A long, drawn-out sigh of discontentment from Murphy drew my attention.
“You and me both, Mur.” I matched his canine melancholy with my own dismal sigh. “You and me both.”
Mom came in sometime later to talk, and when I say talk, I mean she came in to torture me for information. Armed with the promise of my favorite meatball dinner, she pressed for details.
“I can go talk to her,” she offered. “Maybe that will help.”
“No, Mom, it would be the opposite of helping. She doesn’t want to be part of my life anymore, and by default, that means you have to break up with her too.”
I knew such a loss would haunt my mother. Over the past five years, she and Sam had grown as close as mother and daughter. It had been a slow growing relationship, with both women scarred by trust issues, but once they bonded over their shared interest – me – there was no stopping them.
Sam had been close to Quinn as well. The two had formed an attachment after she’d accidentally wandered into his room on her way to the bathroom in my parents’ sprawling home. Although my mother had touted Quinn’s musical abilities, Sam once claimed that she thought my mom might have actually been downplaying his talents.
Despite the fact that I hadn’t cracked and disclosed to my mother why Sam and I broke up, dinner was still delivered to my room an hour later by none other than one very pissed off Quinn.
“What the hell did you do to her?” His words were steeped in accusation.
“It’s none of your business,” I fired back.
“You’re an idiot, you know that? And don’t think I’m going to stop seeing her just because you’re a cataclysmic douchebag.”
Tell me how you really feel, Quinn. I suppose I could have defended myself and blamed the breakup on Sam, as she’d requested, but despite the pain and anger I felt, I loved her too much to paint her as the villain. Plus, I was just too tired to fight. Today, I just wanted to lick my wounds. So I’d eat my meatball dinner in the sanctity of my own room, content playing the bad guy role if it let those around me stay hopelessly in love with Samantha Anderson.
Later, my dad popped his head in. “You wanna watch a movie?”
I eyed him suspiciously. A movie with my father was never just a movie. See, he liked historical dramas. Not, mind you, the cool kind like World War Two blood baths, oh no. Dad preferred those biopic snooze fests featuring historical figures that did nothing but talk for the first three hours beforefinallygetting theirheads blown off. “Depends. Which one are we talking?”
“You know…” He hesitated a second too long, giving himself away. “An action flick.”
“Dad, I know you’re lying. You get that twitch in your right eye. I can’t believe you’d try to trick me into one of your shitty movies. You do realize this is the worst day of my life, right?”
“Oh,” he said, his face contorting in fake concern. “I’m sorry about that, Mrs. Lincoln. Other than that, how was the play?”
So much for sympathy. I cast a pillow at his retreating form.
It wasn’t until Grace came by that I got an offer I couldn’t refuse.
Slipping into my room with her pedicure kit, she asked, “You want me to paint your toes?”
Well, damn. The fam was really pulling out all the stops tonight.
“Why the hell not?” I grumbled, extending my virgin digits.
And for the next half hour, she painstakingly painted my toes gray, the same color as my gloomy disposition. Then, with the steadiest hand I’d ever seen, the little artist in Grace delicately drew a colorful surfboard on each big toe. It was actually super cool and I felt a smidge of my spirit return.
Once she left, I crossed the room and rummaged through the bin until I found what I was looking for. Careful not to ruin my toenails, I sat on the bed and opened the box with the non-returnable engagement ring I was now never going to use. The smug face of the jeweler came to mind. He’d called this. Shaking my head, I threaded the ring through a leather band and triple-tied it for safety before slipping it over my neck and pressing my lips against the precious stone – effectively kissing my future goodbye.
* * *
I woke the next day to something slimy against my cheek. Without opening my eyes, I swatted Murphy away.
“Go away, Mur.”
“Ruff!” My eyes shot open and I scrambled up. A pile of sunflower seeds slid from my soggy cheek and fell to a pile in my lap.
“What the fuck, dude?” I blasted Lassen as I fluffed the sheet, flinging discarded shells all over the place. “Were you spitting sunflower seeds on my cheek?”
“Maybe.”
