“It’s almost one, so probably nearly three where you are?”
Shit.
“In the afternoon?” I rush down the remaining stairs and go straight to a window, flinging open the curtains and twisting the angle of the blinds. The day is dreary, but the light still hits me like a slap to the face.
I can’t remember the last time I looked outside, but it probably should have been two hours ago when I was supposed to be at my parents’ for Thanksgiving dinner.
“I’ve got to go. Happy Thanksgiving.” I don’t wait for Heidi to respond before disconnecting the call. I do take the time to close my blinds and curtains before darting back up the stairs, taking them two at a time, feeling grateful I might have let a lot of other shit go, but I haven’t given up my love of working out.
I wasn’t sure there was any point in it since I rarely leave my house, but if all that cardio can help get me through a shower and to my mother’s doorstep in record time, it will be worth every sweaty minute.
I manage to get under the spray, scrub down, and dry off before the reckoning—aka my mother—arrives.
I knew it was a pipe dream to think I’d still be able to walk into the house like nothing happened, but I was going to give it ashot. It’s what I do best. Pretend like nothing happened in spite of all the evidence proving otherwise.
When I come out of the bathroom, I can hear my mother mumbling downstairs. I’m far enough away I can’t make out her exact words, but I’ve heard them enough times to know they’re directly related to my living conditions.
Since I don’t seem to be going anywhere, I pull on a pair of joggers instead of jeans and dig out a wrinkled T-shirt from the clean laundry basket shoved into one corner of my bedroom. Dragging it over my head, I aim for the door, knowing it’s better to just get this over with.
I go downstairs to find my mother doing what she normally does, but in a very different sort of state. Whenever she decides to be brave enough to venture into my home, she immediately starts tackling all the things I’ve neglected. Loading the dishwasher, wiping down counters, analyzing the two items stocked in my refrigerator.
And today is no different in that sense.
Whatisdifferent is that today she looks like just as big of a shit show as I am. Her coat and boots are in a pile at my front door, leaking water and mud onto the mat. Her shirt is relatively clean, but her pants are absolutely covered in something I don’t even want to attempt to identify. They’re rolled up past her ankles, revealing a set of pruning bare feet as she huffs and puffs her way around my kitchen.
“Sorry I missed Thanksgiving. I didn’t realize what time it was.” It sounds far-fetched, but is a normal part of my life. I get my days and nights confused regularly. Since I work from home and no one else is ever around, time is pretty irrelevant in my world.All I know is it keeps moving on even though at one point I fully believed it would stop.
And probably should have.
“Imagine that.” My mother glances up at me from where she’s scrubbing at my sink. “It’s like a fucking tomb in here. No wonder you don’t know day from night.”
Huh. Never heard my mother saythatword before. And for some reason it puts me at ease.
I was expecting her to come here carrying sadness and disappointment, ready to impose guilt. Instead she seems angry.
And anger is an emotion I can totally get behind. It’s one I’m well-versed in.
“Might as well be a tomb. Probably should be dead anyway.” I know I’m going to piss my mom off even more with this kind of shit. That’s actually what I’m hoping for. To goad her into a fight. An argument that will allow me the opportunity to release a little of what’s always breathing down my back.
Forget having a chip on my shoulder. That can be hidden.
There’s no missing the source of my rage. It’s etched into my hide. Burned into my skin and my soul.
But instead of taking the bait, my mom drops the sponge in her hand, expression filled with sadness as she meets my gaze. “I just left Walker’s. He’s having a tough day too. Maybe you should —”
I know where she’s going with this. This isn’t the first time my mother has attempted to align my cousin’s pain and mine. ButI think he’d agree with me when I say the two couldn’t be more different. Just like our ways of coping.
“Maybe I should leave him the fuck alone.” I point at her. “And so should you.”
Somewhere along the line, my mother has come up with the idea that if I just talk about what happened, I’ll feel better. That somehow words will magically make me forget everything I lost in the blink of an eye.
“Sometimes people need help, Titus. They can’t move forward on their own, and they need a little push.” My mother rounds the large island in the house she designed for me since I didn’t give two shits what it looked like. “That’s why I’m going to hire you a housekeeper and an in-house personal chef.” She gestures around, lifting her brows. “You’ve lived like this for too long. You’ve punished yourself enough.”
The scars winding across my jawline and down the right side of my neck to my shoulder start to itch. Almost seem to tighten, like they want to remind me they’re there.
As if I could forget.
“I guess we’ll have to agree to disagree on that one.” I turn away from where she stands, done with the conversation and done with being awake. “Because I’m pretty confident I haven’t even come close to what I deserve.” I scale the stairs again, but this time my feet feel heavy. My body exhausted in a way that has nothing to do with how long I’ve been up.
