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Ellis:Country? What is that supposed to mean?
Me:Jeans, cowboy boots. Something like that, I guess.
Ellis:Got it, boss. Cowgirl country.
When I look up, my friends are still staring at me. It’s starting to feel like I’m wearing all of my emotions on a big sign hanging around my neck.
“What?” I ask.
Noah speaks first. “Okay, lover boy. You ready to have your ass handed to you in Pacman?”
“He might be so distracted by his new girl that winning will be a piece of cake,” Ryan adds.
I pocket my phone and suck down the last of my drink before glancing at the games surrounding us. Both Ryan and Noah know I’m a Pacman champion, and the only asses about to be handed are their own.
When their chairs scratch across the hard floors, the thrill of competition runs through my veins, reminding me of why I agreed to go out with the two of them at all–even if I knew the shit they’d give me.
I point at both of them. “You fuckers are going down.”
After a late night with Noah and Ryan, I spent the rest of the evening pissed that I couldn’t get any jobs freelancing because of my messaging ban, but also not as pissed as I could have been because I’d gotten Ellie’s number.
I worked through the night on her song, trying to make it perfect. Truth be told, she had a fucking fantastic voice. Her drawings were also well done, her hair soft. I thought about the way it felt through my fingers at least four times before I realized I’d tented my damn basketball shorts and started feeling pathetic.
I gave up and went to bed.
Walking up the concrete walkway to my parents’ house, I can’t shake the excitement of the date I have planned for tomorrow. I talked to my mom on the phone earlier, so she knew I’d be coming home. It was, however, a mistake because I also had to swing by Noah’s and pick up more food.
When I open the door, Tom Petty blasts through the speakers toward the back of the house where my mom’s sunroom is located. She had better windows and a heater installed so she could use it all year round.
I kick my shoes off, careful not to tip the containers in the bag I carry as I make my way to where my mother is singing and dancing with a paintbrush in her hand.
Wild strands of curly dark hair escape from the bun stacked on top of her head. She wipes a paintbrush on her linen overalls, oblivious to my presence.
“Hey, Mom.” I say it by way of greeting.
She spins, paintbrush pointed at me like a weapon. Her scowling highlights the wrinkles on her forehead as she glances down to the bag of food in my hand. “If that’s not the food I asked for, you can turn around and leave now, son.”
I smile, walking forward to draw her in for a hug. She accepts and wraps one arm around my back. There’s just something about it–home and family. It’s like every time I step into this house I’m filled with memories of laughter and music–dancing in the kitchen with my father while my mother watches him cook.
There are bad memories, too. They’re the cloudy gray ones that came when Storm died, but I try not to think about those too much. It doesn’t do me any good to remember my mother’s tears–or my dad’s.
“It’s exactly what you asked for, Mom. I wouldn’t steer you wrong.”
She grabs the food, tossing her paintbrush into an old coffee can filled with water and decorated with dried paints before passing me to go to the kitchen.
I follow.
“So,” she begins, opening the fridge to put the food away. “You said something about wanting to borrow your dad’s old cowboy hat?”
I lean over the kitchen island, elbows firmly planted as I take in the familiarity of home. Incense and cinnamon–a poor attempt at covering up the smell of paint in the air. Tom Petty has turned into Norah Jones, and I can do nothing but take it all in–soak it up.
“Yeah, I’m taking a girl to a bar tomorrow.”
My mom’s brows furrow. “A bar? Honestly, Griffin.” She does a terrible job of hiding how judgmental she is of what I just announced. Apparently, a bar is a terrible idea for a date in June Peterson’s eyes.
It’s not a date, though. And I need to keep reminding myself of that.
“They have a mechanical bull. It’s something on her bucket list, I just wanted to dress the part.”
