The reboot, p.1
The Reboot, page 1
The Reboot
B. E. Baker
Copyright © 2023 by B. E. Baker
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
Created with Vellum
For my mother
You’re as opposite Amanda’s parents as they come.
Thanks for always doing things right.
Contents
1. Donna
2. Amanda
3. Abigail
4. Donna
5. Amanda
6. Abigail
7. Donna
8. Amanda
9. Abigail
10. Donna
11. Amanda
12. Abigail
13. Donna
14. Amanda
15. Donna
16. Abigail
17. Amanda
18. Amanda
19. Abigail
20. Abigail
21. Donna
22. Amanda
23. Abigail
24. Abigail
25. Donna
26. Amanda
Epilogue: Helen
Acknowledgments
About the Author
Also by B. E. Baker
1
Donna
Back when I learned to drive, no one had GPS or phone apps, and even MapQuest was new and unproven. People found new places by using a big old map book, or by the simple expedient of following a long list of directions.
When someone needed you to go somewhere for them, the preparation would sound something like this:
“Make a left by that big oak tree in the center of town, then hang a right on the street named after baked goods. I think it’s Pleasant Pie or something. Go past that long row of pine trees, and then turn on the road going north. You’ll stay on that for a long time, like ten minutes, maybe, and then you’ll see a big billboard with a baby on it. Make the next right. There’s like, a bend in the road right before the turn off. I think the street is R street. It’s a letter, anyway. Then you want the third or fourth house on the right, just after the stop sign that’s hanging at a forty-five-degree angle. The house you want has a yellow door. You can’t miss it.”
Those were almost precisely the directions I got from my neighbor when I drove forty miles away to pick up a kitten Mom wanted for her barn, some seventeen years ago.
Is it any wonder it took me three hours and four stops at local places to place collect calls before I finally found that dumb cat? It wound up being a terrible mouser, too.
It feels like I grew up making life choices the old school way, but in the past year, I’ve discovered Google maps. Now, watching Abby Brooks—er, Archer—and listening to her advice? It’s like I know what I need to do to find the kitten on the first try.
Or, like, instead of a kitten, true love and happiness.
A year ago, my life was a disaster.
I was lucky to have a job as a receptionist. I lived in constant fear that my son would be stolen from me by his grandparents. My husband was in jail and my worst nightmare was that he might be released. I was living with my abusive, dying father and being shouted at constantly.
Ironically, I met my Google map because I made a plan to completely shaft her. This poor woman had moved here with her kids because of a will and a bizarre twist of fate, and I wanted to make sure she got nothing because it was slightly better for me. Or, I thought it was. Turned out that wasn’t even true.
Her guidance has changed everything for me.
Forever.
Now I have complete custody of my son. His father didn’t go to prison like he should have (the world isn’t perfect, even if Abby is), but I have a healthy relationship, and a job I really enjoy, and I’m living in a rental house that isn’t quite perfect, but it’s on its way.
Just like me.
Next up? A white picket fence, a golden lab, and riding off into the sunset.
Actually, my new place kind of already has a picket fence, and after years of being bitten, kicked, and bucked off, I’m not a huge fan of horses. But the general direction of my meandering is the same. I’m basically home free at this point, thanks to the advent of much better advice and life inspiration.
Which is why, when the expected knock on my front door comes an hour early, I don’t panic. After all, my ex is notorious for being a pain in my rear end, and he’s terrified of my boyfriend. I should have known he’d come early in the hopes of avoiding any run-ins with Will.
Charles is standing on my porch at seven oh three when I open the door, and he already looks antsy and annoyed.
“You’re early,” I say.
“You know what they say,” he says. “Early to bed, early to rise, makes this man healthy, wealthy, and wise.”
I arch one eyebrow and stare at his small-but-definitely-there stomach pudge. “You always sleep in, and it shows.”
Charles rolls his eyes and pushes past me. It’s like he’s been taking lessons on how to be even ruder than he ever was before. “Aiden. Dad’s here. Let’s go.”
“He’s still asleep.”
Charles’ head pivots toward me slowly, his mouth dangling. “Asleep?”
“He takes ten minutes to get ready in the morning. Brush his teeth, pull on his clothes, and hand him a Pop Tart.”
Charles slow claps. “Mother of the year, folks.”
“You try to get him to eat something else,” I say. “I’ll clap for you when you succeed.”
“It’s all about having a firm hand,” Charles says. “I’m sure it’s hard as a single, working mother, but I won’t have any trouble.”
I grit my teeth and point at the sofa. “Sit. I’ll go wake him up.”
The argument he wants to start is right there, on the tip of his tongue, but for once he doesn’t start it. Miracles do happen.
A few moments later, Aiden’s marching from the bathroom into the kitchen, and I’m shocked to see Charlie frying one of my eggs on my stove.
“Help yourself,” I say. “What’s mine is yours, clearly.”
“I’m doing it for Aiden,” he says. “Geez. You’re so kind. Where did our marriage go wrong?”
“He won’t eat that.” I can’t help one hand from popping up on my hip.
“Saying he won’t do it in front of him isn’t helping me,” Charles hisses. “Way to cheat.”
I sigh heavily and sit down. “Here, Aiden. Look. Daddy made you a delicious and nutritious breakfast.” Part of me knows he’s right, but what kind of person shows up early, makes themselves at home in my kitchen, and then proceeds to assume that after minimal contact with a kid, they’ll know just how to make him eat something he detests?
My ex. That’s who.
“Hi Dad,” Aiden says. “I hate eggs.”
“But this is my special fried egg,” Charles says. “Been a favorite of the Windsor men for generations.”
Aiden frowns. “I’m an Ellingson.”
Charles drops his spoon. “You’re also a Windsor.”
“The judge did change his last name to Ellingson,” I say.
“And now I can be at the beginning of the line in school.” Aiden leans on the table with one elbow, his face squishing up against his hand. “Earl also starts with an E. Even if my name is Earl, I still won’t be stuck at the end. Plus, the Earl men are really cool, too. For ginrations.” Aiden frowns. “Does that mean a really long time?”
Charles’ face flushes bright red. He bends over slowly and picks up the spatula. Then he scoops up the egg with it, slides it on a plate, and shoves it in front of Aiden. “You will eat this, and you will like it.”
Oh, dear. We’re getting off on a very bad foot.
“I won’t.” Aiden presses his lips together so tightly that the entire bottom of his face goes white.
“Look, Charles, it’s not like disliking fried eggs is going to make him—”
My ex throws his hands up in the air, flinging egg bits and oil from the pan across my kitchen. “The reason he doesn’t like it is that he’s never exposed to it. He’s here with you all the time, indoctrinating him to—”
“Eggs are slimy,” Aiden says. “And they taste like rubber.” He huffs. “The only rubber I like is on tires. Mister Will let me help him change a tire last week, and I was really good at it.”
Charles looks practically apoplectic.
I crouch down near Aiden and drop my voice to a whisper. “Remember how excited you are to go spend some time with Daddy this summer? You know what will make him happy? If you never, ever talk about Mister Will. Alright?”
A tap from the front door has us all looking that direction, as the man himself steps through the door.
Broad shoulders. Light grey eyes. Handsome, rugged features. An echo of his bad-boy past in the crooked spot on the bridge of his nose. He’s a slender guy for this area, but he’s got twenty or thirty pounds of muscle on Charles.
And no middle-squidge at all.
In fact, his trim, ripped waistline may be the very best physical feature on Will Earl.
“Mornin,’” he says.
Charles frowns. “It’s not a very good morning so far, actually.”
Will shrugs, a half-smile tugging the corners of his mouth upward. “We farm-folk out here in the backwoods know that you reap what you sow.” Will affects a pretty pronounced country accent whenever Charlie’s around. I can’t decide whether it’s on purpose, or whether it’s unconscious.
“Well, if the farm hand would kindly wait outside until we city-folk who neither reap nor sow are done, that would be great,” Charles says.
“I do help out a lot around here,” Will says. “But it’s a pleasure to do things for your ex-wife and for your son.”
In all the time I’ve known him, I can count on one hand the number of times I’ve seen muscles work in Charles’ jaw. Generally speaking, that kind of thing looks pretty masculine. But nothing really looks hot on the devil himself. And right now, I’m worried his rage is going to short-circuit his brain and he’s going to try to take a swing at Will because his masculinity has been threatened. It won’t go well for him if he tries, and that will just make him nastier.
“No one needs to go outside.” I hop up and grab a Pop Tart in a Ziploc bag from the windowsill. “I already have Aiden’s non-manly breakfast right here.”
Aiden frowns and for a split second, he looks just like his father.
It’s unnerving.
“Pop Tarts are manly. I don’t even need mine toasted, and I could eat it while I was doing anything.” He snatches it from my hand and walks toward the door. “And they don’t taste like rubber.” His lip curls, and he’s back to looking like my snarky little boy again.
“I’ll be out to pick him up in just over a month, like we agreed,” I say.
Will picks up Aiden’s suitcase and gestures toward the door. “Don’t let it hitcha.” He must be speaking that way on purpose to bait Charles, but I doubt my ex has any idea it’s not how he always talks.
It makes me smile.
Charles glances at his fried egg once, as if debating whether to raise a fuss about it. I can see the moment good sense wins out, and I pity Aiden for a second. I’m sure he’ll be forced to choke down a fried egg every morning for the next five weeks.
Either that, or once I’m not in front of him, Charles will cede ground and buy up every single variety of Pop Tart ever made and ply Aiden with all of them.
Who knows? He might do both.
I force myself not to care. I can’t fret for every second Aiden’s not in my life. I’ll go crazy. As much as I dislike them, Charles’ parents are a bit of a grounding influence there. Since he’s still staying with them as far as I know, I place my faith in them to keep my sweet son feeling safe.
I’ve heard a lot of people say that the worst thing about being divorced with kids is that you have to keep seeing your ex forever. That’s not quite right. I could handle dealing with Charlie forever if I had to. In fact, learning to stand up to him might even have been good for me. No, the actual worst thing about divorce when you have children is that you’re stuck watching the child endure ongoing damage and trauma forever.
And even though your ex is the one doing it, it feels like it’s your fault, because you chose that loser at some point and caused half of your kid’s DNA to come from there.
Will drops a large, strong hand on my shoulder, tugging me underneath his arm and up against his body the second Charlie’s gone. “Wanna go grab breakfast?”
And get away from the sad-looking egg Charlie made? “Yes, please.” I sigh and lean my face against his chest. I don’t say much on the short drive to the Gorge. It takes me a few minutes to mourn the loss of my child and prepare myself for the damage he’ll have picked up by the time he returns. It really stinks to give away something perfect and have a pile of broken kiddo handed back.
I suppose none of us survive childhood without a little damage.
Will seems to understand that all I need from him is a strong shoulder and his quiet, calm presence. It’s one of the things I like best about Will. He often gets just what I need without even being told. Not many people have that kind of insight, and somehow I lucked into a boyfriend with it. He also puts up with all my manic energy.
And apparently, also my soul-sucking depressive energy on days like today.
“Pancakes,” I say when the waitress asks. “Extra butter.”
Will smiles. “There’s not much in this world that a big stack of pancakes can’t fix.”
“And how do you want your eggs? Fried, right?”
I practically shudder. I’d never connected eating fried eggs to Charlie, but now I do. “I doubt I’ll ever eat fried eggs again,” I say. “How about we skip the eggs entirely?”
“Suit yourself,” Linda says.
“Thanks.” Will smiles.
It cracks me up, now that I’m with him all the time, watching women react to him. Linda’s old enough to be our mother, but she still blushes when he turns the full wattage of his smile on her. As if Will’s words were prophetic, the misery of the morning is pretty much gone by the time I’m eating my last bite of fluffy, carb-coated manna from heaven.
I drop my fork with a sigh.
“Better?”
“Much.” I wipe my mouth. “Thanks.”
He glances at his watch. “You should be just on time for work if we leave now.”
I roll my eyes. “It’s a Saturday, farm boy. Did you forget again?”
He mutters under his breath. “Look, when you do the same thing every day, it all blurs a little.”
Not that I’d admit it, but it’s one of the things I love about him. Even thinking that word makes me want to shudder. But if I’m being honest with myself, I’m moving that direction. I can’t decide whether I’m terrified or excited.
Probably both.
Will insists on paying—he always insists on paying—and then we head for his big truck. As I’m climbing in, I notice a large manila envelope I didn’t see before. “What’s that?”
He shrugs. “Mom asked me to take it to Abby.”
“Wonder why.”
“Legal something, I assume.”
I glance at the clock. “She won’t be at the office yet.”
“It’s a Saturday, remember?” This time, Will’s the one mocking me.
“Duh.” I can’t help my smile. I seem to be all smiles, lately. A few months ago, something like the interchange with Charles this morning would have left me in a tizzy for the entire week. I’d be worrying about what he was saying to Aiden, and about whether my little boy was hungry or felt alone.
I mean, I’m a mother, so I still worry, but I’m so much more balanced. I’m so much happier now. It’s easy to say you’ll never date again when all you’ve dated is losers. Once you find a good one? It makes all the difference in the world.
“Let’s just take it to her now,” I say. “I’m sure they’re awake, and it’s not like we have a kid in the car who we need to keep happy.”
“I don’t know,” Will says. “I’ve been putting up a good front with Aiden around, but I get bored pretty easily. What would you do to entertain me?”
He’s lucky I haven’t buckled my seatbelt yet. I slide across the bench seat and grab either side of his face. And then I pull his handsome lips down toward mine.
He stops an inch away. “This is not what I had in mind.”
“Are you complaining?”
“No.” He smiles. “It’s way better.” He kisses me then, and the last dregs of my anxiety melt away. His arms wrap around me, pulling me practically up on his lap. “Best Saturday this year, hands down.”
I hate that my son is gone, but his absence has its perks too, I suppose.
Wham. Wham. Wham. Someone’s banging on the window.
Eddy’s smiling face presses to the glass, which is embarrassingly foggy. “Whatcha doing in there?” As if he doesn’t know.
“She had something stuck in her teeth,” Will practically shouts.
Ah, small town life. Ruining everything since the day I was born.
“Let’s go,” I say.
“To Abby’s?” Will asks.
“Anywhere,” I say.
But a few miles down the road, when my heart rate has stabilized again, I reach over and weave my fingers into his. Not every second with Will is heart-pounding, but they’re all good ones so far.
