Guilt niggles slightly as she pauses. Normally, she’s ready to dive into some kind of gossip right out of the gate, and if she’s not, I can only imagine it’s because she’s feeling annoyed with me.
“Gam, I’m sorry—”
“Are you okay?” she cuts me off.
My chin jerks to my chest in surprise. “Uh…yeah…I mean.” I shrug to myself. “It’s tax season, so I’m notokay, but I’m okay at the same time, you know?” I snort. “I’m surviving.”
Another pause. “I know work’s busy this time of year, Kyky. I mean everything else. You’re sleeping okay? Eating enough? Feeling…safe?”
I frown as I toe off my heels, the SUV from earlier today ushering unbidden anxiety into my mind. “Safe?Gammy…you’re starting to make me feel like things aren’t supposed to be okay. What’s going on?”
“I can’t do this over the phone,” she says gently. “I just need to see you.”
I glance at the clock. “You live forty-five minutes away. I’ve been working twelve-hour days six days a week.”
“I know,” she says. “But I never get to see you, and this is important. Don’t you miss me?”
I roll my eyes.Grandmothers really have a special gift for charging every single encounter with guilt.
“Gammy.”I close my eyes, feeling torn in twenty directions with no stretchy flesh to give. “That’s not fair. You know I miss you.”
“Life isn’t fair, baby,” she counters. “It’s fast and furious and complicated in a thousand different ways. Come tomorrow, after work, doesn’t matter how late. I’ll make pot roast—your favoriteandit can sit for hours.”
I sigh. “You play dirty.”
“See you tomorrow night, sweetheart,” she says cheerfully, hanging up before I can argue.
I stand there for a moment, phone in hand, considering the implications of my grandmother’s pushing. Either something serious is going on or I need to set parental controls on her TV.Fast and furious? Am I safe?I need to block Vin Diesel and true crime, like, yesterday.
Still, I don’t think I can make it there tomorrow night without chancing a full-on mental breakdown, no matter how badly she wants me to.
Ugh. Whatever.
Tonight, I’m choosing peace. Tomorrow morning, I’ll break the news of my continued absence and then set my phone to silent.
A disturbing visual of my roommate Alyssa, sprawled out with one leg on the back of the couch and the other draped off the edge with both hands in a bowl of cheeseballs, is the first thing I see upon exiting the kitchen.
Her laptop is closed on the coffee table, her shirt covered in orange dust, and her red hair is in a messy bun that signals the end of her latest academic ordeal. She’s not a simple, happy girl when she’s under the gun—but rather a stressed-out, soul-siphoning metaphorical demon—and the fall into relief afterward often looks apocalyptic.
“What’s your status? Can I assume by the junk-food-indulging-bowl-of-balls that you’re finished?”
“Freedom, baby,” she declares, stretching and sitting up to set the bowl on top of her computer. “My paper is submitted, I am officially brain-dead, and thankfully, I don’t need to worry about the next butt-puckering assignment for another three to five business days.”
At which time, she will, once again, deadline-crunch at the last minute.Some cycles really are predictable.
“That’s great! Want to come to the rink with me to celebrate? I’m brain-dead too, and I need to skate off some of this anxiety or I’m afraid I’ll wake up melted tomorrow.”
“Hell no.” She groans. “I plan to sit here and rot.”
“I’ll buy you dinner after. Whatever you want. Even if it’s that horrible taco joint you love so much.”
“Sorry, no sale.” She points to a grocery bag filled with more junk food at her feet. “I plan to rotwith snacks.”
“Oh, come on, Alyssa!” I call over my shoulder as I head into my bedroom to change out of my work clothes. “It’d be nice to have a little female companionship there tonight. The hockey guys were particularly feral on Saturday.”
“They always are!” she yells back to me. “They see one woman on ice and forget how to act.”
I toss on a sports bra, leggings, and a hoodie before slipping on my favorite pair of runners. When I walk back into the living room, Alyssa still hasn’t budged an inch, other than to move from cheeseballs to Pringles.
