So Much More - Kim Holden Page 0,75

go away. This isn’t something you try and then get bored with like yoga and give it up. These are children who’ve been waiting their whole lives for a mom. Think about them. For once. You’re a mother, not a martyr.”

“I’m all in,” she says.

I hesitate because our past is screaming at me, Don’t believe her! She’s a liar! But then I remember Kai…and compassion…and shit, before I can talk myself out of it my mouth is sounding offers, “You can stay here for a month while you look for a job and a place to live. You’re sleeping on the couch, no one’s giving up a bed for you. If you don’t find anything in four weeks, you’re out. You can go stay in a hotel or sleep on the corner, I don’t care. My kids stay here during the week to go to school. We can discuss joint custody on the weekends. I’ll have my lawyer outline the new arrangement. And you’re paying the lawyer fees to straighten it all out because you fucked it up. And every goddamn day you better make an effort to be part of their lives. Do you hear me? Real, no pretending. You wake up and take them to school, and I’ll pick them up. You help them with homework a few nights a week. You play with them. You talk to them. And you can make dinner a few nights a week too.”

“Can I order takeout? I don’t cook.”

Nothing’s ever easy with her. I shake my head. “I don’t fucking care. Put some goddamn food on the table. This is about responsibility. You’re not going to be judged on your cooking abilities.”

She nods her head.

I feel like I’m talking to a child instead of an adult. “Can you do that?”

“Yes, I can do that,” she answers.

I reword for clarification. “Do you want to do that?”

She nods.

Shit.

I can’t believe I just agreed to this.

I hope she can.

Where’s the fucking butter?

present

I’m trying.

I’m really trying.

But this domestic shit is for the birds.

Cooking and baking should be easy. I have an IQ of 155. It’s just reading a recipe and following directions.

Apparently I’m awful at following directions because almost everything I’ve attempted this week has been inedible. I do it while Seamus and the kids are gone because I don’t want them to know I failed. I hide the evidence in the dumpster out back and order take out instead.

Today, I’m trying again. Because Betty Crocker can kiss my motherfucking ass if she thinks I’m giving up. I’m going to make monkey bread. I saw it on Pinterest. Yeah, yeah, I know…Pinterest. The porn of housewives everywhere. I’m ashamed to admit I like it. I feel like I need to turn in my Gucci suits and Jimmy Choo peep-toe pumps for ill-fitting Target yoga pants and baby puke stained tank tops for the betrayal of good taste. But these damn recipes, they look so good. And they’re photographed and presented with the skill of Ansel Adams. The monkey bread is a work of art in a magnificent Bundt pan. Not to mention, just the thought of all that gooey goodness makes me feel gooey. I practically spontaneously orgasmed reading the recipe. Fuck me, I’m being warped by social media and stereotypical America. I need a job.

Back to the monkey bread. I went to the store earlier and bought the ingredients, a Bundt pan, and an apron because I figure maybe that’s where I’ve been going wrong. Maybe you have to look the part to play the role. The apron should help. It does on Pinterest anyway.

Everything is going smoothly. Success will be mine. Finally.

Until I figure out there’s no butter in the fridge.

Sonofabitch, butter is going to be my downfall!

Think. Think fast. What would Rachael Ray do? Would she give up on her monkey bread? Hell no!

I’m out the door and down the stairs in five seconds flat banging on the door of the apartment under Seamus’s. I’m looking at the number one on the door while I’m whispering under my breath, “Hurry up, this monkey bread is not going to make me its bitch.” When the door opens, I don’t wait for an introduction or to be invited in. “I need butter,” I announce as I speed walk toward the kitchen. When I open the fridge, I go straight for the little plastic door that always houses sticks of butter and pop it open. It’s empty. “Where’s the butter?” I ask exasperatedly. The owner