s. My child and her imagination always exceed my abilities.
“And what about Daddies?”
My hand slips a bit when she says the D word. “Daddies know a lot too.”
“What does my daddy know?”
“Hmm, let’s see…” I pause and step back to make sure her braid is even with the first one I did before securing her hair with a rubber band. “Daddies know almost everything Mommies do.”
Evelyn sighs. “I wonder what my daddy knows.”
Me too, kiddo. Me too.
I lean down and kiss the top of her head. We make eye contact through the mirror and both of us grin, although she can’t see my smile, my eyes light up just the same. “I love you, baby girl.”
“Love you too, Mommy.” She gets down from my stool and runs out of my room. From down the hall she yells, “Do you think I could drive today? I’ve been working on my skills with Grandpa.”
Sitting on the edge of my bed, I hang my head. My dad is the worst, in the best way. When I told him I was pregnant, I thought for sure he was going to launch a State by State manhunt rather than respecting my wishes that her father be left alone. My dad stepped up and took on a fatherly roll with Evelyn, and it’s only been as of late that she talks about her father, thanks to kindergarten.
“So, can I?”
My little priss is standing in my doorway, with her backpack on and her hand on her hip. I shake my head.
“Why not? Grandpa says I’m good to go.”
“Maybe in his field, with him helping, but you’re not driving my car.”
“When?” she asks.
“When you’re sixteen and have passed Driver’s Ed class.”
Evelyn throws her hands up and stalks down the hall. I want to laugh because I love her antics. I love how dramatic and expressive she is. When she’s out of sight, I cover my mouth and try to stifle the giggles. She makes my world complete, bringing joy when I’m upset, and always knowing what to say to change my day around.
On the way to school, she sings along to the radio. I know I should sensor what she hears, but I don’t. If that makes me a bad Mom, so be it. I’d rather let her listen and discuss with her what things mean than hide behind some veiled curtain. From the day she was born, I vowed to be as honest as I can with her, and when she asks where her father is, I tell her the truth… I don’t know.
During the week, I work days at the bar, working around Evelyn’s school schedule. The flexibility is nice because when the opportunity arises it affords me the time to be a room mother. I know there will be a day when she doesn’t want me there handing out snacks and helping with school parties. For now, I’m going to soak it up while maintaining that cool Mom edge.
By the time I run my banking errands, it’s shortly after ten when I pull into the parking lot. Another hour and the bar will open, serving lunch before switching over for dinner at five. That’s when I’ll pass the reins to the evening staff and head home to cook dinner. Thankfully, my mom is retired and picks Evelyn up from school and gets her started on her homework. My parents have been lifesavers when it comes to kicking ass as a single parent. If it weren’t for them, I don’t know how I’d survive.
After I unlock the door, I flick the lights on and pull the chairs off the tables. It’s a bit backwards, but so is life. The line cook has been here for two hours already, preparing food and making sure the grills are heated to the right temperature. I used to come in at nine, but it didn’t make much sense. If the night crew does their job, opening is a breeze.
The other waitress on today is Mary. She’ll take most of the dining room, leaving me to handle the bar and a couple of the tables nearby. She’s a college student working to pay her way through night school, it’s the least I can do for her. For the most part, the lunch crowd is steady. We have a lot of regulars, who don’t always venture far from their normal eating habits. A couple of years ago, we did a huge social media push to put Bailey’s Bar and Grill on the map, hoping to increase tourism business. Even got the State to add us to the signs along the highway so people knew where to find us. I think, for the most part, it’s paid off, but we can’t be sure unless we ask each new person where they’re from or how they heard of us.
“I just had a total hottie sit down at seven, but I have to pee and fix my hair. Can you get his drink order?” Mary asks. She’s a good waitress and hates to keep people waiting, especially guys. She tells me that she’s waiting for Mr. Right and swears she’ll meet him here. I don’t believe in that hokie crap, at least not anymore.
As I approach the table, the guy in a dark suit is staring down at the table. From the slump of his shoulders, he looks dejected. “Your wait…” my words fall short as a familiar pair of rich brown eyes look at me. My heart is on the floor. My stomach bobs up and down in my throat. I can’t swallow, can’t think, can’t see clearly because if I could, my mind would comprehend who’s in front of me. My mouth opens to say something, anything, but words fail.
The bar is packed. People are standing shoulder to shoulder trying to dance, while I struggle to weave in and out of them in an attempt to get to the stage. This is my last night in Nashville, my last shot at trying to find Ajay.
I finally find an opening and shoot through the gap. The stage is within view, but I can’t see who’s drumming. I pray that it isn’t him just as much as I hope it is. He swore he’d be gone weeks, not months. I want him to come home. It’s time for him to come home and be the husband he promised he would be. It takes a lot of shoving, a bit of feet stepping, but I’m at the stage. From the side it doesn’t look like Ajay. For one, he has a tattoo on his arm and the Ajay I know and love would never ink his body like this.
When the band finishes, the singer tells the crowd everyone’s name. Ajay Ballard on drums. It’s loud in here, but I’m sure that’s what he said. I don’t hesitate and step onto the platform, heading right toward him. I’m within arm’s reach when someone grabs me and tells me that I have to leave.
“Ajay,” I yell as loud as I can, but he doesn’t hear me. I scream his name as I thrash against the man who is holding me back. “Let me go, he’s my husband!”
“That’s what they all say, sweetheart.”
Finally, he looks in my direction and his face pales, but he doesn’t move to help me or tell this goon that I’m his wife. “Ajay!” I call his name again and that seems to spur him into action. He comes forward and tells the bouncer that I’m with him. He finally lets go, but by the look on Ajay’s face, he doesn’t look happy.