Page 11 of Accidental Dad's Best Friend

I type the name and hit enter and then I grin.

“Jackpot.”

The first thing that pops up on my screen is a blog. It’s not what I expected to be honest. A girl with her grace and grit should be the lead journalist for People magazine if we are being real. But as I read through her most recent post, I have to smile. Because it’s good. It’s more than good.It’s Izzy.And it has over five hundred thousand subscribers.

As I get lost in article after article, I know for certain that I’ve found my writer. Now I just have to convince her of that. Unfortunately, that might be easier said than done considering the last time we spoke she made it clear she never wanted to see me again.

Chapter 5

Izzy

“Would 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 domy 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 anI’ve let myself gosort 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.”

---