I spill stuff on myself all the time. Heck, the first time we met, a waitress dropped that iced coffee down my back. I have never had a restaurant experience quite like last night.
Kambryn and Gavin found the whole thing hilarious and graciously accept my ultimatum that I’m not up for a third date. Poor Trey. He didn’t believe them. I did the ultra-uncourageous thing and turned him down for a coffee meetup later this week via text rather than calling him back. He sent me a sad emoji in return.
So, that’s my life outside of work. I guess I can’t say I’m completely done with fondue because I created dipping stations with the kids for lunch and they loved it. We even attempted caramel sauce. Spills happened. Nobody got yelled at, or burned, although I did make them help me clean it all up after.
Unscathed (sort of),
Rosalie
P.S. When I’m on my last nerve, I cry. But you probably already know that. Crying teachers terrify children. Not your children, though. They’re used to me.
I look up from Rosalie’s words, having finished, to meet her disapproving gaze from across the living room. I guess we’re supposed to ignore the letters in each other’s presence, but since she was busy unraveling Callie’s double French braids when I came in, I didn’t think she’d notice. I guess I should have stealthily tucked the letter away, as is our habit. Callie has tiny pieces ofgrass on the front of her shirt, and her feet are dirty from running around barefoot outside. Clearly, she’s been seizing every last bit of summer, a Rosalie specialty.
“Trey sounds like an enthusiastic dipper.”
“He is.” Rosalie presses her lips together, looking like she’s debating whether to jump up and rip the letter out of my hands or play it cool. Her hair is also in a French braid. I don’t know how she can reach backwards and braid her own hair, but I’m pretty sure Callie didn’t do it for her.
I understand her frustration with my rule breaking. The distance from vulnerability that a letter gives has been taken away from her. I’m looking at her with her words fresh in my mind. It’s Rosalie magnified. Rosalie 2.0. I’m sorry for that, but also not.
“You’re never going to leave me one of these again, are you?” I fold it up and put it in my pocket, feeling safe to allude to our secret with a kid in the room. Callie’s eyes are glazing over while Rosalie runs her fingers through her hair. Callie might as well be in another country. Or universe. Early bedtime tonight. Wyatt is at a friend’s house.
“No, I will. I’m a reciprocator.”
“So, as long as I leave you a letter, you’ll leave me one?”
“Pretty much.”
“What else do you reciprocate?”
Her eyebrows rise. I never blatantly flirt. I don’t even know why I said it or what I meant by it.
I clear my throat. “Anyway, I, uh, heard from my mom this morning.”
“Oh?”
About twice a month, I wake up to find a voicemail from her waiting for me. Mom does all her best thinking late at night. That, or she knows I put my phone on do-not-disturb after eleven and knows I won’t take the call. She avoids texting at all costs, but she also hates live phone conversations. I really should introduce her to the Marco Polo app.
“I could paraphrase, but you should probably hear this for yourself.” Since I read Rosalie’s letter in front of her, the least I can do is give her this window into my life. I sink into thearmchair across from the couch where she’s sitting and hit play on the message.
“Liam, you RSVP’d with a plus-one for our anniversary party this Saturday, but you didn’t put in a name. I need to know who this person is. Are you dating someone? What am I saying? You’re always dating someone. Keep in mind this place charges $250 a head. The chef is very exclusive. Also, I’d like to see the kids this week if there’s still time. Let’s do a family dinner. Please bring along Rosalie. They like having her there with them, and that way we can herd them into the playroom once they get bored with their gifts. Yes, I bought them gifts, loud ones and big ones so you’ll think of me every time you see or hear them.”
No one ever accused her of not having a sense of humor. It’s wicked, and exhausting, and that’s the way she likes it.
Rosalie scrunches her nose. “More gifts.”
“More gifts. I’ve been trying to imagine what she’s planning to inflict on us all day. I think I could handle a drum set. You don’t have to feed it. What if she buys us a dog?”
“She won’t. She’s allergic, right?”
“That wouldn’t matter to her. She never comes here.” I’m not even sure why. My parents like things on their turf, I guess. I’ll have to text my dad later and find out what he knows. He will not interfere with his wife’s gifting habits, but he makes a good informant.
I RSVP’d to their anniversary party thinking I’d be taking Maggie along. She would have met my parents, which would have thrilled her, possibly more than the fine dining. But I only give Maggie a fleeting thought. Rosalie is invited to a family dinner at my parents’ house. That’s not a new thing, but our friendship is. Rosalie claims we’re on solid ground. It’s a well-meant lie.
There’s an awkward and electrified awareness that’s working its way into our every interaction, and it’s not just because I have feelings for my nanny and I’m getting worse at hiding it. I can’t tell if Rosalie’s taking cues from me or if I’m taking cues from her. It’s probably a little of both. Regardless of who’s leading the way, my mom will pick up on it. She can read vibes like no oneelse I’ve ever met. She’s correctly predicted the creation and fall of most of the relationships around her.
Unfortunately, she thinks this gives her matchmaking skills. I think it would if she could set aside her inner control freak. Choosing is not the same as predicting, and she wants to choose.
She wouldn’t choose Rosalie for me, because my mom doesn’t believe in taking people out of boxes. She would be appalled, and Rosalie doesn’t deserve that from her. She certainly doesn’t deserve her wrath over vibes. Nothing’s happened.