The question is expected, but it still rankles.
“I am going to be a single mother.”
My boss’s face morphs into uninhibited surprise. He opens his mouth, and I can see the moment he censors himself. My status as a parent is none of his business.
“I guess congratulations are due,” he utters in a decidedly non-congratulatory way.
“Thank you, Principal Reinbacher. One other thing. I’m hoping we have the resources to hire Toby as an assistant director for this production. In case I need to take time off.”
“Unfortunately, we don’t have the funds for that.”
The man didn’t even pretend to check the ungodly pile of papers before rejecting my request.
“I thought we would use the grant money I secured from the Ohio Imagination Foundation. Toby actually helped me write that application.”
He looks at me unblinkingly. “I’ll get back to you.”
“Thank you. I appreciate it.”
I’m halfway to the door when he says, “Due in June, huh?”
“Yes.” I smile politely. “Summer baby.”
“Good,” he nods. Then pauses. “You know, being a single mom isn’t easy.”
My smile freezes.
“I mean, women nowadays think they can do it all, but it’s a lot. You should line up extra help. Mentally, physically, emotionally . . .”
He trails off, watching me like I might crumble or offer more information. I don’t.
“Thanks for the advice.”
I leave before my rising annoyance erupts. Huffing all the way to my classroom, I purge myself of mansplaining bosses. I’ve got scripts to print, callbacks to post, and a schedule to fine-tune with the precision of a hair. He can stick his advice where the sun doesn’t shine.
A few hours later, after a quick dinner and a long shower, I find myself pacing in front of my closet, a pair of leggings in one hand and my new robe in the other. My phone buzzes.
Toby:Is tonight the night Prince Hockey returns from exile?
Instead of texting back, I give my friend a call.
“Do you think it’s weird if I answer the door in a sexy robe?” I ask.
There’s a pause. “Do you even own a sexy robe?”
“It was a holiday gift from one of my aunts. It’s red, satiny, yet surprisingly comfortable.”
“Lingerie masquerading as loungewear. Genius.”
“The other way around,” I say impishly. “It looks like lingerie because it’s fancy on the outside. But inside it’s fleecy loungewear. I’ve been wearing it every night this week.”
“It doesn’t matter what you wear,” he quips. “You’ll take it off once Tristan arrives, anyway.”
I roll my eyes but laugh. “I haven’t seen him in two weeks. Is it weird that I’m a bit nervous? We’ve hardly had time to talk since the New Year.”
“There’s not going to be much talking,” he cackles.
Although I’m liable to jump Tristan as soon as he walks through the door, I can’t deny I miss him in other ways. The person, not the sex god.
