put things out on the racks, Cassie snags the orange shoes and tucks them away.

I shake my head with a smile. More power to her.

My days are pretty much the same, running and blurring together week after week.

My hours at Poppy’s work around Jaxon’s school schedule.

After I pick him up we go to the park or for ice cream or sometimes just home where he watches Bluey and I change out of my frilly work clothes and into cotton shorts and an oversized band t-shirt and work on my blog.

As much as it doesn’t pay nearly what I made working for Slay years ago, the difference is I enjoy it.

And any artist knows that’s what matters.

Today is a runny afternoon so we can’t go to a park.

Luckily, Jaxon is content with playing with a Play-Doh set we found at Goodwill while I toss dinner in the oven and open my laptop.

Cassie is still working at the shop and most likely going out afterwards.

While we have become close friends and she does spend a lot of time with us, our lives are very different.

Cassie doesn’t want kids and is extroverted on every level.

From bar hopping to concerts to online dating, she is always everywhere.

The very thought of it gives me anxiety.

It’s not that I’m a hermit, but most of the time, I prefer a slow pace.

And honestly, nothing beats a roasted chicken and potatoes sizzling in the oven while Jaxon slurps on hot chocolate and I sip on Earl Gray on a rainy day.

I pull up my blog and sift through the notifications.

Most are comments on my latest post. The nice thing about a subscription-based blog is that you have the freedom of filtering out comments, only showing ones from paid readers.

It’s a perk of having enough followers to call the shots.

So for the most part, the comments are positive and I enjoy reading them.

As I scroll down the list, I smile at some posts and respond to others. Every comment gets a “like” simply as a thank you for being a subscribers. I want my readers to feel seen, especially since many of my leads come from the readers. But I stop scrolling when I see a name I don’t know.

AvsMan77: Daring perspective. Sounds like you know a bit more about the industry than most writers. Makes me think you’ve lived it before…

I’m not sure what this AvsMan77 is getting at but I don’t know if I love it. He must be a new subscriber and if I had to guess, he’s one that came here for one of two reasons—he’s a troll or he wants to fuck me. Neither are going to fly and I straighten up and shoot a comment back.

IzzyWritestheTruth: Well AvsMan77, I personally find your perspective to be interesting, though I’ll take your accusation of being daring as a compliment. And to answer your vague question, yes I have been in the industry and it wasn’t for me.

I publish the comment with a sense of satisfaction. Even if he did pay to be here, I can nix him if he causes too much trouble.