Total pages in book: 46
Estimated words: 43536 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 218(@200wpm)___ 174(@250wpm)___ 145(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 43536 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 218(@200wpm)___ 174(@250wpm)___ 145(@300wpm)
I pick up the throw pillows that were tossed every which way, some on the ground, some stacked on top of one another in a corner of the couch, fold the throw blankets to place them in a basket, then do the same with Von’s toys that he keeps out here in the living room. Thankfully, that the majority of his toys stay in his room. At our last place, he had a toy room, literally. The room was as big as my living room and kitchen put together in the apartment. It was major overkill. He had too much, and part of that issue was mine, trying to console him with a toy when Mace was working over the weekend, and I was lost in a stupor in how to get through to my then husband. It was hard, but with the move came change, which was for the better in some ways and for the worse in others. I get the main area picked up, go through the house, collect all of the never-ending laundry, knowing that’s going to take the majority of time with having to separate it and wait for one to load to be done before tossing it into the dryer only to repeat the process. The entire time, I’m lost in my own thoughts, replaying last night, worrying if I’m doing the right think, trying to hurry this process along. I really need Celeste to help me work through these thoughts and maybe tell me I’m doing the right thing, too.
My phone chiming in the kitchen alerts me to a text message. At one point in time, the damn thing was always on silent, another change with the divorce. You don’t get to turn off if you’re a single parent; it doesn’t matter if they’re with their grandparents or father, you worry that if something goes wrong, you won’t be available. I pick up my phone and see it’s the man who’s causing all this inner turmoil, and that I forgot to give him something when I made it home.
Mace: Siren, kind of can’t grocery shop if you don’t send the list.
Me: Crap, I’m sorry. Is a picture of the list okay, or do you want me to type it out?
I’m kind of an old soul when it comes to pen and paper, loving to write instead of typing it into notes on your phone. I’d much rather have it written out; it’s easier to cross out as you navigate the aisles. Plus, it helps to get Von off a device and working on his writing skills, too.
Mace: Send the picture. It can’t be that bad.
Me: It’s your funeral.
Laughter leaves me. Mace really has no idea the grocery situation that’s taken hold lately. Von is in one of his growth spurts, which sadly means he’s devouring food like a human garbage disposal. I snap the picture of my list, keeping the phone unlocked to wait for his response. He’s in for a treat, that’s for sure. It doesn’t take long for the message to say Delivered, then Read, and the bubbles appear, alerting me he’s typing his response.
Mace: Jesus, is this for the week?
Me: I warned you. Don’t get it all if it’s a lot of trouble. I can always pick up the rest after work this week.
Mace: I’m here, I’ll get it taken care of. Von is only going to go through more food the older he gets. I remember Mom and Dad complaining about me eating them out of house and home.
Me: Great, just what no mother wanted to hear.
Mace: Sorry, babe. Alright, I’m at the store. I’ll text you when I pull up.
Me: Thanks, Mace, a lot <3
Mace: Anytime, Tyra, anytime.
I close out of our texts, pull up my contacts, scroll until it lands on Celeste’s name, put the phone on speaker while it rings, and pray she’ll answer.
SIXTEEN
Mace
“Hey, thanks again, Mace.” Tyra is holding the door to her apartment open for me. I’m carrying the first batch of what I’m sure will be three loads of groceries. I did what was needed on her car before hitting the grocery store, minus the oil change, which I’m going to see if she minds trading vehicles one day this week so that can be taken care of. No way do I want to get a phone call that she’s stranded on the side of the road because her car died suddenly due to lack of oil.
“Hi, siren. It wasn’t a big deal. Did you get things taken care of that you needed to?” I ask, bending at the knees to graze my lips across hers. Tyra had a towel wrapped around her naked body when I left earlier. Now I see she’s raided my dresser of the clothes she’s wearing—an old college tee, even older sweatpants, and judging by the bunched-up fabric at the back of her ankles, I’m assuming my socks as well.