I knew that, but still, I succumbed to the temptation. For just a moment.
Unsurprising.
Lord, will I ever change?
Evie stirs, and I jump and nearly drop the diary onto the floor. Frantically, I search for a place to discard it. I consider just chucking it across the room for a moment, but she’d hear it hit the floor. I’m crouching down to toss it back under the bed when her eyes pop open.
Panicked now, I hide the diary behind my back. I feel like a kid who’s been caught snooping around their sibling’s bedroom. Evie groans and rolls ontoher back, clenching her eyes shut before opening them again. Seeing no other option, I slip the notebook into the waistband of my pants and pull my shirt over it.
Evie gazes at me like I’m an alien coming to abduct her.
I smile and offer a sheepish wave. “Morning, sleepy head.”
Evie
Sunday, June 19, 2022
Brandonwasherethisafternoon. He lives right down the road from Grandma, so he stopped by to help me move all my stuff into her spare bedroom—not missing the opportunity to make fun of my stuffed animal collection in the process.
I’m aware that my obsession with those collectible little stuffed animals is neurotic. Mom always gave them to me for Christmas when I was kid, and I still hoard them, even as a twenty-two-year-old woman. I’m sure I could ask Brandon what it means, seeing as he’s a shrink. But then I’d have to discuss it with him, and I can’t. One mention of my absent mother, and I’m a total mess.
Plus, I’m trying super hard not to look like a child around him anymore. I want him to finally see me as a woman—not the kid he used to babysit. And what kind of message would sobbing over my missing mommy send? A childish one.
Anyway, I made him help me set up my collection so they’re gazing at me from all directions. I could see he was concerned for my mental well-being when I ordered him to handle them with care because “they have feelings, too,” but he didn’t comment on it.
Come to think of it, that probably didn’t help my “I’m a woman now” case. Oh, well.
After we finished, we sat outside and ate candy on the curb—his treat. He looked kind of sad, so I asked him what was up.
He sighed and popped a red gummy bear into his mouth. Said Cora was upset because he couldn’t make her last OB-GYN appointment. He’s been to all her appointments religiously, but he couldn’t make this one because of work stuff. I suggested she might just be tired of being pregnant, but he thinks it’s mostly the fact that she probably never imagined she would have a kid out of wedlock with someone she hates.
I told him no one could hate him. He’stoo wonderful.
He laughed and tugged on his hair, his expression turning remorseful. He said he doesn’t blame her for hating him. He knocked her up then refused to marry her. But they had agreed to be friends with benefits only, apparently. Then he goes, “Nowhere in the fine print did it say, ‘And if you knock me up, you have to marry me.’”
All I could do was laugh and apologize. Because what else do you say to that?
He laughed, too, insisting it wasn’t my fault and that I should learn from his mistakes.
I was suddenly so glad I’d never had sex with Adam. The thought of having a baby out of wedlock? Inconceivable. No pun intended.
I told him about my chance encounter with Adam’s mom at the grocery store today and how she still hates me. He didn’t believe me, so I pulled the letter she gave me out of my back pocket, the one telling me how she hates me and wishes Adam had never met me.
Brandon’s mouth fell open. He snatched the letter from my hand and opened it. His eyes widened at first, then gradually hardened as they moved down the page. Finally, he crumpled the letter and handed it back to me, commenting on Yolanda’s excessive use of the words “hate” and “hell”. He apologized on her behalf and said I, of all people, don’t deserve that.
I don’t know if I agree.
He gave me some gummy bears after that, like a consolation prize or something. While I chewed in contemplative silence, his eyes fell to my fishnet tights. He plucked at one of the strings playfully, and it snapped back against my skin with a sting. Then his gaze dropped to my Doc Martens.
“This new look of yours,” he observed. “It’s very . . . dark. Very emo.”
I shrugged. I don’t care what people think. I’m done trying to be something I’m not—namely, the good little church girl Daddy wanted me to become after he married Francine, a devout Christian woman. I like the color black, and I listen to My Chemical Romance and A Day to Remember unironically. So what? It’s not like listening to punk rock and wearing the color black are sins . . . But everyone and their mother seems to think I’m destined for hell because of it. If only Brandon could have seen the look on Francine’s face when I put a coontail in my hair once.
“It’s not a phase, Mom, it’s a lifestyle,” I joked, punching Brandon’s shoulder.
He chuckled and said he liked it. “It’s different.” He side-eyed me. “Kind of like you.”
My stomach did a happy little cartwheel. Different. That was a compliment, right?
