The letters on the piece of paper, fished from the sticky depths of James’ backpack, looped into each other and leaned to the right, inspiring in Willa an unreasonable amount of rage. What kind of monster uses Brush Script as the typeface for a third-grader’s homework assignments?
“I don’t read cursive,” James announced, stuffing six cheese puffs in his mouth at once.
“That’s not even cursive. It’s a typeface created in 1942 that was used on war propaganda posters and then overused for the next, I don’t know, seven decades?” Willa said, then grimaced. “I mean, look at the ‘h’ ascender versus the ‘g’ descender. And don’t get me started on the capital ‘S.’”
“I won’t,” James said, then skipped off to his bedroom.
Willa was trying to make up for her recent absenteeism at home by handling dinner and homework duties while Pete had drinks with a few of the Hoodbros.
“Mom, how do you do this multiplication problem using the traditional algorithm?” Charlie asked while sitting at the kitchen counter, his pencil poised over a piece of paper already smudged and pilled with eraser bits. On his shirt from tonight’s soccer practice was a fresh stain from the sub-par spaghetti sauce she’d made and he’d, understandably, tried to fractionate from his noodles.
Willa looked up from the headache that was James’ assignment sheet, thought for a moment — why, though? It’s not like the information was stored among the cobwebs on the left side of her brain — and said: “Ask Alexa.”
Willa didn’t care that the smart hockey puck was always listening and sometimes interjected factoids into what the humans thought were private conversations. Alexa never complained, never argued, and always stopped talking when interrupted and instructed to shut up.
This did not make Alexa a perfect mate, of course. There were a lot of things Alexa could not do. But Willa was getting along better with her right now than with Pete.
The night she took the coaches out for drinks and told them about the schedule changes did not end well. Jen, Jamie, and Ashley stormed out, leaving Willa in silence with the three rookie coaches, who self-consciously stirred their drinks and checked their phones.
“You guys can head on out too,” Willa said. “I should be getting home anyway.”
“Are you sure?” Brooklyn asked. Was that a look of pity in her eyes? Hard to tell — her fake eyelashes were heavy enough to weigh down her lids.
“Oh, definitely,” Willa said, mock-cheerfully. “I just got a text from my husband that my kids need me. So you guys go on. I’ll close out and head home too.”
But Willa did not go home, instead opting to sit at the bar at Sky and take down three more beers while flirting with the bartender (sorry, mixologist) who studied abroad in Australia but didn’t answer her questions about why he had steampunk goggles perched atop his slicked-back undercut.
He crafted her a special cocktail, a ludicrous concoction that involved burning a twirl of orange peel and swirling the liquor with a sprig of rosemary, and refused her cash.
“Thanks,” Willa said. “It’s been a rough night.”
Though a man two stools over was waving his credit card, the Steampunk Mixologist (Randy? Mortimer? Bob?) ignored him and leaned forward toward Willa, giving her a clearer look at the tattoos that spilled from his elbows to his wrists.
“How can I help?” he asked.
“Do a shot with me,” she said.
He did that, and soon after followed Willa down a hall and ducked her into the staff bathroom, where he pressed her against the wall and began kissing her, his tongue-piercing clacking against her molars.
It feels so good to be wanted, her lizard brain said. Then her rational mind stomped in and poked her shoulder, sent a telegram, and waved two flags to semaphore the message that she should stop.
“I can’t,” Willa said, gently pressing back on his chest. The mixologist smiled and put his hands up, then retreated back to the bar.
It was Wednesday morning, 3 a.m., by the time Willa stumbled into the house and passed out on the living room couch, fully clothed. She managed to wake herself up just 15 minutes before the boys and change into her typical morning uniform of holey sweatpants and sorority T-shirt.
Pete did not speak to her as they went through the family’s typical weekday routine and rushed the kids to the bus. After the happy couple waved from the front porch, Pete took his arm from around Willa’s waist and wordlessly walked back into the house.
“What’s wrong?” she asked.
Pete whipped around. “Are you serious? You’re asking me what’s wrong?”
“Yes,” Willa said, shutting the door.
“It was one thing for you to be coming home, falling-down drunk, at 3 a.m. on a weekend,” he scowled. “But now you’re doing it on weeknights too?”
“It was a really hard night,” Willa said. “The coaches were so upset about the schedule changes and —”
“Who gives a shit?!” he yelled, then threaded his fingers through his curly brown hair and pulled in exasperation.
“I do!” she yelled back.
“This was supposed to be a side gig,” Pete said. “A thing you did for fun.”
“Well, it’s turned into something more,” Willa said. “I’m in charge of the studio. I have to make sure everything runs smoothly and that the coaches and clients are happy.”
“Or what? You disappoint” — he almost spit the next word — “Dee? That awful person? A person you hate?”
Now it was Willa’s turn to fume. “You are way oversimplifying things. Haven’t you heard a word I’ve said about her, and this job? It’s complicated! OK, yeah, she’s a hard-ass and can be mean, but she’s had it rough and is doing what it takes to be a successful woman in business. And really, she doesn’t even interact with me or the studio very much. That place is mine, and it’s my responsibility to make it a positive, safe, and fun place for my coaches and my clients.”
“It’s a gym, Willa,” Pete said, dismissively.
“It’s more than that, Pete,” she said.
“I guess it must be, for you to put it before your family,” he said.
“Fuck you,” Willa spat. “That’s low.”
He threw up his hands in resignation, then went into the bathroom to shower and got ready for work. They did not speak as he grabbed his keys and coffee and went out the door. They maintained the silence throughout the work day, and it remained when Pete climbed into bed at midnight, smelling of beer and whiskey, and clicked off the light.
“I love you,” she whispered.
But he was already asleep.
I have to side with Pete on this one. Again, run, Willa, run.