Page 27 of Call You Mine
I wrap my arm around his bicep, ignoring the bulging muscle I feel, even beneath his jacket and hoodie, and I’m immediately overwhelmed by the smell of him, the memories of all of our nights together threatening to flood my brain at the worst possible moment.
Pushing all these thoughts and weird feelings away, I walk him toward my dining table. “Sorry about this, Patricia,”I say to Georgie’s social worker when we come into view.
The middle-aged woman is sitting at the seat across the dining table, a legal pad placed neatly in front of her. Her graying hair is pulled back in a tidy bun, her glasses perched low on her nose.
In the hour that she’s been here, I can already tell by her careful posture, measured gaze, and the way she scribbles her notes that she is cataloging every small detail the room gives away.
It’s unnerving, feeling like you’re being analyzed from every perspective, and my compulsions have been making me feel like a hand is wrapping around my throat, taking away my breath, before granting me a small reprieve—just to do it all over again.
“That’s quite all right, my dear,” she says in her soft, reassuring voice that she’s used all night.
I don’t have it in me to look at Georgie right now—not wanting to worry her any more than she already is with the social worker being here tonight.
Right now, I need to put on the best show of my life.
For her.
From the moment introductions were done tonight, Patricia cut to the chase, carefully explaining that CPS will be taking my entire life into consideration to decide if I can reliably support Georgie.
And while I know she means well and that her job requires her to prioritize logistics over judgment, I instantly realize I have an uphill battle to climb.
Living in a two-bedroom apartment with one other person already isn’t an ideal setup for a thirteen-year-old—she doesn’t have her own space, which is immediately a red flag.
On top of that, my job isn’t a standard Monday-through-Friday, nine-to-five sort of gig. My hours change weekly,requiring me to cover shifts the other baristas can’t, meaning longer, less predictable hours—red flag number two.
Patricia also mentioned that a managerial position has perceived stress and responsibility with less ability to step away from work—red flag number three.
And because I don’t have nearby family support, it all raises questions about whether I have backup care and a support system for Georgie and me. With Phoebe having just moved to a hospital in Illinois, and Jasmine studying abroad in Paris for the next year, my sisters aren’t an option.
There’s Rumi and Jack, but they have their own daughter who takes precedence, so that leaves Emerson as my main support system. But with her already picking up my slack at Hey Honey’s, it doesn’t leave her with much time to support.
I thought about explaining how Rumi and I balanced both of our jobs at the coffee shop while also taking care of her daughter for that first year of her life, but I ultimately decided that explaining that to Patricia might worsen my case further.
My plan to bring Georgie to work with me anytime she isn’t at school also didn’t seem like the right hill to die on.
Neither did choosing that moment to ask her opinion on how long a teenager can be left alone at home.
Sadly, CPS looks for more than just good intentions and love,Patricia had said.
All of this considered, it’s quite possible my space, schedule flexibility, and support system aren’t conducive to becoming Georgie’s primary caregiver, at least in the eyes of Child Protective Services.
I feel Anderson’s hip gently bump into my side from where he stands next to me, the rest of the room waiting for my next move.
It takes me a moment to come back to myself—letting a mask of confidence I don’t actually feel slip down over my face.
“I forgot to tell Anderson about your visit with us tonight,” I start, making it all up as I go, but knowing full well where I’m inevitably headed—I just hope Anderson doesn’t change his mind about playing along when he realizes exactly what I meant when I asked him to. “And how we are going to have to reschedule our Valentine’s Day plans.” I turn to Anderson, having to tilt my head up to meet his eyes.
He hides his confusion well. “No problem. I don’t mind rescheduling.”
My lips part to continue, but words die on the tip of my tongue. His usual, laid-back demeanor is all I find as he looks down at me. His lips tilt up in that lazy smile, calming me instantly and having my spiraling thoughts completely scatter.
I’ve looked into Anderson’s eyes before, and I’ve seen them enough to know what they look like—that rich caramel color with flecks of gold that shine one way in the moonlight and another way in the sun.
But I’ve also always noticed the way there’s a longing in his gaze.
Like he has more to say to me than he lets on.
I can’t fight this feeling that there’s always something more in the depths of his irises, like he wants my answer to a question he’s too nervous to ask.
