“No time like the present,” I utter, my tone clearly unamused.
My mom sighs behind me, but I leave her with her self-righteous thoughts and close the door with my foot as I enter mynewroom. A puff of dust kicks off the nearby dresser as I drop my clothes on the sitting chair in the corner. I wave my hand through the air, coughing my way to the window so I can crack it open. This space is the very definition of musty. And I’m sure there are ghosts in here—fragments of every life decision I’ve ever made.
I didn’t want to get into the history of my parents’ bizarre arrangement with Hunter during our drive home. It was bad enough that my mom insisted on stepping into the caretaker role without me around. Then she dropped her little bomb about moving in, and my brain simply shut down. I may have channeled that frustration toward Hunter, and I’m only now reflecting on my behavior.
I sit on the edge of the mattress and stare at the specks of dust floating through the beam of sunlight. My phone buzzes at my hip, so I fish it from my side pocket and see my sister’s incoming call. I pinch the bridge of my nose and press the phone to my ear.
“I’m surprised I can get cell service in the guest room. It feels kind of like a scene in one of those horror movies where they send the bad children to starve.”
My sister snort-laughs at my tasteless joke.
“You’re being dramatic,” she says.
I pat the folded bedspread, and more dust puffs into the air.
“Am I?”
My sister is quiet for a few seconds, which pretty much answers my question. I know she hates what’s happening as much as I do, but the brunt of it is happening more directly to me. Regardless, I am glad I have her to commiserate with. Just like I’m glad she agrees that I shouldn’t pack up and head back to school right away. My mom’s been impulsive about her relationship with Dad before. This could very well turn into a pit stop . . .again.
“I can’t believe you’re giving her the room without a fight,” my sister finally says.
I shake my head and utter, “Yeah,” because my move surprises me a bit, too. I’m usually more stubborn than this. But my dad seems so happy to have her here. And he’s doing so well. I don’t want to be the downer. At least not this time.
Lindsey and I have always been embarrassed by our parents’ arrangement. They never told us they got divorced the first time our mom left, when we were eleven and thirteen and Mom went to Boston to work for a congresswoman.
Now that I’m an adult, I think she probably also moved to Boston to be with another man—Collin. They both worked at the same crisis communications firm, and Collin represented this exciting life that was nothing like that of a small-town high school baseball coach’s wife. My mom was only in Boston—aka with Collin—for two years. She was back home with us when I started high school.
She left again a few times, usually for work. Six months in Chicago was followed up by a year in Northern California. She was just settling back in Sweetwater again when my dad had his first stroke. She stayed for the first one, which wasn’t as severe. Then, conveniently, the Houston opportunity showed up around the time Dad had his second stroke. And she was gone again, leaving him to do the hard stuff alone.
“Do you think Dad’s a sucker?” It’s a blunt question, and it tastes bad on my tongue, but I have to ask it. And Lindsey’s the only one I can say it to.
“Sometimes,” she says, her response equally honest.
My sister and I make plans for her to come over for dinner next Monday, along with the boys. That’s another bone of contention, and one my sister harbors more than I do since she’s the one with children. Our mom has missed out on a lot of grandparenting time. Of course, spending more time with the kids was supposedly one of Mom’s primary reasons for moving back home. We’ll see how she handles two boys wrapped around her legs the moment they enter the house. Assuming they remember who she is.
“How was camping?” Lindsey finally broaches therealreason she’s called.
I suck in my lips as my cheeks burn.
“It was good. I had fun.”
She dismisses my curt answer with a hard laugh.
“Bitch, I need details. Did you?” She lets the open-ended question linger between us for a few long seconds, and I consider not answering. A non-answer is really a yes, though, so I may as well rip the Band-Aid off.
“We did.”
She squeals, and I hold the phone away from my ear until her shriek has subsided.
“I want to know everything. Girl, it’s been years since I’ve had strange dick. And a ballplayer, you lucky bitch. Is he big? Are the abs legit? Is he into wild shit or like, boring missionary style?”
“Oh my God, Lindsey. I’m not telling you any of that.” I flatten my palm over my face and giggle softly at the memory of Hunter pulling my sweatshirt up my body. “Okay, okay. I’ll give you one thing. Brace yourself.”
“I’m braced,” my sister pants jokingly.
“As skillful as Hunter Reddick is on the mound, he's ten times as good between my legs. And I mean all of him. His mouth. His hands. His . . .”
I trail off there, but Lindsey has zero boundaries and fills in the gap with a very loud, “Cock.”
