I stare at the bowls, wondering how old they are. “What have you been eating other than cereal?”
“Just cereal.”
I put the milk, cheese, Camdend, and lunch meat in the fridge. The smell of rotten eggs hits me like a freight train. I hold my Camdenth again. I shut the door and decide to deal with it after the dishes. I do the dishes. I wipe the counters and the table. I gather laundry from the bathroom and walk it to the washer. My mom’s chihuahua starts barking from somewhere down the hall, and I realize the urine smell in the bathroom isn’t just from humans.
I close my eyes for a second, taking a deep Camdenth. Then I switch the laundry and walk back to the couch.
“Bear, did you eat dinner?”
“Yeah.”
I lean over the back of the couch. “Cereal doesn’t count.”
“Cereal counts. Mom said it does. So did Tyr.”
I pause. “Tire?”
He scoffs. “Tyr.He’s in the bedroom with Mom.”
I look down the hall. “What? She has a guy over?”
“He’s been over a lot. She said not to tell you.”
My hands curl into fists at my sides. “It’s been a secret?”
He nods.
I walk down the hall and knock on her bedroom door. Nothing. I knock again. I look at the bathroom door. It’s closed now. I was just in there, so seeing the door shut now makes me uneasy. This bathroom has two doors, and one of them goes through my mother’s bedroom. When I push the bathroom door, I only get half a foot before something stops it.
That something is a thigh. A bare, very white, very large thigh belonging to a large, blonde-haired man sitting on the toilet.
“Sorry!” I yelp and yank the door shut.
Bear looks at me over the back of the couch. “Mom is going to be so pissed you didn’t knock.”
I half-run back to the couch. “How long has he been here?”
He shrugs. “She said he’s moving in.”
“What?”
“Lucy, baby.” The hallway door opens behind me, and my mom’s voice comes out of her room in a fake tone. She has different levels of voices she uses around certain people. This tone means she’s trying to be kind
I turn around. She’s smiling. She’s actually smiling. I haven’t seen her smile like that since I was a kid.
“Hi, Mom.” I almost feel speechless right now. I’m not sure what’s happening.
“This is actually perfect,” she says, leaning against her doorframe. “I was hoping you’d stop by today.”
“I come every Wednesday,” I say as a reminder.
The chihuahua named Audi comes flying out of the bedroom and skids to a stop near my feet. I’m allergic to dogs, so I extend a leg as a polite no thank you and he detours back to my mother. He knows I won’t pet him.
“There’s someone I want you to meet,” she says, walking towards me. “Don’t laugh at his name.”
“Why would I laugh at his name?”
She beams. “His name is Tyr.”
