The line is quiet for a moment. I can hear her quick, angry breaths through the phone. “Whatever, fuck face.”
I try to say thanks for the heads up, but she already ended the call.
“Go!” I demand through gritted teeth.
Although these are the only two people who seem to risk being this close to me these days, I didn’t want them here. “Go get ready… my father will be here soon.”
Alone again, I find myself back in the bathroom. Taking in my reflection within the modest mirror. Each year I look more like my father. The lines on my forehead are deeply creased despite my face being at rest. Dark circles mark each eye that I never had before. I thought it was just the way my father’s face looked, but now I understand why he always appeared so haggard, edged with weariness. It must come from a lifetime of making hard decisions or neglecting things that so desperately needed your attention.
My father took everything for granted… but so have I. There’s no redo button. No winding back the clock. I’ve grown more resentful over the past couple years, and I’m not sure there’s a way of coming back. I scowl at the man in the reflection, draw back my fist and attempt to shatter the person I’ve become.
CHAPTER
TEN
CINDEL
I’m cross-legged on the couch, fixing the hem of a flared pair of jeans as I consider my interaction with Eamon at the bar last night. The way his eyebrows drew together. How his mouth popped open and closed when he stood before me. Did he hear me? Does he actually think I called him a loser? It was the song, dammit! I’d probably still be mortified over that part if it wasn’t for the fact that I was offered a position as manager. Manager! He complimented me. Said I did a good job. Was this a permanent thing? How long until Cassie came back? Why me?! He could have just as well offered it to Brittany or Jada. I haven't even been there for a year and he chose me?! So much unexpected shit keeps piling up this week.
Ten tiny, black toes appear in my peripheral, forcing me from my thoughts. Andrea is wrapped in a dark satin robe with wiggling toes. I wonder if it's in response to the stagnantly cold floors in our apartment or if she’s uncomfortable interacting with me. Both seem feasible. Folding over the hem onto the self-sticking tape, I finally looked up. Arms crossed, her mouth moving without a sound.
Shit. I flip the rockers on my hearing aids to hopefully catch up on what I missed.
“—distant.” She chews on her lip, clearly waiting for me to respond.
“Sorry, can you repeat that?”
Understanding as always, she repeats herself. She starts over, “I didn’t mean to… I’m sorry that I’ve been so distant.” She lowers herself onto the coffee table just in front, now at eye level with me.
“I know you’ve been busy at work. It’s okay—” She holds up her hand to stop me.
“No. It’s not okay. Yes, I have more on my plate lately, along with urgent deadlines but still…” She looks down at her nails, pushing a cuticle back that looked fine to begin with. “It’s not an excuse to be a bad friend,” she confesses.
I push forward, throwing my arms around her silk covered form. “You’ve never been a bad friend,” I contest. “I think part of this tension between us has been my own paranoia too. Worried that If I don’t know what’s going on… I might lose you too.”
She pulls back, placing each of her hands on my shoulders. “I would fight my way back from hell to be by your side, Cindel. You don’t need to worry about me. I’m here for the long haul.”
I glance at the clock on the stove. “Can we talk tonight… maybe pig out on junk food while some ridiculous, romantic comedy plays in the background?”
A tight smile forms on her face. “Sure. I’ll see you tonight.” Her words are soft and unsure.
Andrea has always been good at sniffing out lies. Does she know I’m keeping something from her? Was the offer of watching her favorite genre too much? Even though I’d love to mend fences with my long-time best friend, I have a feeling candy, and a movie isn’t going to cut it. Something about the past few interactions with her has left me apprehensive. I can’tshake this feeling that she’s keeping something from me too. It makes me resistant to confiding in her. To tell her about the earbud, the texts, the songs, and the whole potential stalker thing. Hypocritical of me? Absolutely. Although, I barely trust myself to make the right decision. My fail safe is to remain closed off. It’s one of the reasons my therapist recommended journaling, so I could at least learn to trust myself. Pouring all of me onto pages that wouldn’t judge me or let me down. Maybe this is my way of holding onto her. Too afraid that if I tell her…, show her, she won’t like what she sees. In the meantime, I’ll keep pretending like everything is okay.
Raising off the couch, I visit my room to change into the tailored jeans and grab my belongings before leaving for breakfast with my uncle. We swapped awkward grins with one another before I slipped out the door.
Out of breath, I enter Benny’s just a few minutes after nine. My uncle is already seated in our usual corner booth, in the back of the diner. He gives me a small welcoming wave, as I navigate to the table. Standing to greet me with a tight squeeze, we sat down together, and he handed me a menu. There were already two steaming cups of coffee at the table and a glass of orange juice.
“I hope you don’t mind… I already put in our orders. I have an important meeting this morning.”
Unlike my dad, my uncle isn’t retired. Which is surprising considering he’s quite a bit older. He works in investing. Like at one of those big banks. He tried explaining what he did to me once, but I became lost when he started using words like subsidiaries and prospectus. That’s what I like about my uncle; he’s never dumbed things down for me or been vague about life in general. He actually listens when I speak. Even if it’s the same discussion, time and time again. My uncle doesn’t steer away topics, no matter how happy or sad they may be. Asopposed to my parents, who like to move past uncomfortable conversations. They’ve never been the type towork through feelingsor dwell on unsavory events. They are either really good at compartmentalizing, or they really just don’t give a shit about anything significant to me.
“No, I don’t mind,” I insist. “Sorry I was late.”
He passes his hand in front of himself. “Don’t you fret, kid. Tell me what’s new with you?”
I start emptying packets of sugar and all the tiny creams from the little bowl on the table, into the bitter drink. He never uses them. “I quit one of my jobs or got fired, depending on how you look at it. The manager was a real piece of work. I hated working there.” He nods, listening just as patiently as always. “Funnily enough… I got a promotion at The Black Sheep.”
A smile blooms across his aging face. Over the years, his forehead has expanded while his hairline has decreased, but he’s still somehow magnetic.
