Page 38 of Adrift

She’s anything but meaningless to me or my son.

“My sister-in-law?” I ask him with my brow arched. Why am I getting a sense of déjà vu?

He hesitates. “Right! My apologies. Come on, let’s get you a drink!”

I wave my hand before grabbing Arman’s again. “Don’t worry about me. I’m good.”

A few minutes later, I’m involved in a conversation with Felix and a few other folks from the school. I won’t deny that I have thought about Rani over the course of the past forty-five minutes since she left my house.

I keep wondering where Liam took her for dinner. Nowhere she deserves to be taken, I’m sure. What if the guy’s an asshole and tries something with her? What if he takes advantage of how sweet she is–all fucking nymph-like–and makes a move on her?

Fuck . . ..

What if she lets him? What if they hit it off really well, and she develops feelings for him?

Shouldn’t I be happy for them if that happens? After all, she still believes in eternal love and happily-ever-afters and all that garbage based on the blog she maintains. Shouldn’t she get one of those for herself?

Maybe. But I still don’t like the idea of Lanky Legs giving it to her.

I don’t like the idea of anyone giving that to her. Maybe I’m old and jaded, but I’m also wiser and more experienced. So what if she’s found a few success stories from her time interviewing old people at nursing homes? That’s not the norm. They’re just coincidental waves of happy anomalies in an ocean of tragedies.

Long-lasting relationships don’t guarantee happiness. Just like chemotherapy doesn’t guarantee remission. Just like an inhaler doesn’t guarantee impeding an asthma attack.

Just like a team of doctors can’t guarantee a mother will walk out holding her newborn.

It’s all a gamble; a lottery ticket bought in hopes of winning the jackpot when only a few in a million will guess the correct numbers.

Been there, done that, lost a shitload.

I’m only somewhat focusing on the conversation with my colleagues when Arman starts fussing in my arms. I swivel my nose around behind him to get a sniff and immediately know he’s dirtied his diaper.

Excusing myself from the conversation, I go in search of Olivia, waving hello to a few acquaintances along the way. I spot her familiar blonde curls in the kitchen but groan as soon as I see who she’s conversing with.

Violet’s hazel eyes find mine as she watches me approach. She gives me a shy wave and says something almost imperceptibly to Olivia, making Oliva turn to face me.

“Hey! Are you having fun?” Olivia shoves a tray of eggrolls in my direction on the counter before I can respond. “Here, have one of these. Violet made them from scratch.” She gleams at her sister before looking back at me. “You won’t regret it.”

I fucking regret coming here.

“Actually, I was wondering if you could point me to where I could change his diaper.” I tilt my head in Arman’s direction in my arms. I left his diaper bag at the front door, so once she directs me to the room, I’ll go pick it up.

“Oh, absolutely! You can feel free to use the guest room right around the corner. It has an ensuite bathroom, too.”

“Thanks,” I say, stepping away when Violet stops me.

“Gosh, is that your son?”

No, I walk around asking strangers if I can change their child’s diaper.

I nod, trying not to think about the last time I was in Violet’s company. The one and only time prior to this was awkward and unforgettable enough. Maybe I’m being too judgmental; maybe she really was just nervous and read all the signs wrong.

Before I can step away, Violet bridges the gap between us. She pulls Arman’s chubby arm with her hand–her long fake nails giving me heart palpitations. “You are just the cutest little thing.” She blinks up at me. “Does he speak?”

Arman pulls his hand away, suspiciously eyeing her before reprimanding her with a firm, “No no!”

I try to swallow the laugh bubbling up at my son’s intuitiveness. “He says a few words.”

Violet smiles. “Oh, I understand that. I’m not much of a talker myself.”

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