5. Viviana

"I don't sound frazzled because I'm not frazzled," I insist, phone wedged between my ear and my shoulder. I slide a pair of socks and a sticky bowl of half-eaten yogurt to the end of the counter, but still no keys.

If this shoebox-sized apartment had an entryway, I'd have a little table by the door to keep my keys. I guess I could install a hook, but that would require knowing how to install a hook. Better yet, I'll have my keys surgically stapled to my hand. Maybe then I wouldn't lose them every single day.

"I can call you later if you're busy. We don't have to do this now."

"I'm not busy, Bianca. I'm just—Fuck!" My pinky toe makes direct contact with the wooden leg of a barstool and, call me dramatic, but I swear there has never been pain this intense in all of human history.

I kick out at the barstool again with my other foot. More pain is worth teaching it a lesson.

"You can call me later when you?—"

"I'm—ow—fine." I shove the chair into the counter more aggressively than necessary for an inanimate object and take a deep breath. "I stubbed my toe, but I'm fine. I'm fine and everything is fine and I can chat right now."

I'm running late for work, I can't find the keys to my front door, and there's a pile of dishes in my sink that, given another day or two, could become a biohazard. But I'm fine. Everything is fine.

It has to be.

"Are you sure?" Bianca asks. I can imagine her chewing her nail polish off right about now. She hates conflict, which is making this phone call absolute hell for her, I'm sure. I decide if I can't ease my own burdens, I can at least ease hers.

"This is about Friday, right?" I ask. "You're busy and that's totally fine. Don't worry about it."

"But you have that gala for work."

"I know and I'll figure something else out."

Like staying home and watching Gilmore Girls until I pass out on the couch in a sugared-up coma. That sounds better than squeezing into a fancy dress just so I can still be the Administrative Assistant to the CEO of Cerberus Industries, but in much less comfortable shoes.

These kinds of industry-wide, "networking" events inevitably have me sprinting all over the ballroom, passing notes from my boss to people stationed in every far corner of the room.

Have a drink, they say. Enjoy yourself, they say. But they don't mean it. I'm never off the clock. Unless I call in sick.

Really, calling in sick is the superior option, anyway. Bianca is doing me a favor.

"Did you already have a date?" Bianca asks. "Because I can reschedule my thing if?—"

"Yes!" I snatch my keys out of the pantry where they are wedged between a box of off-brand Lucky Charms and a half-eaten Rice Crispy Treat.

"So you do want me to reschedule?" Bianca asks.

"Wha—No! I found my keys." I do a small victory dance and then place the keys securely in the absurdly-small pocket of my trousers. "You can't reschedule your thing. Your thing is emergency wisdom tooth surgery."

"Yeah, but it's not a real emergency. I'm on pain meds. I can push it to Monday if you have plans."

I snort. "I haven't had plans in six years, Bianca."

Mikhail Novikov's face rises up in my mind—the Ghost of Unbelievable, Life-Changing Sex. He pops up a lot more than I wish he did. But for good reason.

He changed my life that night.

I drop down into the traitorous barstool. "Six years. I can't believe it's been six years. Is that too long to go without a date? It feels like too long."

"Oh, um… I don't know," Bianca stammers. "I haven't really—I'm not?—"

I groan. "Ignore me, Bianca. It's early and apparently, I'm inappropriate before I've had coffee."

I'd stop at the coffee stand down the block, but there won't be time. Toxic brown sludge from the break room at work, it is.

"It's okay."

"I wish it was, but it's not. I pay you to be my babysitter, not my therapist."

Suddenly, a golden brown head of hair pops around the corner, a red-and-blue felt superhero mask strapped to his eyes. Terrible morning aside, I can't help but smile. Dante has that effect on people. Me most of all.

"Is that Bianca?" he asks.

I nod and hold out my phone.

"Hi, Bianca!" he shrieks.

Bianca laughs and says hi, but Dante is already darting off back to his bedroom, making vroom noises like he's flying through the air. Five-year-olds are a trip, I'm tellin' ya.

"You sure it's okay that I cancel on you tomorrow?" she asks again.

"Unless you want to chase Dante around the apartment while you have ice packs strapped to your swollen cheeks, then yes, it is absolutely okay for you to cancel."

"Well, I mean, I could do that. Maybe if I put on a movie for him, I could stay on the couch and?—"

"No! Rest up, eat boatloads of ice cream, and I'll see you when you're four teeth less wise, okay?"

Bianca chuckles. "Okay. Thanks, Margaret."

I wince. It's been six years, but the fake name still stings. I should have gone for something more original. Like, I dunno… Athena. Or Aphrodite.

Then again, being the goddess of warfare or love would definitely stand out in a crowd, which would have made the name change counterproductive.

I'm in hiding, after all. A life lived undercover is one where you attract as little attention as possible. No social media, no friends, and definitely no dates.

No matter how many times I'm forced to replace the vibrator in my bedside drawer.

The closest thing I have to a friend is Bianca, and she only comes around when I pay her. So we aren't close and I definitely shouldn't be confessing to her that I haven't been out with a man since the night I got pregnant.

I've been too busy running to be with anyone else. Even if I wasn't, I'd never be able to relax enough to trust them anyway.

No matter how many years pass, I always catch myself looking over my shoulder. I expect to see Mikhail Novikov walking right towards me. I've been looking for you, Viviana, he'd purr in that darkly delicious voice of his.

Some days, it's a nightmare.

Other days—mostly nights—it's a fantasy.

But this morning, I look over my shoulder and see Dante padding down the hall in bright yellow rain boots, a fuzzy bear sweatshirt, and a superhero mask. He grins. "I picked out my own clothes."

"You're kidding. You put together this fabulous outfit?" I reach for his hand and twirl him around until he giggles. "This look could be on a runway somewhere."

"What's a runway?" he asks, adorable face squished in a frown.

I hustle him towards the door. "I'll tell you on the walk. We're late."

He forgets the question the moment we're in the hall because he's too absorbed in racing me down the four flights of stairs to our apartment lobby. His boots clomp gracelessly down the steps while I lock up.

"Don't open the front door!" I yell after him. "Wait for me at the mailboxes."

When we first moved to New York, Dante was an infant. I kept him strapped to my chest, tucked away neatly in the stroller I got secondhand from some hooded man in a back alley. For months and months, he was never out of arm's reach.

Now, the only time he wants to be within arm's reach of me is when I'm pretending to be Mrs. Ticklepus, an eight-armed octopus who likes to tickle him before bedtime.

I've had to learn to give him his space. To let him explore. It wasn't an easy process.

It helps that even my father doesn't know where we live. In a city of over eight million people, we might as well be invisible. I can afford to loosen his leash.

A little.

"There she is," a deep voice says from behind me.

I jolt in surprise, dropping my keys to the cracked tile floor.

My neighbor Tommy hurries across our narrow landing to pick it up for me. "Sorry, neighbor. I was just happy to see you. It's been a hot minute."

"A few hot minutes," I say, smiling as he hands me my key. "How's it going?"

His hand lingers on the other end of the key a bit longer than necessary. "Better now."

Tommy is nice. Cute, too, in a buttoned-up, door-to-door Bible salesman kind of way. He has bright blonde hair, a friendly face, and the personality to match. The day he moved in three years ago, he gave everyone in the building a plate of cookies.

"Mama, I'm going to beat you!" Dante's voice echoes up the stairwell.

Tommy shoves his hands in his pockets. "Sounds like I interrupted your race."

"You did. I would have absolutely crushed him if you hadn't gotten in my way."

Tommy laughs and runs a nervous hand through his hair. I know what's coming next. "So?—"

"I better—" I hitch a thumb towards the stairs. "Before he escapes."

"Oh, right. Yeah, I'll walk you down."

Shoot.A stairwell is not the best place to ditch someone. Unless he's headed to the rooftop at 7:30 in the morning, there's only one direction Tommy could be going.

We walk in silence for three floors. Silent, that is, except for the sound of Dante playing drums on the metal mailboxes in the lobby. God, my neighbors must love me.

But as we approach the second floor landing, Tommy grabs my arm.

"Just real quick, Margaret." He gives me a tight smile and blows out a breath. "I was wondering if you—I know you said it wasn't a good time, but that was six months ago. Not that I've been counting. I mean, I have but—so I thought I'd try again. That is, I thought I'd ask you out. So that's what I'm doing… Asking you out. Do you want to go out?" He grimaces before I can even respond. "That wasn't as smooth as I hoped it would be."

"I thought it was great," I lie. It wasn't great. But it was endearing. I almost feel bad for turning him down over and over and over again for the last three years.

"Yeah?" he asks, hopeful. "Because as much as I love our meetings in the stairwell and that one time I ran into you at the bodega, I'd love to actually sit down and talk to you. Over a bottle of wine, maybe."

"That would be nice."

His eyes go wide. "Really?"

"Of course it would, but…"

His face falls and I hate myself for doing this to him.

It's not you; it's me,I want to say. But it's too cliché, no matter how true it is.

This is my fault. The reason I can't have friends or take Dante on play dates or go on dates myself is because it isn't safe.

Sure, it's been six years without incident. Mikhail hasn't even sent us a mysterious letter, let alone shown up on our doorstep demanding to know his son.

But it could happen.

Dante could also fall through a subway grate and be kidnapped by mole people, I argue with myself. That's no reason to hide in your apartment all day. It's no reason to stop living.

You can't live like this forever, Viviana.

Tommy sighs. "It's okay. I knew it was a longshot. I just thought?—"

"I think I'm free next week," I blurt before I can think better of it.

Tommy's mouth falls open. "Y-You're free? To see me? Next week?"

"Or the week after. If you're busy, then?—"

"Then I'll clear my schedule and make space for you," he says, a wide smile spreading across his face. "I'll make myself free."

He's nice. He's cute.

Does he send flutters of sexual awakening straight to my lady bits? No.

Does just the memory of the sound of his voice have my hand slipping between my sheets late at night? Definitely no.

But men who cause reactions like that are why women like me end up as single mothers under assumed names. They scramble your brains. They force you to think of them every day for the rest of your life when you see the light of your world toddling towards you in rain boots and a superhero mask.

So Tommy and I part with him promising to pull together some options and get back to me. I wave and pray I'm not making a mistake.

"I beat you," Dante proclaims, wrapping his little arms around my legs. "I'm the fastest in the whole world."

I scan the sidewalk outside the building before I hold open the door. "Is that right?"

Dante tromps out in his boots. "Uh-huh. The fastest, strongest, smartest… biggest in the world."

He deserves everything. Not just this little life I can give him. He deserves two parents and a world of opportunities and real friends that can come to his house for birthday parties and playdates.

"I agree," I say, "but I'd add cutest, sweetest, and funniest."

Dante wrinkles his nose. "None of that helps in a race."

I bend down and kiss his rumpled hair. "No, but it still makes you pretty cool."

He seems pleased with that and spins like a top down the sidewalk.

I can't just step out of my comfort zone; I'll have to inch out of it. If we're doing metaphors, then my comfort zone is a hammock and I'm wearing one of those inflatable sumo suits, but I'm prepared to wrestle my way out of it so we can have some semblance of a community.

I'll do anything for that boy. Absolutely anything.

I'll even forget about Mikhail.