Page 4 of Isolation

“Mmm, yeah. I am now. What time is it?” I pulled Mason closer to me, inhaling the clean scent of his hair.

Mason shrugged.

I picked up my phone. Shit. It was 7:25 a.m. So much for getting ahead of my day. I sat up, my eyes landing on the cupof coffee Mateo left for me on the nightstand—a peace offering. I touched the mug. It was lukewarm. He’d been gone for a while.

“Daddy told me to let you sleep, but I needed to tell you I picked my thing for show and tell on Friday.”

I swung my legs over the side of the bed and stretched. “Oh yeah? What did you pick?”

“You know Daddy’s jersey from college with the hole in it?” Mason bounced on the mattress, making the sheets rustle underneath him.

That jersey was sacred to Mateo. A memento from when the scouts called his future golden. Now, it was like a shrine of what could have been. I pushed the thought away and focused on Mason.

“That’s a great choice, but you need to take good care of it.”

Mason nodded in agreement.

Our condo was quiet, except for the distant traffic. Our place wasn’t massive—four bedrooms in one of Columbus’s newer luxury communities. Mateo had insisted we move here from Baltimore. Two years later, he was riding a bench for a semi-pro team that barely made the local news. Still, we kept up appearances.

I grabbed my phone off the charger and scanned the notifications—two emails from clients, local businesses who hired me to manage their social media, and two texts from Mateo.

Mateo:

Made you coffee. Gone to practice.

Twenty minutes later…

Mateo:

Might be late… Coach wants to talk.

The information was delivered as if I was his personal assistant instead of his wife. No “I love you” or “kiss Mason for me.”

Me:

Good Luck.

I typed back, adding a heart emoji. I set the phone aside.

“Time to get ready for school,” I told Mason, who was making snow angels in my bed.

I retreated to the bathroom and splashed cold water on my face. I looked in the mirror, and at thirty-two years old, my skin was clear. Thank God for good genes. Still, there were lines around my eyes that no expensive creams seemed to fix. Big Mama called them worry lines, evidence of not enough talking and too much thinking.

Some days, I felt like I was in someone else’s life, playing dress up. I brushed my teeth and mentally planned out the day ahead. I would work on a crisis with a restaurant where the client, a chef, went on a rant on the Z app about vegans as well as a strategy session for a fashion boutique that would like to expand their online presence. Then I would do my regular maintenance—post for Mateo’s professional IG account with images to project the image of an athlete on the cusp of his big break. I would do all this from my home office between taking and picking Mason up from school.

It wasn’t the plan to work from home when I had a corner office at a PR firm in Downtown Columbus. My name was being mentioned in the industry newsletters. However, Mateo’s knee gave out during a game, and overnight, the scouts disappeared. Ihad to step back to freelance consulting to help him rehab and be there for Mason and manage our lives while my husband chased his redemption story.

I didn’t exactly regret it, but some mornings, I wondered who I’d be if I hadn’t had to fold my ambitions into a nice little package and tuck them away.

One of the luxuries in this condo was the water pressure. It was magnificent. I stepped in and stood under the spray longer than intended, allowing it to pound against my shoulders and wash away lingering fatigue. I stepped out and wrapped myself in a plush towel.

“Mason, don’t touch the stove!” I yelled, knowing he’s curious.

“I’m getting juice!” he shouted back. His voice echoed through our open-concept home.

I quickly dressed in an oversized gray sweater that slipped off one shoulder, black leggings, and gold hoops Mateo gave me for our anniversary two years ago. I looked good enough for a school run and professional enough for video calls. My hair was another story. I twisted it into a high bun, making a mental note to call my stylist and book an appointment. It had been too long since my last visit, which was pushing it with my schedule.

In the kitchen, Mason had made a mess.

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