This time the squeal I let out isn’t so silent.
“You okay, hon?” my mom calls through my closed door.
“Fine! Just getting up,” I call back, then sigh. I stare at theceiling and take a few deep, cleansing breaths. I love my mother. Really, I do. And I know she loves me. She means well.
She just doesn’t often come off that way.
And I’ve never had the kind of strength required to tell her that.
I dress quickly, pulling on a pair of cutoff shorts and a T-shirt, then trudge into the kitchen.
“Look at you, sleepyhead!” my mom says from her perch at the kitchen table, a half-drunk mug of coffee on the table in front of her. “I’ve been waiting for you to wake up. Let’s go to breakfast. Then I want to swing by the fabric store—I miss Libby’s. All we have down in Boca is a Hobby Lobby, and their customer service is just not up to par. And then we should hit the grocery because honey, there are no vegetables in your kitchen. Do you need some financial help? Because you know Dad and I would be happy to send you money.”
I suppress a sigh. It’s not even eight on a Saturday morning and I’m standing in my kitchen fully dressed, but sure, I’m a sleepyhead. And of course she doesn’t ask whether I have any plans, just assumes I’ll tag along on her errands.
“Breakfast sounds good,” I say, plastering on a smile. “And I was already planning a grocery trip today, before you surprised me with a visit. If I’d known you were coming, I’d have stocked the fridge. I just need to be somewhere at noon.”
I brace for her to ask me where I need to be, at which point I’ll need to tell her about roller derby, which I’m dreading. But instead she just smiles.
“Let’s go to Pete’s,” Mom says, reaching for her purse, the same brown leather Coach bag Dad got her for Christmas when I was in middle school. The lottery win may have changed their retirement plans, but it hasn’t changed much else. “I miss their pancakes. I shouldn’t, though. So many calories for breakfast. But I’m on vacation, so maybe I can be bad.”
I bite back the desire to tell her that eating a pancake doesn’t make her bad, that the food we eat has no moral value. I want totell her that food is simply fuel, and since I have roller derby practice later, I’ll need plenty of that.
Instead I smile a tight-lipped smile and take my purse from the counter.
“Pete’s sounds great, Mom.”
The Half Pint is dark and quiet at nine thirty in the morning on a Saturday. The chairs are upside down on the tables, and the speakers are blasting Taylor Swift. Wyatt is behind the bar, inventorying the bottles on the wall behind her.
“I have to make this quick,” I tell her, slinging my purse onto the bar and sliding onto a stool. “My mom stopped into the fabric store, so I should have about twenty minutes before she texts.”
Wyatt looks confused. “Your mom is here?”
“Surprise!” I say, pulling a face. “Yeah, she showed up last night.”
She grimaces. “Wow. And here I thought you were getting lucky with Dan.”
“Yeah, me too,” I grumble.
The bottle of tequila Wyatt is unboxing lands on the bar with a thud. “Wait, seriously? I was teasing,” she says.
“Why does me hooking up with Dan seem so crazy?” I say.
“It’s not crazy, just surprising,” she says, raising her hands in surrender. “I’m surprised. He’s not the easiest person to get to know.”
“Well, it doesn’t feel surprising to me. Frankly, the only feeling I have about it isgood.” And then I feel myself flush from head to toe.
Wyatt’s eyebrows shoot up. “Okay, get it, girl,” she says. “Where are we at with this thing?”
“Well, last night after we saw you, he took me to this old quarry, and, uh, we went swimming…”
“I’m guessing you did not pack swimsuits?” Wyatt waggles her eyebrows.
“We did not,” I say with a grin. “But the evening got interrupted when we rolled into the house to find my mother sitting on the couch.”
“Yikes,” she says. “What a cockblock.”
“No kidding,” I say.
