“I mean no offense, ma’am.” My words felt hollow, inadequate.
“Enough with the ma’am bullshit,” the stubborn matriarch scoffed, waving a dismissive hand at me. “My name is Maureen.”
“Jackson, ma’am.” When Maureen cut her eyes at me, a flicker of annoyance in their depths, I winced, a small, involuntary sound. “Sorry. It’s bred into me. Nothing I can do.”
This time my smile was wide, a desperate attempt to smooth over the rough edges I’d created. Maureen just shook her head, a small, almost imperceptible sigh escaping her lips, and made herself busy making me a sandwich. The sandwich, when it was placed in front of me, felt heavy, not with food, but with the weight of my own clumsy interactions, the constant, gnawing doubt that I was making things worse for everyone.
Maureen sat down at the table on the other end, watching me intently as she tilted her head to the side. “Your eyes are very interesting.”
“Thank you?” I questioned, a knot of unease tightening in my stomach. Her scrutiny felt like an invasion, a familiar discomfort that always prickled at me. I hated being the focus, the subject of such pointed observation. It felt like an invitation for judgment, and I’d spent too long building walls to let anyone get that close.
“You’ll have to forgive my mom. She’s from New England, where people are kind, but they aren’t nice.” The young girl’s voice, bright and a little too eager, did little to soothe my internal clamor. Kindness without niceness. The phrase echoed the judgmental whispers I constantly fought against in my mind.
I lifted an eyebrow in confusion; my internal debate was already beginning. Was it better to be overtly critical and thus honest, or superficially pleasant while harboring unspoken disapproval? My own upbringing, a constant tightrope walk between my family’s rigid expectations and my own burgeoning sense of self, made the question painfully relevant.
“How can you be kind but not nice?” the other woman asked.
The young girl chuckled. It felt performative, like she was enjoying her own cleverness. “In New England, if you get a flat tire, people will stop and help you change it, but they’ll tell you how stupid you were for running over a nail in the first place. They’ll give you the shirt off their back to make sure you’re dressed but criticize you for not bringing an extra.”
“I guess that means Southerners are nice but not kind. ’Cause they are sweet as pie when they say,‘bless your heart,’knowing damn well the second you turn your back, they’ll take the knife they cut that pie with and stab you with it,” the pretty one added.
“Exactly.”
I chuckled, a hollow sound that betrayed none of the turmoil churning within me. Maureen watched me, her gazeunwavering. It was precisely this kind of interaction I’d always avoided. The easy camaraderie, the shared observations—they were a trap, a siren song leading to exposure. I wanted to shrink back, to melt into the shadows, but a part of me, a deeply buried, almost shameful part, craved that connection, that feeling of belonging. It was a battle I’d fought for years, this internal war between the desire to be seen and the overwhelming fear of what might be revealed.
“Maureen?” the pretty woman said, her voice softer now, tinged with a genuine curiosity that made my skin crawl. “I’m sorry, there’s just something familiar about you. Where are you from?” she asked, looking directly at me.
The question landed like a blow.
I answered, my voice tight, “Tennessee.”
Uncomfortable didn’t even describe it. The familiar urge to deflect, to lie, to construct a more palatable version of myself, surged. I didn’t like people asking about me, where I was from, or who I really was. I wasn’t like the rest of my family. I kept my personal life close to the vest. No one needed to know who I truly was. This was the very secret I’d sworn to protect, the fragile peace I’d built on a foundation of omission. But here, under Maureen’s steady gaze and the pretty woman’s insistent inquiry, I felt a dangerous crack forming.
“And your parents?”
“Mom, leave the man alone.” The young girl’s chiding was a welcome interruption, a reprieve I hadn’t realized I was desperate for. But even as relief washed over me, a small, insidious voice whispered that I was a coward, that I should have stood my ground, that I should have owned my story, however messy.
“I’m sorry.” Maureen shook her head, the apology a flicker of something I couldn’t quite decipher. She stood up from the table and went to the refrigerator to grab the tea. Filling a glass,she set it in front of me. I looked at the glass, the dark liquid shimmering, and then at Maureen.
“It’s sweet. I don’t know how you all drink that shit. Fucking diabetes in a glass.”
Her bluntness, devoid of any New England niceness or Southern sweetness, struck me with a strange force. It was an observation, stark and unvarnished, and for the first time that evening, I felt a faint stirring of kinship. My eyes widened as I gaped at the woman.
Holy shit. She is just like Stella.
King chose that moment to walk in. The pretty woman stiffened and got up from the table, not before giving King a withering look that didn’t bode well for the man.
“Grace, can we talk?”
“Fuck you, King.”
“Grace,” he groaned. “It will only take a minute.”
“Sorry, I promised Colleen I’d get a coffee with her,” she said, glancing over at the young girl named Colleen, who blinked several times before quickly adding, “That’s right. She promised. She’s always working, so we haven’t had a chance to get to know each other.”
“Johnny is still at the hospital.”
“I don’t need a fucking babysitter.”
