Josie
I sit in my car with my coffee. The engine’s off, the heater’s off—and I’ve never been so on. My heart is hammering; I do not need the burst of caffeine that’s coursing through me. If only I’d just stayed in bed and ignored the internal alarm that always tells me to jump out of my apartment the minute I’m awake. Since I never go down to my mom’s kitchen for my morning cup—too big a risk of running into my parents—a quick run to Shelton’s 24 has been my new solve.
This is what I get for leaving the house before dawn.
Fate is truly messing with me lately. It’s way too soon for another dose of Axe MacKenzie. Especially with his overnight scruff and the way he raised his eyebrow when he said,Consider it done. Thank God my coat is buttoned and I wore my boots. The humiliation of Axe seeing me in my pj’s—a too-small Walk for Josie cancer fundraiser T-shirt plus glitter-heart sweatpants—makes me shiver. I have no idea why my mother keeps all my old donation swag—like sports award ribbons, only make it illness.
Axe was perfectly friendly, but he didn’t bring up any of what happened last night. Clearly it hasn’t been on auto-replay for himthese past hours. I can still feel the heat of his huge hands around my waist when he steadied me after I kissed him.
The whole thing couldn’t have lasted more than a minute, and now I wonder if I imagined the energy crackling between us. Maybe it was just the lemon drop shots and the adrenaline from escaping Freddy Krueger, and Axe wasn’t on board at all. His eyes—those ridiculously intense blue eyes—locked on me with a look that could only have been…what?
I thought it was desire, but seeing him again, all casual friendly and maybe even a tiny bit startled, I’m not so sure. It might have been concern? Or, on second thought,pity? Yeah. Pity feels right. He probably thought I’d lost my mind. What the hell was I thinking, drunkenly kissing him like that? No matter how head-spinningly attracted to him I felt in that moment, it was so messy and dumb.
Anyway, I don’t even like Axe, so I shouldn’t care what he thinks. I don’t care. Idon’t.
The sun’s just up by the time I’m back in the apartment, where I see Mom’s already been, and the reason is soon clear. She’s left a Post-it note on the lampshade next to my bed:Don’t forget! Post to socials this morning!
Ugh. Please, Mom. Posting to socials—even if it’s to celebrate that I’m in remission—is just another way to get people to feel sorry for me. After the childhood I had, there is no feeling worse than imagining someone pitying me. I know the pity face too well—it’s the one people get when they see a small, frail child with her head wrapped in a chemotherapy scarf. It’s a mix ofThank God that’s not my kidpaired with a mouth pulled down just enough to suggest they’ve tasted something sour.
People used to stop me and my mother in the grocery storewith that exact face. The more aggressive do-gooders might press a hand to our shoulders and tell us how “strong” we were and how they were “praying for us.”
Strong. Which, if you think about it, makes no sense.
Like I had a choice whether to keep living or not?
My mom always responded with a warm smile and her card—pastel pink with a tiny rainbow in the corner, which included a link to our GoFundMe page.
My head aches. Today is going to suck. My unwedding to-do list is a mile long: return the gifts piled in the corner, cancel the florist and the venue, inform our guest list. Worst of all, I need to come to terms with the fact that I’m stuck living with Mom and my stepdad, Alan, for at least another few months.
Shit, the stable future I briefly envisioned has not only gone up in smoke but might have been a cruel little hallucination all along.
I’ve hit bottom.
Then I check my phone and realize there’s farther to fall.
Fifteen messages from Bryan. The first voicemails are sweet and contrite—I’m sorrys,I love yous.But as he got progressively drunker or higher last night, the messages turned flat-out mean.You ungrateful bitch,good fucking luck finding someone who will put up with your sick ass,enjoy your life without me,you’ll never get anyone better.
I block him. Not that I ever had a shred of doubt about ending our engagement, but this makes it even clearer I made the right call. Meanwhile, I’ve got four texts from my mother, sent exactly twenty minutes apart, like she set a timer:Sweetheart, when you have a moment, please show some love to JosieFightsOn! Your fans are waiting to hear from you; people worry when you’re quiet; you owe them at least a picture!
Obviously, I don’t block Mom, despite a secret, tiny voice inside me that sort of wants to. I remind myself of the many times she literally saved my life. Even today she’s saving me.
I’m living in her damn guest apartment. I cannot be ungrateful.
Alan’s the only dad I’ve known since my own father died when I was about a year old, and he’s never gotten to do normal husband things with Mom, like go out to dinners and movies and take beach vacations. Not with his stepdaughter in the hospital half her life and medical bills crowding the mailbox. There’s no love lost between Alan and me. We’ve never quite connected, and I’ll never be interested in hearing about his passion for fishing, his obsessive love of Yuengling paired with smelly foods, and his penchant for too-tight T-shirts tucked into cargo shorts.
But I do get why he’d resent the burden I’ve always been.
I delete the photo my mom took last night and put a Focus setting on my phone that blocks me from logging in to any social media accounts.
Then I send Mom back a heartfeltI love you.
I take a quick shower, change into jeans and a soft, plain sweatshirt, and make my bed, and now I feel refreshed enough to pull out my tarot deck from where it’s edged into my bookcase. Nonna gave it to me for my sixteenth birthday; she used to teach me how to read the cards. This deck originally belonged to my great-grandmother, who taught Nonna and who died about a decade before I was born.
If my whole life went up in flames, this velvet-lined burgundy-leather box is truly the only thing I would make sure to save.
The box’s lid is framed around an image of Fortuna, the Roman goddess of luck and fortune. The cards themselves are hand-painted on cardstock with gilded edges. Holding the deckin my hands always makes me miss Nonna. Even though I see her almost every day after work, Nonna has severe dementia now, and she lives in the Golden Leaves Memory Care Facility. The place could desperately use a makeover, but it’s the best we can afford. Nonna’s care is a patchwork of funding: some state assistance, some from Mom and Alan, and the rest from me.
At least she’s safe at Golden Leaves and mostly still remembers me. These are the sort of gifts I will never take for granted.
