Momzillas by Jill Kargman

drinking in the Van Eycks and Brueghels and Titians. I felt a soothing peace wash over me. A calm that was reversed the nanosecond I heard his voice.
    â€œMiss Hannah Greene. Or now it’s Mrs….”
    â€œAllen,” I said, almost choking. “Professor Hayes.”
    â€œI think you can call me Tate—now that you’re, what, ten years out of Berkeley?”
    â€œYes.” I smiled, looking down at Violet.
Don’t blush, don’t blush, don’t blush
.
    â€œAnd who is this cherubic little love?”
    â€œThis is Violet!” I started feeling like I was beamed back in time to my nervous freshman self. “Violet, this is Tate Hayes. Dr. Hayes.”
    â€œHi,” she said, reaching up to him for a hug, her new thing. He happily obliged.
    â€œI heard you’re remarried,” I said. “And you have two little nuggets?”
    â€œYes, two boys, four and six.”
    â€œHerro, Ayes,” Violet said, smiling brightly, and definitely flirting. It was funny how Violet picked up on people I loved or loathed. Without fail, when we ran into someone I detested, she’d scowl and refuse to say hi. And now she was her mother’s daughter, practically cooing as the former crush of my life leaned down to softly pat her cheek.
    â€œListen, Hannah,” he said, as my entire body froze at the sound of my name in his mouth. “I have to run, but I’d really love to catch up. Could I get your number?”
    I obliged, rattling off my cell number as he wrote in a small leather-covered pad with an elegant pen.
    â€œFour one five, hmm?”
    â€œYes. I’ve been here almost a month and I guess I’m clinging on for dear life. Can’t let go of the old area code.”
    â€œUnderstood,” he smiled, retrieving an old-school brick of a cell phone from his pocket. “Four one five, always.”
    I smiled.
    â€œI’ll call you, then. Maybe we can see the new etchings show at the Morgan.”
    â€œThat would be great.”

    At home, still unsettled, I called Josh. I was cooking Violet eggs because I was such a loser I hadn’t thought about dinner until the chowing hour was suddenly upon us.
    â€œHi, sweets!” I said.
    â€œHi,” he said in a hushed tone. “Han, I’m so sorry I’ve got some people in here, can I—”
    â€œOkay, sure.”
    Click.
    An hour and a half later, Violet was crying for Daddy and Joshie still hadn’t phoned. I called him again, feeling stalkerazzi, but I needed to get an ETA for sanity.
    â€œHello?” His voice sounded stressed.
    â€œHi, sweetie, sorry to stalk, I just—”
    â€œHoney, I’m really busy here, I just found out I have to present tomorrow and I have a few more hours.”
    â€œA few more
hours
?” I was bummed beyond words.
    â€œSorry, sweetie, I can’t help it. This is for us.”
    â€œI know, I know.”
    He told me he loved me, which warmed me up, but as I replaced the phone on the wall, I felt the now-familiar chill of loneliness.
    After I tucked Violet into bed with
Goodnight Moon
, which I knew by heart, with her spotting the little mouse on each page, I sang her to sleep with “Tender Shepherd” then snuck out. Naturally, seven seconds post-tiptoe in the hall, there were wails.
    â€œMommieeeeee!”
    I went back in, lay down on the floor next to her crib, and sang some more. As I’d quiet down and begin to slowly get up again, I’d see her sit up suddenly, her small face looking through the slats of her white crib, desperate. She’d see I was still there and lay back down. Back in California Josh had always been the bedtime expert, lulling her with his gentle voice that was at once calming but also strong, making Violet—and me—feel utterly safe. He was a master tucker-inner, exiting our daughter’s room each night and leaving in his wake Violet’s gentle breaths of deep and