“I got behind on my rent, and the landlord’s wife told me I would be okay if I just added a little cash each month to catch up. Well, the landlord apparently didn’t agree and wouldn’t honor the deal. He tacked a thirty-day notice to the door a couple of days ago. Nice, huh?”

“Honestly? I’m less concerned about their manners and more concerned about where you might be living when our son visits.” When you have him all of one day a month.

He takes a deep breath. “Well, here’s the thing . . .”

I don’t know where he’s going with this, but I know that I’m about to hate it.

“You know I don’t love it when you start sentences like that,” I say.

“Robbie got a job in Cleveland, and he was basically telling me that he can hook me up with something too. I know it’s a little far, but I could really turn shit around fast and be back down here in a new place. You know, it can all work out real easy.”

Are you fucking kidding me?

I struggle to keep my frustration with this man contained. He’s just moving to Cleveland like that? To work with Robbie, no less—a man who couldn’t make a legal living if he had to.

My throat pulls together. I march across the parking lot away from the office in case I need to scream.

Or cry. Who knows?

“You know, Jared, I’m not your mother and I’m not your girlfriend. But I am the mother of your child, which makes me somewhat inclined to not want to see you dead or end up in prison.”

“That might be the nicest thing you’ve ever said to me,” he jokes.

I roll my eyes. “I’m reading between the lines here, and I’m not sure what you’re going to do up there, but it doesn’t feel like a great solution to the problem at hand.”

He breathes heavily into the phone. His frustration that I’m not rolling over and cheerleading his next bright idea pisses him off.

I brace myself for his retaliation—because there will be retaliation—but I can’t let this go.

“What do you suggest, then? Huh?” he asks. “Because that’s what you do, Palm. You’re so quick to point out fucking problems and never have a fucking solution.”

“This is my fault? Oh, wait. Of course it is. Why wouldn’t this be my fault?”

My temples pound with a rush of blood flow as I grit my teeth and try to stay calm. I lean back against the trunk of my car. The cold metal bites into my skin, but I’m too riled up to register it.