Jumping into the old Dodge truck, I turn the key. The engine sputters once, like it’s about to cooperate… and then dies with a flat, hollow click. My stomach drops.
“No. You have to be kidding me.” I try again. Same result. A wholelot of nothing. I slump back in the seat and stare at the ceiling, already knowing what this means. It’s more than possibly being late. I’m going to have to drive the rental truck to work.
The giant, bright, impossible-to-ignore rental truck. The one that screamsmy life has become nothing more than cardboard boxes and questionable decisions.
Heat crawls up my neck as I imagine pulling into the employee parking lot in something that looks like it should be delivering furniture. Everyone will see it. There will be questions. And more degrading commentary.
I drop my forehead to the steering wheel with a quiet groan. This is not how I want my awful coworker, Tiffani, finding out that my life has sunk into even further personal chaos. By the time I park in the furthest spot available, humiliation burns behind my eyes. Knock it off, Grace. Your ten minutes are up.
I square my shoulders, trying to replay the lyrics from the Kelly Clarkson song in my head as I walk to the front entrance. Tomorrow. Maybe tomorrow will be a better day.
4
GRACE
I letmyself into my mother’s house expecting quiet. Instead, I walk straight into a full-blown Elvis revival.
Mom is planted in her recliner, oxygen cannula in place, arms bouncing enthusiastically to the beat while her seventy-year-old neighbor, Winnie, is practically twerking on the coffee table. “Burning Love” blasts through the living room speakers like it’s 1972 and they’re celebrating the arrival of a new polyester pantsuit.
They are so invested in this performance that neither of them notices me standing there, groceries still clutched to my chest, wondering if I’ve accidentally crossed into a time warp.
Winnie switches from twerking to dramatic hip-swaying, belting out about a hunk of burning love in full abandon.
The room itself looks like it hasn’t changed since disco died. I should know. I spent my formative years surrounded by this stuff. The avocado-green carpet, wood-paneled walls, a crocheted afghan thrown over the arm of the worn blue velvet recliner, and a row of ceramic figurines guarding the mantle like tiny porcelain sentries.
“Graceland,” Mom finally says, breathless but pleased. “I didn’t hear you come in.”
I snort. “I can’t imagine why.”
Winnie spins to face me. “Grace. What a nice surprise! You caught us mid-rehearsal.”
“For what?”
“Our farewell tour.” She smirks. “I’ve got a date tonight.” She turns to my mother and whispers dramatically, “I even got some fancy new undies. Little red lacy pair.”
My stomach freefalls at the mental imagery. “Winnie…”
“Crotchless.”
“Oh my god.” I rub my face. I don’t know how I don’t have a permanent palm print embedded in my skin from this woman.
Winnie announces she needs to head home to get ready, winks dramatically at Mom, and sashays out the door, humming Elvis.
When the house settles back into quiet, Mom looks at me softly. “You okay, honey?”
“Yeah. Brad moved out.” I leave out the part about how he took nearly everything of value, whether it belonged to him or not. Right now, I’m more tired of losing relationships than I am of losing furniture.
Man, I can really pick ‘em.
There’s a pattern I can’t ignore anymore. I start giving up pieces of myself slowly to make more room for them. At first, it’s hobbies, then friendships, until eventually, it’s my dreams. And by the time they leave, I’ve given up everything while they’ve only taken.
I’ve replayed so many questions in the hours since Brad left. Things that made at least a little sense at the time now feel problematic. Caribbean trips with a sibling that didn’t completely add up. Phones that were mysteriously unavailable if I asked why he couldn’t call. And how many construction workers go on paid business trips? It didn’t make sense.
How much of what I believed was real? And how much was wishful thinking? Clearly, this breakup did me a favor. Helped me to pull my head out of the sand. I straighten my shoulders. “It’s fine. I don’t need someone like that holding me back.”
“You’re damn right,” Winnie’s voice calls from outside, thunderous like she’s leading a protest.She’s still here?
“I’m proud of you, honey. Know your worth, Grace,” my sweet mother adds.
