“You okay with me keeping you up?” He must’ve set the phone upright against something. Bobby is looking at me with his chin resting on his arms, giving me his full attention. “You said Saturday mornings at the bakery are hectic, and I don’t want to cause more stress by keeping you up.”
Considerate some?
“I’m a college student, remember? We can party into the early morning, be hungover, and still make it to a seven a.m. class on less than two hours of sleep.”
He laughs. “Is that from experience?”
My eyes widen. “How did you know?”
More laughter from him. “I didn’t. It was a wild guess.”
I shake my head, the corners of my mouth lifting. “You’re unbelievable.” The fluttering in my stomach grows from what feels like one hundred butterflies to a million taking flight.
“And you’re gorgeous when your eyes get big. Makes me want to kiss you right smack between them.”
His words have an immediate effect. I relax into bed, pull the covers to my chin, and imagine his soft, warm mouth pressed on the strip of flesh between my eyes.
“I wish you were here.” It’s out before I know what I’m saying. I clamp my hand over my mouth.
The sparkle in his eyes fades, replaced with a dark and lustful expression. Bobby’s gaze roams over my face, from my eyes to my nose, before settling on my mouth. If my eyes, nose, and mouth were locations on my face, we’d know precisely what Bobby’s destination is.
His interest spurs my own and brings my desire into the open. “I want to feel your mouth on mine. Feel your hands on my body. Relive every moment of tonight, this morning, with you.”
There’s a beat of silence, as if we’ve lost connection, but we haven’t, and horror washes over me for oversharing. I shield my face from him with my hand. “I’m sorry.” I fan my fingers and peek through them. “It was too much. I understand if you want to end the call. You must think I’m desperate for male attention. Or that I’m love bombing you.” I’m digging myself into a deeper hole when I won’t shut up.
I cover my face with a pillow and groan. I wouldn’t blame Bobby if he wants to get off this call ASAP. I’m coming off as needy.
I am not needy. Carlos said I was too independent for my own good and that asking for help wasn’t a sign of weakness or that I couldn’t take care of myself. That’s my fear, though. What I didn’t tell Carlos.
My biggest fear is losing my grip on life again to the point that I do the unthinkable, like taking my mom’s drugs, so I could lose myself because I’d rather drown in a high than ask for help with my grief over losing my mother.
Mom worked two jobs to afford the mortgage and the bills. Money was tight, and we were regulars at the food bank. That didn’t stop her from taking me to the zoo, visiting Dumas Botanical Garden, and shopping for school supplies and new clothes, and then makeup when I was twelve.
We still enjoyed life. She was my world, and Ty and I were hers. He was into football, and his passion and talent made her more determined to make his dream of playing ball in college come true. His dream did come true, and he played football for DU before he opened his tattoo shop.
My mom was strong. The strongest person I know. But I knew, even at a young age, that she carried a heavy load on her shoulders. She cried at night, when she didn’t think I would hear her. She thought I was deep asleep beneath the covers. Mom was wrong. I stayed awake until silence descended on the house.
When she didn’t stop crying, I went to her, holding a plushie that my father had given to me, using his men. They’d set a box on the back porch.
Seeing the latest plushie, she’d smile through her tears and say everything would be all right. She was waiting for a promotion. Then she met her dealer at one of her jobs, and life went from tough to unbearable.
Ty was out of the house. By then, he was twenty and playing football for DU. Our visits to see my dad gradually became less frequent. I couldn’t tell him what was happening with Mom.
He spoke in codes on our last visit, letting us know that trouble was brewing for him inside prison. Dad didn’t go into details, but I had a feeling it had to do with his ties to his father’s side of the family, who have connections to the Irish mob.
My mom’s dealer got her hooked, and her addiction stripped her of her independence and spirit. When she asked me for help, it wasn’t so she could get clean. My mom asked for help with the small things we often took for granted, like getting dressed, remembering to eat and drink, using the bathroom, and showing love to those around her. I was made to feel like a stranger, then a caregiver in our house.
I loved her, but she was needy all the way to the end. “Brush my hair and apply my makeup, Ever. Help me get dressed, baby girl.” Her dealer was stopping by the house, and she wanted to look good for him, though she still loved my father.
I never want to be needy.
“Ever?”
“Hmm?” The pillow muffles my response. I don’t want to face Bobby. I’m scared I’ll see a what-the-hell-have-I-gotten-myself-into expression.
“Look at me.”
I peek at him around the pillow.
