Because of Them (Because of Love #2)

Chapter Eleven

AUDREY

“M ummy, you have to dance too!”

I laugh with a wave, brushing off my daughter’s persistent pressure to join her on the tiny disco dancefloor. Wrongly, it appears, I had thought Maisie’s kindergarten having an all-out graduation party at a fully catered disco party centre was a wonderful idea. I mean, don’t get me wrong, the kids are having a fantastic time, but I just sat down after making small talk with a group of other mums and my feet are aching in my boots. I also thought having her partner-in-dance, Cassidy, here would give me the slack I needed to stay out of the dance firing line.

It’s an odd kind of comfortable, knowing that Maisie has someone to share her love of dance and ballet with. Although it started a little too close to jealousy, the feeling is now soothing, knowing that when Maisie is with her father she has a special relationship with Cassidy too.

I never had a village when Maisie was little, so I find it weird that one started to form after I split with her father. But it did. Which makes me feel even better about the decisions we made. Funny how they also led me here, pregnant after a wild fling with a younger man.

My hand gravitates towards my middle, cradling the bump that is finally forming. The small swell that pushes against the button of my jeans and has me living in leggings and dresses. Maybe, if I’m lucky, this village will help me with this baby too.

Clearly not taking no for an answer, Maisie skips over to me, sidestepping around her friends.

“Does your belly hurt?” She yells over the music and I cringe. This lack of filter is exactly why I’m still not ready to tell her about the baby. She has the social graces of a, well, of a five-year-old.

“No chicka, I was just thinking about how your teachers promised there would be cake.” I smirk at my little white lie, proud of how quickly it rolled off my tongue.

“Oh my gosh, are we having cake soon?” She jumps up and down, the pink and blue frills of her dress floating around her.

“In a little bit, maybe. For now, you’re stuck dancing with me and my two left feet.” I push myself off the chair, shaking off the tension in my arms and gesturing to where Maisie’s friends are dancing in the middle of the room. A handful of parents are scattered amongst the group, but most are lined against the walls, chatting away over the pounding music.

Maisie looks down at our feet, pointing her toes out to tap my own.

“Do you really have two left feet?”

Laughing, I grab her hand and lead the way into the middle of the room, right underneath the disco ball hanging from the ceiling.

“No, not really.”

Taylor Swift blends into a Disney tune that blends into something poppy that makes all the kids scream but I can’t quite recognise. The beat sounds oddly familiar but also incredibly distant and removed. If I had to place a bet, I’d say an up-and-coming superstar has sampled a song from my youth.

Maisie and I sway and spin to the music. After a while, I stop caring if I’m moving in time. I follow her lead, pointing my toes to the side, swaying my hips side to side, spinning—very wobbly—on one leg. Cassidy comes to join us, and we form a triangle of joy, celebrating Maisie. Her friends are forgotten, but I see them dancing around us. They laugh and twirl and skip. A young girl cartwheels, her oversized graduation cape tumbling around her.

“You’re not as bad as you think.” Cassidy leans in, and we link elbows, each holding one of Maisie’s hands.

“I’m just pretending I’m not a thirty-two-year-old single mum and instead I’m young and fun and drunk at a club.”

Cassidy leans her head down to rest on my shoulder. It’s only there for a second, but the gesture spreads a light feeling through me. Callum made a good choice.

“How life changes,” she muses.

Her circumstances are so different to my own, but her life is changing in unexpected ways, too. I’ve realised now how hard it must have been to hear about someone falling pregnant by accident when a pregnancy is something she will never experience. She’d messaged me the next day, apologising for acting ‘weird’ and telling me about her infertility. I couldn’t convince her that she hadn’t acted in an unusual way, and that I wouldn’t have known she was feeling uneasy if it wasn’t for her message. Even so, I apologised in turn for unloading my emotional baggage onto her.

We’ve spoken many times since then. She offered to take Maisie to dance class every week, and truth be told I’m grateful to get out of the evening trips. I will support Maisie in every way, with whatever she wants to do. But sitting amongst those other mums, with their perfect lives, while waiting for the ballet lesson to finish made bile burn in my throat. I didn’t fit in there. I’m not sure that Cassidy would either, but she loves dancing so much that she doesn’t seem to mind.

As well as taking Maisie to dance class, Cassidy drops off fresh flowers and leftover baked treats from her boutique every week. She asks about my painting, and for the first time in a long time, I feel like I have a friend who really understands the way painting makes me feel. I guess being a creative type herself, she can relate to the tranquil feeling that washes over me whenever I sit down at my easel.

We’ve somehow fallen into an easy friendship, united by the changes in our lives in the most unexpected way.

The song builds to a final chorus and when it ends, Maisie and her friends erupt into cheers and giggles. Lights flicker to life around us, and as the room grows brighter, the party host steps out from behind her little DJ desk.

“Who wants to play pass the parcel?”

Somehow, the squealing gets louder. As the party host, in her rainbow tutu and silver top, helps the kids form a circle, Cassidy and I slink away.

“Here,” a deep voice comes from behind me.

I turn as Callum stands from the chair he was sitting on. One arm gestures for me to sit, the other wraps around Cassidy’s waist. He pulls her in to plant a kiss on her cheek.

“Thanks for the chair,” I say when he finally comes up for air.

“Of course.”

I relax into the seat, stretching my feet out in front of me. “I’m exhausted all the time. Already. I can only imagine how hard it’s going to be when I’m in my third trimester. Or when the baby is actually born.”

I realise after the words spill out that I’ve assumed Cassidy has told Callum. I figured it was a given. And, thankfully, from the way Callum doesn’t miss a beat with his response, it seems I was right.

“Whatever you need, we’re here to help,” he says.

Callum excuses himself to go chat with some of the other dads, and Cassidy finds a lone chair to pull up beside me. Pass the parcel has ended and the party host has directed the children to a game of musical statues. None of the kids are playing properly, but the stop-starting of the music is giving me a headache.

Leaning forward, I rest my elbows on my knees, holding my head in my hands to press my thumbs against my temples.

“You okay?” Cassidy asks.

I can feel the air from her hand hovering by my shoulder, like she isn’t sure if she should put it down. I never imagined I’d feel such kindness from my ex-husband’s girlfriend, but I want more of it. I want to be her friend, I want to be able to confide in her and I want her to confide in me. Every friendship needs a little shove, so I innocently lean back a little until my shoulder rests against her hand. Her fingers stiffen as she sucks in a sharp breath, but then she relaxes into the touch, rubbing her fingers lightly on my shoulder.

“Just thinking about all the open houses I have to run this week. I’ve got one on Wednesday while Maisie is at dance class, and then a whole heap over the weekend.”

She pulls her hand back and twists in her chair to face me.

“You don’t sound thrilled.”

Sitting up, I sigh. I’m not thrilled. Not even a little bit. I’ve signed on as many houses as I can handle. Maybe a few too many, considering what the next week looks like. But all these houses will earn me a commission to go towards what I hope will be an extended maternity leave. It just feels so exhausting, and I’m not even halfway through my pregnancy. Thinking about keeping up this pace as the pregnancy progresses leaves an uncomfortable tension in the back of my neck.

“I’m worried I’m burning myself out,” I admit. “After Maisie was born, I worked so hard to be in the position I’m in now, but with this baby coming, I can’t help but feel it was all for nothing. My boss is already talking about the right time to have other agents shadow my sales, ‘just in case’ I go on maternity leave early. They’re ready to kick me to the curb just because I’m having a baby. So, I keep adding more houses to my roster, thinking if I can prove myself now, I won’t have to start from scratch again after my maternity leave.”

A second party host wheels a tray of hot party food into the room and the music stops. The silence leaves a ringing in my ears. I rub firm circles against my temples with my thumbs, trying to steady the pulsing that keeps creeping into my head.

“The more houses I add, the more monotonous it feels. It used to feel amazing, selling all these unique high-end homes. But now, they all blend into one and I really don’t care if it sells for a hundred thousand less than the house up the street. I think I’m done, but if I’m done, what then?”

I surprise myself, saying the words. I hadn’t really thought them until now. But it’s true. After years and years working my way up and up, becoming so close to being the top real estate agent in my area, being named one of the top women in real estate in all of the country, fighting to be seen and heard in a sea of male colleagues, I’m done. I officially want out of the rat race. And not just because I’m pregnant and tired, but because I’m just tired. Of the hustle, of the fight. Of forcing myself out of bed every morning to work a job that no longer brings me joy.

“Could you do something with your painting instead? You could start with my commission piece.” Cassidy’s voice surprises me, reminding me that I’m once again opening up to the woman I should dislike. But it’s impossible to dislike her, and maybe I’m sick of following all the so-called rules of life. Mine never seems to go to plan anyway.

Not long after she found out I was a painter, Cassidy had sent a text outlining the artwork she wanted to commission for her floristry cross cafe. Australian native flowers with coffee beans scattered throughout the petals. Big, too. The size of a big theatre room TV. I never responded, still unsure if I should, if I could.

I’ve never sold a painting before. I’ve given them away to friends and family, I’ve donated them to charity auctions and kindergarten fundraisers, but I’ve never sold one. I wouldn’t even know what to charge. Besides, it takes me months to complete a piece.

“You deserve a career that sets your soul on fire,” Cassidy continues, her arm reaching across the small gap between us to rest on my leg. “Plus, you could work the hours that suit you, rest when you need it, and have more flexibility when the baby comes.”

“I could, but it would also be so irregular and inconsistent. I don’t know how I’d be able to make a living off it.”

It would be fun though. To work for myself, doing something I’ve always found so much joy in. But look where fun has got me already. Pregnant, and stuck in some kind of baby daddy situation-ship that I can’t make heads or tails of.

“It’s hard, but plenty of people have done it before. Or if you’re not ready to take the leap you could look at art studios or supply shops? They might need people, even something casual to boost your income while you build a name for yourself as an artist?”

I sit back, leaning against the dark curtained wall. Lights sparkle around me, reflecting off the sequins on the wall and enveloping me in a rainbow of stars. Cassidy’s not wrong, but it’s hard to admit she is right. I’ve spent so much of my life building my real estate career. Just because it’s not serving its purpose right now doesn’t mean I should give it up completely.

I do like the idea of having some more flexibility when the baby comes though. And painting. Painting unleashes a part of me that is otherwise held back. The part where I ignore the rules and the colour theory and I paint outside the thirds or go straight in with the paint, not worrying about sketching first. It’s freeing, when I think and act that way. Maybe I need to take the same mentality with the rest of my life.

Picking up on my silent contemplation, Cassidy pats my leg before standing up.

“You don’t have to decide now, but you deserve to be thrilled about what you do for a living,” she says as she turns away toward a group of adults near the door.

“Wait,” I call out before she is too far away and she pivots back to face me with a grin. “I’ll do your painting.”

“Yes! I knew you would.” Her grin pushes into her cheeks and she lifts her hand in a small fist to pump the air before turning back to Callum and the other couples he is standing with.

They all step aside to welcome Cassidy into their circle and I long to be included. I know that I probably could be, too. But small talk grates on me, and lately everything has been feeling a hundred times worse.

I adjust my legs underneath the chair and reach a hand behind my back so I can use the seat to push myself up. I hate to think how heavy and exhausted I’m going to feel as the months go on. I’ve barely started my second trimester and I’m already struggling to stand. I blame the dancing, but wish I had someone here to help me all the same.

No, actually. Because as soon as the thought materialises, I realise it’s a lie. I don’t wish I had anyone to help me get up. I wish Michael was here to help me. Because he would, and I wouldn’t even have to ask. As soon as I finally told him about the baby, he has been nothing but supportive and kind. After he got over the initial shock, of course.

But since then, he’s been cautious without being overbearing.

I hadn’t thought about inviting him. Maisie never asked about him coming, and it hadn’t even crossed my mind that he might want to be here. And I hate myself for that. Because now we are about to watch our little kindergarten kid walk across an imaginary stage and collect her little certificate. It’s all for show, but I feel beyond terrible that I didn’t give Michael the choice to be here. All the uncertainty aside, he is part of this family now, which makes me not inviting him so much messier.

The music fades back to a lull, but this time the lights stay dimmed as one of the party hosts hands Maisie’s teacher a microphone.

It hits me, finally, that my little baby will be in school next year. Sure, she has a few more months of kinder, but the whole idea with having graduation so early was to celebrate before all the kids went off for school orientations on different days. The last few months of the year always pass so quickly anyway, but I don’t know how we have flown so swiftly into the next stage of Maisie’s life. But we have. And I’m about to start it all over again.

The thoughts swirl and spiral against the mix of emotions that were already brewing. I smile through the presentation, hugging Maisie after she skips back to me with her certificate. I pose for photos, lips turned up, cheeks puffy with my exaggerated grin. But all the while, I’m somehow missing Michael and I’m worried what I’m falling into is going to mess everything up.

Even more than it already has.