The aroma of garlic and melted cheese fills the air as I pull the lasagna from the oven, my fingers aching from hours of preparation. Cooking has become my therapy, the one domestic chore that doesn't feel like a burden but rather a small act of rebellion against the chaos of my life.
Mia lounges on my worn but comfortable couch, her bare feet propped up on the coffee table as she swirls her glass of white wine. Her brown eyes drift to where Lily sits cross-legged on the floor, utterly entranced by the Pink Panther cartoon playing on our small television.
"When are you sending her to kindergarten?" Mia asks, taking a slow sip of her wine.
I wipe my hands on a dish towel before removing my apron, the one with "Kiss the Cook" embroidered across the front - a gift from Lauren last Christmas that I only wear when no one from work can see me.
"Next month," I say, joining Mia on the couch with a weary sigh. The cushions sink under my weight, welcoming me like an old friend. "I've spent the last two weeks researching every kindergarten within a five-mile radius of either my apartment or the office. I've narrowed it down to two decent options - Bright Horizons near the company or Little Explorers closer to home."
Mia nods, her dark curls bouncing with the movement. "She's growing so fast," she murmurs, watching Lily with a wistful look.
I chuckle, following her gaze to where my daughter sits surrounded by her stuffed animals, her tiny shoulders shaking with laughter at something the cartoon panther has done. The sight never fails to make my heart swell. "Too fast," I agree. "Sometimes I wish I could freeze time just for a little while."
The wine glass feels cool in my hand as I take my first sip. Mia swirls her own glass absently.
"Where's Lauren by the way?" she asks, glancing at the clock on my wall - the one with slightly crooked numbers.
I sigh. "She called about an hour ago. Some deposition ran longer than expected. You know how it is - being a lawyer comes with a lifetime supply of frustration, bad coffee, and clients who think they know the law better than you do."
Mia snorts into her wine. "And being a secretary to Satan's accountant doesn't?"
I flip her off good-naturedly, earning a giggle from Lily who has apparently been paying more attention to us than her cartoon. "How's the Etsy shop?" I ask, changing the subject.
Mia's face lights up. "Stable. We had three orders last week." Her grin turns mischievous. "One was for your 'Bosszilla' necklace design, by the way."
I nearly choke on my wine. "You're joking."
"Nope," Mia pops the 'p' with satisfaction. "Some poor soul in Seattle thinks it's 'quirky and relatable.'"
We dissolve into laughter. It has been too long since we've done this - just sat around, drank cheap wine, and pretended we aren't all one missed paycheck away from financial ruin.
Then, inevitably, the conversation turns to work.
"So," Mia leans forward, her eyes gleaming with the particular delight women take in discussing terrible bosses. "What fresh hell did Damien unleash last week?"
I groan dramatically, slumping back into the couch cushions. "Where do I even start? The man made me redo an entire PowerPoint presentation because he didn't like the animation style - said it was 'distracting.'" I make air quotes with my fingers. "It was fade-in text, Mia. Fade. In."
Mia cackles, nearly spilling her wine. "I swear, that man is allergic to joy."
"Oh, it gets better," I continue, warming to my topic. "He sent me to pick up his dry cleaning during that thunderstorm on Wednesday because he 'didn't trust the delivery guy.' I showed up to the office looking like a drowned rat and you know what he said?"
Mia shakes her head, eyes wide.
"'Next time, bring an umbrella.'"
Mia raises her glass in a mock toast. "You're a stronger woman than me. I'd have shoved him into an elevator shaft by now."
I clink my glass against hers. "Trust me, the thought has crossed my mind more than once. But hey, at least the paychecks clear."
Lily chooses that moment to barrel into us, her tiny frame wedging itself between Mia and me on the couch. "Mommy! Aunty Mia!" she demands, her green eyes wide with cartoon-induced excitement. "Why does the Pink Panther not talk?"
Mia blinks, caught off guard by the sudden philosophical question. "Uh. Because... he's mysterious?" she offers weakly.
I snort. "Wow. Inspiring."
Lily frowns, her little nose scrunching up in that way that always makes my heart melt. "What's 'mysterious'?"
I reach out to pinch her cheek, so soft and warm. "It means he's sneaky, like when you steal cookies before dinner and pretend you don't know where they went."
Her gasp is nothing short of scandalized. "I never!"
Mia and I exchange a look over her head. Liar.
The moment is interrupted by the doorbell ringing, its familiar chime echoing through our small apartment.
"Finally," I mutter, hauling myself up from the couch with more effort than I'd like to admit. My body still aches from last week's marathon filing session Damien insisted on. "Lauren's here."
I swing open the door to find Lauren standing there, her phone pressed to her ear, her normally pristine blonde bun now slightly disheveled. Her expression scathing.
"Hi," I chirp, stepping aside to let her in. "Who offended you today?"
Lauren storms past me, still ranting into her phone. "No, Mr. Henderson, you cannot sue your neighbor because their dog looked at you funny - what? Yes, I'm aware it's a poodle. No, that doesn't constitute psychological damages."
Lily squeals from the couch, abandoning her cartoon to launch herself at Lauren's legs. "Auntie Lau!"
Like magic, Lauren's thunderous expression melts into a smile as she scoops Lily up with one arm, still holding her phone with the other. "Hello, darling," she coos, producing a chocolate bar from her blazer pocket.
Lily's eyes widen comically. "For me?"
"Who else would I bring chocolates for?" Lauren teases, setting her down as she finally ends her call. "Certainly not your mommy who never shares her wine."
I roll my eyes as Lily parades her prize around the living room like she's won the Nobel Prize in Confectionery. Mia and I exchange amused glances as our daughter carefully unwraps the treat.
Lauren collapses onto the couch with the dramatic flair of a Shakespearean heroine. "Wine. Now. Before I commit justifiable homicide."
I pour her a generous glass of the cheap white wine we always drink, the one that costs $8.99 a bottle but tastes like liquid gold after a long day. Lauren takes it with both hands like it's the Holy Grail.
"My client today," she begins, her voice dripping with exhaustion, "wants to sue his ex-wife because she 'stole his lucky socks' in the divorce settlement. These were tube socks from Walmart. With holes."
Mia chokes on her wine. "Please tell me you're joking."
"I wish." Lauren takes a long swig. "Then he asked if we could countersue for 'emotional distress' caused by... wait for it... having to see her wear them to their son's soccer game."
Our collective groan is interrupted by Lily tugging on my sleeve. "Mommy, I feel sleepy-sleepy," she mumbles around a mouthful of chocolate, her eyelids drooping like tiny weighted curtains.
I kiss her forehead, noting the time. "Let's have some lasagna first, then we'll get you to bed, okay?"
As Mia and Lauren entertain Lily with exaggerated stories about the Pink Panther's secret life (he apparently runs a underground cookie smuggling ring), I set the table in our modest dining area.
The round wooden table was a thrift store find that Lauren helped me refinish last to last summer. In a New York apartment that costs more per month than some people's car payments, it's these small victories that matter.
I'm just about to sit down when my phone blares from the living room - the special ringtone I assigned to Damien (AC/DC's "Highway to Hell").
My stomach drops.
The caller ID confirms my worst nightmare: Asshole Boss flashes across the screen in bold letters.
It's Sunday night.
8:47 PM, to be exact.
What in the hell could possibly warrant this intrusion into my precious personal time?
I consider letting it go to voicemail for approximately half a second before remembering the last time I ignored his call - the resulting interrogation the next morning had been so thorough I'm pretty time Damien now knows my mother's maiden name, my Starbucks order, and the exact date I stopped believing in Santa Claus.
With a resigned sigh, I grab the phone.
"Hello, sir," I say, my customer service voice snapping into place.
"What are you doing?" Damien's voice is its usual gravelly self, no greeting, no preamble.
I blink, glancing at my friends and daughter gathered around the table. "Having dinner with friends."
There's a pause. Then he asks, "What should I say that would repel women?"
I nearly drop the phone. "...Excuse me?"
"Words. Phrases. Things that would make a woman immediately lose interest." His tone suggests he's asking for stock market tips, not dating advice.
My mind races. This has to be about Vanessa - his socialite fiancée who clings to him like designer lint on a cashmere coat. I keep my voice neutral. "You could say... you believe the earth is flat?"
Another pause. "Will that work?"
"It would make most people question your intelligence, yes."
"Okay."
The line goes silent. I wait a beat, then two. "Can I hang up now?"
"Be on hold."
The call mutes before I can respond. This bastard.
Lauren cranes her neck from the dining table. "What's taking so long? The lasagna's getting cold!"
I mute my end for safety. "It's the devil's call."
Mia nearly spits out her wine. "I'm telling you, he's obsessed with you. No boss calls their secretary at 9 PM on a Sunday unless they're—"
Lily tilts her head, chocolate smeared around her mouth like a tiny, messy raccoon. "Auntie Mia, what's 'obsessed'?"
Mia opens her mouth, then closes it. "It's when... um..."
"When someone thinks about something all the time," Lauren jumps in.
"Like how Mommy thinks about coffee?" Lily asks innocently.
"Exactly!" Lauren points at her. "But with more... paperwork."
Mia mouths 'paperwork?' at Lauren, who shrugs.
Damien's voice suddenly crackles through the phone again, startling me. "It didn't work."
I sigh, pinching the bridge of my nose. "Okay, try this, tell her you think pineapple belongs on pizza."
Silence. "That's controversial, not repellent."
Damn him for having standards. "Fine. Say you're really into collecting toenail clippings. Alphabetized."
Another pause. I can practically hear the gears turning in that brilliant, infuriating mind of his. "On hold."
I return to the table, the phone still pressed to my ear, and stab a piece of lasagna with more force than necessary. Mia and Lauren are watching me with identical expressions of amusement.
"One day," I mutter, "I'm going to send him a link to a dating website and bill him for my time as a relationship consultant."
The line clicks back to life. "She laughed." Damien sounds genuinely perplexed. "She said that's 'quirky' and asked if I display them in shadow boxes."
I close my eyes, counting to five in my head. "Sir, with all due respect, maybe you should just be honest and tell her you're not interested?"
Silence stretches so long I think the call dropped. Then, "Hmm."
And he hangs up.
I stare at my phone, then at my now-cold lasagna, then at my friends' expectant faces.
"Sometimes," I announce to the room, "I question every life choice that led me to this moment."