“Ah, I saw you moving on the map and thought I’d say good morning. The kids are wondering when we’ll see you again?” She sips what I assume is a smoothie. My sister is a bit of a health nut and she rarely has coffee.
“I’m not sure. I’ve been pretty busy with work, but I’ll be around for the holidays,” I grit through my teeth. I hate that once people have kids instead of saying ‘I want to see you’ they change it to ‘my child wants to see you’. All my sisters with kids did it, which is three out of five of them, soon to be four I’m sure.
My sister, Janet, married last, so any moment now we’ll be seeing a pregnancy announcement.
“Hmm, okay, you could always do your job from here, though. It’s just taking photos, isn’t it?”
Amy says job in the same way you’d compliment a toddler on a page of scribbles they’re proud of. It is a point of contention with my family and I.
“No, it’s not. Part of what I do is making content like taking photos, but I also do ads, modeling, podcasts, and branded deals,” I say, trying to hold back my anger. This clearly just isn’t my morning.
“I see,” she says, even though I can tell she doesn’t.
I am the youngest of my sisters and, in a way, always the black sheep of the family. I never did the same things they did; settle down young, get married, move to the suburbs and have a family.
“Well, either way, the family misses seeing you. I’m sure Mom would like to see you too.”
“I saw Mom last month, we had brunch in the city,” I say.
My mom is the only one in the family who actually makes an effort to come and see me.
“You know it’s easier for you to come to us; I can’t exactly hop on the train with five kids in tow,” she grumbles.
I don’t say what I’m thinking because I love my nieces and nephews.
“I know, I’m just saying I just saw Mom. And Thanksgiving is next month, I’ll see everyone then. Should I bring anything?” I ask for good measure.
“Nope! Janet’s hosting this year, and I’m on desserts. Just make sure you arrange with one of us where you’re sleeping so we’re not caught off guard like last year,” she adds sassily.
“Sure.” I grit my teeth again. I’d thought I was sleeping at her house like I had every other year, but suddenly her husband’s sister was in town, and my guest bed was taken, so I had to take the couch at Janet’s house, who was not happy as a newlywed. And trust me with what I heard, I wasn’t happy either.
“Hold on,” Amy says. “Do NOT, I mean it! You better stop it right—Cari I’m sorry I need to go.”
Before I can even say a goodbye she’s gone, and I’m slipping my phone back into my purse. That’s how most of the phone calls with my sisters go. It isn’t worth trying to get a word in edgewise or talk about myself. They don’t take what I do for a living seriously even though I can afford an apartment in Midtown without working a normal 9-5.
Sighing, I buzz myself into my building, head for the elevator, and go right to my apartment. It’s too early for Hazel to be awake, so I creep in quietly and head right for the shower.
I want to wash last night off me. I feel worse than the time I hooked up with a stranger and her wife came home in the middle of her going down on me. I was literally thrown out of their apartment with my clothes tossed out the window. Thankfully it was dark and I was able to get dressed before someone called the cops.
Somehow, Max has made me feel worse than that; in the depths of my mind I know this has more to do with her than me, but it still hurts. I knew she had commitment issues andstruggled with the concept of anything related to relationships. But I also wish I knew why.
She never wants to talk about it and anytime I’ve brought it up in the past she quickly changed the subject. I’ve tried asking Aspen about it when we were roommates, but she insisted it wasn’t her story to tell.
I toss my clothes in the hamper and climb into the shower. I let the scalding water run all over my body as I try to ignore my aching all over. Instead of thinking back on how good she made me feel last night, I’m hoping she hasn’t left any hickies this time.
My hands wash over my body, and I realize Max hadn’t said anything about my new tattoo. Did she even notice it? I had taken the wrapping off, and it wasn’t like it was healed; it’s only just starting to flake. It isn’t a small tattoo either, taking up a good part of the back of my arm. How did she not see it?
I think about my last conversation with my therapist about Max, who’s often a common topic I discuss. My therapist isn’t the kind to give any indication of what she’s thinking, which is annoying as hell. But she’s helpful, except for when she won’t tell me what I should do about Max.
It isn’t a secret to Shirley—my fifty-year-old therapist who sips hot tea and takes short notes during our sessions—that I have feelings for Max. She knows about our ups and downs and often asks me to dig deeper when we have disagreements. But she doesn’t know how lately I feel like Max’s secret booty call instead of a friend.
It’s hard to say things out loud sometimes, let alone admit them to myself.
I sort of thought that if I ignored it, Max and I could go back to how we used to be. More the friends part of friends with benefits. Even if we weren’t in a relationship, it’s better than what we have going on now. But it’s clear Max is going to keeppushing me away. I guess I’ll have to keep pushing back; it isn’t like my feelings are going anywhere. Over time, she has to see that we could go back to how things were, or maybe even be together. I just need to know why she is so against relationships.
Maybe pushing that out of her would be the way to go. Then at least I could be working toward something for us. After all, it isn’t like the feelings I have are one-sided. I know she has them too; she just needs to find them again.
Chapter Six
