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“Hey, Ma.”
“Let me take your coat,” she says, tugging on my pea coat as I shrug out of it.
“It’s good to see you. Everything good here?”
When she turns to face me, her smile doesn’t reach her eyes. “Yeah, baby. Everything is great.”
I don’t buy that. “What’s wrong?”
“Nothing. Look at your hair! It’s gotten so long. Do you want me to cut it for you?” Mom grabs my shoulders and pulls me down to inspect my hair. She runs her hands through my tangled mop, and I realize I haven’t had a proper haircut in months. My hair is out of control, but I don’t want her working while I’m here. I just want to spend time with her.
“It’s fine. Why are you avoiding my question?”
She frowns, brushing me off. “I’m not. Everything is great. Let me fix you up some food.”
“I’m good. Ate on the plane,” I lie.
“Nonsense. You hate airplane food. I made your favorite: garlic roasted chicken with all the fixings,” Mom scoffs, immediately calling me out.
She walks over, attempting to grab my suitcase before I snatch it from the floor. She always does more than is necessary, or maybe it’s her way of keeping herself busy. Ignoring the painful conversations and topics like a professional.
She turns for the kitchen without glancing back at me. “Don’t forget to wash up!”
“When are you going to move to Pittsburgh?” I say to her back as I open the door to the outdated powder room.
The house hasn’t been renovated since I lived here. Frozen in time like the first day we walked through the doors. I remember how excited Mom pretended to be about the whole thing. She kept saying it was our fresh start, the place we would finally settle. We had to come here for my hockey career, and Dad was supposed to retire from the army and join us, but he never did.
Over the years, I’ve made several offers to renovate the place for Mom. I’ve even offered to buy her a new house in Boston or move her closer to me in Pittsburgh. But she refuses to leave.
I don’t get why she doesn’t want a fresh start.
The hardwood is weathered and graying, even though it was once likely a rich brown. The paint is out of style and peeling in the top corners of the ceiling. The doors have a yellow tinge to them now, and it’s not because they’re dirty, it’s because the place is outdated. Likely harboring unwanted memories from previous owners, my own included in the mix.
The kitchen and two bathrooms mimic a 1970s style. Clunky mirrors are fused with pale pink walls as my hazy reflection stares back at me. And looking down is no better; matching the walls are small pink tiles forming the countertop. If she won’t move, I’m paying to renovate this house for my mother. She’s not living in these conditions anymore; it’s not up for discussion.
Washing my hands, I shoot a hostile look at my reflection in the mirror, recognizing the dark circles beneath my eyes and my unkempt, ebony hair. I briefly contemplate letting my mother cut it but remember why I don’t normally cut it short. Because of something I overheard Zoe say once when she thought she was home alone. She didn’t realize I was nearby. I always tried to grab a few extra moments with her when Aaron wasn’t around. Even if she wasn’t aware I was there, in true stalker fashion.
I think that’s when my obsession to watch her first began.
She was talking to her friend on the phone, likely telling her I had stayed the night again because I basically lived at the Jackson residence. She said I was a jerk, and then she laughed. I think I miss the sound of her laughter the most. It’s been three years since I’ve seen her, but the ache deep in my chest is just as painful as the first day I left.
“No, I don’t think he’s hot.”
Another intoxicating laugh.
“He really does have great hair though, doesn’t he? I need to get the name of his stylist because the way his curls fall over his forehead just make his eyes pop, or maybe it’s because his hair is black and his eyes are so bright.”
A grunt. “Shut up, they are unique. His hair is beautiful too. Too bad he has no manners. Oh my God, Em…you better not tell anyone I said that or I’ll kill you.”
I still smirk whenever I recall that day. After slipping back into Aaron’s room, I lay on the floor, gazing at the ceiling for hours and grinning like a complete idiot, knowing her bratty attitude was merely a façade. If she noticed the little things, it meant she was contemplating the bigger ones too. That was around the time my needs began to surface. I couldn’t help but imagine pressing her against the wall with my imposing frame, trapping her with my hand gently encircling her throat, watching her eyes widen as I bit down on her lip.
And that was just the beginning. My cravings have only intensified with time. The more I indulge myself, the more voracious the beast inside me becomes. But he longs for the one person who’s forever out of reach. I consistently choose women who share her features, hoping one will finally satisfy me, but it’s never enough. They only make me want her more.
Miss her more.
I wish there was a way to kill this desire for Zoe. Why can’t I let it go? Why can’t I fight off my urges? I should be able to control myself, but it was never possible when it came to her. It’s still not possible. I haven’t seen her in years, and I still want her just as intensely as the first day.
“You got more ink since the last time I saw you,” my mother observes, sitting across from me, cradling her tea while she watches me try to scarf down her homemade meal close to midnight. I thought I wasn’t hungry until the smell of rosemary chicken wafted through the kitchen and hit me square in the face.
