HUNTER
Ithink this was a bad idea. Probably one of the worst. The confidence I felt when I asked a man to come over to cook dinner for him, like I’m some sort of housewife welcoming my husband home after he’s been away at war, dissipates the longer I stare into my fridge to find ingredients to cook. All the skills my mom has taught me flew right out the window on my drive home from the bookstore today.
My chest is tight against my ribcage, the organ ricocheting with every beat. My throat is tight, and the air filling my lungs does not calm the panic brewing in my body.
I pick up my phone, debating between calling my therapist and telling her I made a huge mistake and that I will never listen to her advice about accepting the love I deserve, or I can call my mother. Either way, I’m going to explain I invited a man over to my house for dinner as a way of saying thank you.
My mom answers on the third ring, almost letting it go to voicemail.
“Hey, honey.”
“Mom, we have a code red. I’m freaking out.” My voice sounds panicked to my own ears. My dad says something in thebackground, and my mom makes ashushnoise as I hear her footsteps as she enters a room and closes the door behind her.
“What’s wrong? Do I need to come over?”
“I don’t know what I need, but I need something. Maybe a lobotomy? Isn’t that what they used to do to people to relieve tension?” That might fix my problem. It will cause other issues down the road, but that’s a problem for a later date. I need something to help calm the blood roaring in my ears.
“You don’t need a lobotomy. Did you take your medicine today?” The medicine in question is Sertraline, a 100 milligram tablet, once a day. Every morning with my breakfast. I haven’t missed a day since I started taking it after I moved to Austin for my intern position at McIntire Corporation.
It was pure luck that I found the job while I laid in bed, contemplating how many times I could get fucked over in life before it came too much. I made it through the extremely rough ending to my first semester of college. My professors had agreed to let me finish all of my assignments online, thankfully. But by then, I had lost all of my motivation to continue with a degree I wasn’t devoted to. I scraped by with passing grades, but they were nothing to shout about from the rooftops.
McIntire Corp. didn’t care, though, and the hiring agent who reached out to me after I applied for every job listed online with the bare minimum requirements was ecstatic that I wanted to pursue graphic design. Seven and a half years dedicated to a company, saving up every dollar that wasn’t used for my basic needs, all while creating projects that I was proud of behind the scenes. Don’t get me wrong, I loved my job. I met so many people, traveled to amazing places, learned that I liked cooking and gardening, and took the time to grow and heal on my own.
Some of my wounds still aren’t healed, though, and the ache I feel in my chest will never be one hundred percent gone. I’ve accepted it, with a lot of therapy and medication to help withmy anxiety. Because, as it turns out, the thoughts that were constantly floating through my head aren’t what normal people experience.
“Yes, Mom, I took my medicine. That isn’t why I’m panicking.” Or is it? It was touch and go there for a little bit at the beginning while we tried to work out the best medication and dosage for me. Is my body rejecting the medicine now, when it’s been stable for the past few years? I really need to get my medical charts sent to a local doctor so I can check in with them. I don’t want to end up back on the downhill slide I was on.
“Tell me what’s going on, then. Want me to come over and I can bring cookies? They’re in the oven now.” My eyebrows furrow, and I pull the phone back from my face to check the date. No alert in my calendar telling me I’m missing something.
“Why do you have cookies in the oven?” My tone is suspicious, and I can hear her eye roll as she huffs into the receiver.
“Do you really want to know?” No, I absolutely do not because the only thing she could be talking about is theone thingwe agreed not to talk about. Adam. She’s baking cookies for him while I worry about the date I’m about to go on.
A snarky part of me wants to show up, making him go away so I can enjoy my mom’s cookies so he won’t get to. He doesn’t deserve them, I do. I’m the one freaking out, what does he have to panic about? His great life with all the money in the world and no care about the people he hurts. But that’s why my parents and I agreed not to talk about him. We don’t see eye to eye on the man.
But also… a secret part of me wants to see him. To show him that I’m doing better than I was when I left. That I have a lot going for me in life and I’m thriving.
Why hasn’t he reached out, though, if he knows I’m back in town?
I know he knows, because my dad let it slip that they told him. So obviously he doesn’t care about me anymore, and there’s no point in holding on to the past. Maybe he’s truly gotten over it, and I’m the one stuck holding on to the past when it doesn’t hold any value.
Nope. Not thinking about it. Not letting my thoughts go down that vicious road, with thoughts of despair and desperation. I’ve learned a lot since then, about the world and myself.
“Honey?”
“I’ll be fine, Mom. I’m just worried, I’m having a guy over.” Her excited shriek is enough to burst my eardrums, but a smile creases my face. I’m happy that she’s happy for me. Sure, I’ve told her about a guy or two that I’ve gone on dates with, but it’s always after the fact. After we have our fun, I gently let them know that I’m not interested in anything else.
I’m not sure if that’ll be the case tonight, because the guy I invited was the definition of h-o-t. Tall, handsome, with dark eyes and an arm sleeve of tattoos. The complete opposite of the tech guys I normally go after. And he was so sweet, too. I fully expected him to blow me off when I asked him for help. I don’t know why I asked him either, but the thought of actually asking a worker had my hands turning clammy. They would have looked at me like I was dumb, like I should know exactly where something is that I’ve never used in my life and had never heard of before my dad sent me to the store to find it so we could patch the small holes in the walls of my new house.
“When is he coming over? I can bring these cookies over so you can have dessert.”
“I think I’ll be okay, but he’s going to be here in an hour, and I have no clue what to cook. It’s like every thought disappeared out of my head and the only thing left is a hollow space where random thoughts keep bouncing off the sides.”
“Make him carbonara, that’s one of your best meals.” She’s right, it’s something that I know like the back of my hand.
“Can you stay on the phone with me, keep me company?” She agrees, and I fall into my cooking routine, washing and cutting my veggies for the side salad and setting those in the fridge while I begin chopping the onions with a wet paper towel beside the cutting board. I don’t know if it actually helps, but it’s something my mom swears by, even now while she’s telling me about her plans to visit the farmers’ market this weekend, continuing the one-sided conversation while I try my hardest not to cry from the sting.
“If you need fruits or vegetables, I have my garden.” My garden, which I very carefully uprooted and moved to the backyard of this house. I couldn’t even begin to count how many hours I spent on YouTube and Google trying to make the best plan of action. I didn’t want to lose any of them, and I didn’t. I’m practically a professional botanist at this point.
