She pushes the card and bags into my hand and takes off.
"Well, looks like someone is on a lucky streak," Mom observes.
I close the door, still holding the five dollars in my hand that I was going to tip Stevie. A ball?
There's no way Pete and I can go. A small laugh escapes me. We can't even leave the house together for a date night or to go out to dinner. Mom always calls thirty minutes after we leave with a panic attack, real or imagined.
"Sounds like fun," Mom says, eyeing the bags.
"We can't go," I shake my head.
"Nonsense, of course you can. I've been feeling so much better lately."
Really?That's news to me.
I pull out a drawer to put a few pens away, and my eyes fall on the little orange pill bottle that holds my Zoloft. My brows knit in concentration when I try to remember if I took one of them this morning. I've been doing that a lot lately, forgetting simple things, like did I take my pill? Before I can decide if I did or didn't and if I should just take one, my phone rings again.
"Pete!"
"Hi, sweetheart. How are you?"
The second I hear his voice, something inside me settles. It's ridiculous how fast it happens. The tightness in my chest from walking into the house, the way Mom's eyes scanned the bags, the way she stood too close, it just… loosens. Pete always does that. He's been the calm in my storm since I was eighteen. Why did I forget about that? Why have I been harping and focusing so much on the negative lately? That's mom, not me.
"I'm good," I tell him, and I mean it. "Guess what?"
"What?"
"They fixed the car."
He laughs. "Already?"
"Already. And they didn't charge us a dime. Said we were the ten thousandth customer."
"Oh wow. That's super. I have good news too. Your luck is contagious," he laughs, giddy as a schoolgirl.
I feel a twinge of unease deep in my stomach. Because all thisluck? This isn't us. Who wins a freaking Gucci purse, matching wallet, and the whole nine yards? Then gets their car fixed for free and wins tickets to a masque ball that costs as much as our house?
I'm about to voice it, but Pete beats me. "You're not going to believe this."
"What?"
"I got it."
My heart jumps. "Got what?" I ask, even though I already know the answer.
"The promotion. Senior analyst."
For a second, I just beam at the wall like an idiot. "Oh my God, Pete. That's amazing. Congratulations."
He's been working himself into the ground for this, even more than before. Late nights. Extra certifications. Volunteering for projects no one else wanted. More money for us. More security. More breathing room.
"You deserve it," I say softly, pushing my doubts about our luck back down, because I don't want to spoil his moment, no matter my misgivings. Because honestly, I can't figure out any sinister motives behind somebody orchestrating me winning all these things, and Pete's promotion is well deserved. Maybe it is just luck.
"I was hoping you'd say that."
Mom clatters something loudly in the sink. One dish. Two. Three. Four. Five.
Six. She has two cats. Two! How often does she feed them? I wonder if I should be concerned about that.
