“Joey, what did we say about eating rocks?” I asked the toddler holding a handful of pebbles.

  He smiled his “I’m gonna do it anyway” grin and moved that chubby hand to his mouth. But it never got there because his sister, Malina, smacked his hand right down. Alright, thank you, Mal, but hitting wasn’t acceptable either.

  “Malina, can you think of a better way to get Joey to put down the rocks than slapping?” my friend Rhoda asked. I say “friend” loosely, but more on that in a minute.

  “He can’t eat rocks!” Malina pouted and folded her arms, sitting on the ground and sticking out her bottom lip.

  Oh boy, here we go. Please, please tell me we were not about to start a twin tantrum.

  Yeah, that’s right, my two charges were three-year-old twins. I told you my day job sucked, didn’t I?

  And that wasn’t the worst of it. In all honesty, I felt really sorry for Joey and Mal. (That was what she wanted to be called, so I used her preferred nickname. Less tantrums that way). Why did I feel sorry for these kids?

  Well, their dad disappeared doing cybernetics surgeries for three days at a time. I’d been their nanny for a year, and I’d only seen the man one time.

  And their mom? She worked from home but had a strict “no kids from 7 AM to 7 PM” schedule. Nannies all hours of the day, and security to watch the kids at night.

  The whole scenario was weird, and I had no idea what Janelynn, the mom, did for work. But I suspected she was some kind of mafia boss.

  Wouldn’t that make a great book? Mafia Moms: Secret Stories From The Vaults Of The Underworld. Okay, yeah, maybe my imagination got away from me at times, but that’s what made me an awesome writer.

  Hmmmm, I thought. Maybe I’ll loop back to that mafia moms idea tonight when I get home . . . Ping!

  DAMMIT! My pad was binging again. Discord. I pulled it outta my pocket and switched it to silent, but too late.

  “Got plans later? A date?” Rhoda smirked.

  So, here’s the thing with Rhoda. We met at this very park in central Cheyenne under the shade trees when I’d brought Joey and Mal for a picnic last month.

  The kids’ probably-not-mafia mom, Janelynn, didn’t like me to take her twins to fun places where there were other children because “little ones are germ factories.” And, “If they get sick, they’ll give it to me. And I can’t afford to get sick, so your job is to keep them away from me while I’m working, and make sure they don’t bring germs into the house.”

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  Can you imagine being three years old and never seeing your family? And then not being allowed to go around other kids because you might pick up a bug that could infect your parents and keep them from working?

  Are you seeing why my day job sucked so bad?

  Anyways, I’d started taking the twins to the park for picnics since summer in Cheyenne was so nice: crisp, cool, dry air, but warm enough for t-shirts and shorts. Sunny days full of throwing bread crumbs to noisy geese and swinging on the swing sets.

  And one day, Rhoda and her son Filly, also three years old, were at the swings the same time as us. Now, I’m not exactly a talk-a-mile-a-minute type of gal. Type a mile a minute? Yes, but talk? No.

  Rhoda, on the other hand, had no problem striking up a conversation right there by the swings. And she assumed that the twins were mine. So, I let her believe it. Why not?

  She’d been a bit confused when Joey called me “Sam” instead of “Mom.” So I told her that after my wife left me for a man, I’d decided to raise my kids very progressive and not use outdated words like “Mom.”

  She totally bought it.

  Admittedly, when that went down, I thought I’d never see her again. But lo and behold, guess who was at the park the next time I strolled in with my two charges? You guessed it! Little Filly and his mommy, Rhoda, ready to chat and chat and swing and swing and picnic on my blankets with us.

  Oh, you want me to back up and explain “Sam?”

  That’s my actual name: Samantha Mooneyhan. My pen name is Ayela Scarsdale, but I didn’t bother to go into all that with Rhoda. She just swallowed the bit about my ex-wife and went on chatting.

  Now we were playdate friends, and I liked Rhoda and her son quite a lot, but keeping my story straight was a little like keeping my books in order.

  Yes, she knew I was gay, but she thought I had an ex-wife who left me to raise twins on my own. And that I was a successful author supporting myself by writing love stories at night while the kids slept.

  Oy vey, I had to rehearse the story every time we went to the park.

  Remembering to laugh about the pings my pad was making and reminding myself of why Rhoda might think I had a date, I waved her off, “Course not! No dates! I’m too busy! Kids! Books to write!”

  My stomach turned over. This whole scene was getting out of hand, and I hated all the lies.

  “Well, if you do go looking for companionship, don’t do it on Discord. My cousin met a guy who was a charmer. Poured it on thick. She thought he hung the moon, and guess what happened to that?” Rhoda asked.

  Discord? Now she had my attention. “What? True love? Did they get married? Was he Prince Charming?”

  “Ha! No! It was a bot. Not even a real person! Got her heart broken over a no-body, no-thing NPC.”

  I laughed, pretending like I had a clue what she was talking about.

  “Serves her right for trusting someone on Discord,” I scoffed, trying to keep my face in an “I’m so cool” smile. Inside, I wondered what the fuck an NPC was.

  She snorted, “You got that right! Don’t fall in love on Discord, first rule. Second rule? Never tell anyone who you really are.”

  Okay then, maybe Rhoda could accidentally school me in the wily ways of Discord so I could start my romance-author-world-takeover career.

  Oh! Nope, that thought went by the wayside because Mal tripped and face planted in the dirt, screaming bloody hell.

  “Aww, honey, come here,” I soothed, picking her up, hugging her, and dusting her off. “Let’s have a look. Oh, good, not bleeding. How about your hands? Lemme see. All good, no boo boos. Whaddaya say to getting some ice cream on our way home?”

  That calmed her down, and I wrangled the twins into the porter, waving goodbye to Rhoda and Filly.

  Yeah, the twins’ parents had a sweet ride that floated above the streets, just like most people in Cheyenne in 2859. I plugged in the location, and the autonav took us to the ice cream shop, then home.

  Once I got the kids tucked in for their naps, I pulled out my pad, ready for Discord. A two-hour rest for Joey and Mal meant a nice, long chat session for me.

  What could possibly go wrong?