The one thing I ask you to do…
You will never understand the toll having children takes on a woman’s body. You were ten pounds, Elliott. Ten. My vagina never recovered.
Yeah, my mom tells me about her vagina.
Since I want to avoid that conversation at all costs, I say, “What do you need?”
Turns out, Dad has been “making himself sick” over hanging a couple of massive paintings Mom bought online. According to her, my dad doesn’t want to get it wrong.
More like he doesn’t want to hear her complain about it every time they go into the living room until she decides to buy something else to put behind the couch.
I agree to swing by on my way home from the bar, and she takes away some of the sting by offering to make baked steak for dinner.
At one point in my life, I dreamed of moving far away, but as my mom reminds me on a weekly basis, I’m her one and only, most precious child. I can’t tell you how many times I wished I had a brother or sister to take on some of their “love” and “attention.”
The promise of food makes the twenty-minute drive to Mom and Dad’s almost bearable. The houses gradually thin out, leaving room for sprawling yards and white picket fences.
That’s the south for you. One minute you’re in the suburbs, the next, you’re neck-deep in tractors and cows.
Mom and dad bought their ridiculous brick rancher not because we needed the six bedrooms, but because it happened to be right next to her sister’s house and it was twice as large.
I flick my blinker, but as I go to turn, my foot slams on the brake pedal instead. The car behind me swerves to avoid ramming my bumper, their horn blaring as they speed past. I can’t even bring myself to wave in apology because right next to my mom’s white SUV sits a cherry-red Volvo.
My throat is as tight as my fists on the steering wheel.
This isn’t about hanging pictures and feeding her only son. This is a fucking ambush.
Mom can hang her own damn pictures.
Come to think of it, I wouldn’t be surprised if the whole scenario was a big fat lie and there weren’t any pictures at all.
I drive around the corner so they can’t see me and pull into the Nelson’s stone driveway. Dragging my phone from the center console, I type out a quick text.
6:13 PM
Work ran late.
I won’t make it tonight. Sorry.
Since I’m not having my mom’s cooking for dinner, I might as well swing by The Pearl for some seafood. Back to town I go,stopping at my favorite restaurant down the street from where I work. With the smell of fried food filling my car, I pull into my apartment complex full-on drooling.
My neighbor stepping out of her car right next to mine doesn’t help, especially when her black skirt rides up her tan thighs. She gives it a swift tug back down, setting off at a clip toward the stairs.
Annoying Loren is one of my favorite things to do, so I get out, grab my Styrofoam container, and jog up behind her.
She glances over her shoulder and finds me smiling, then whips back around before I get a good look at her face.
She’s always doing that. Turning away before I really see her.
With my long strides and her shorter ones, we reach the landing outside our apartment block at the same time.
Since she’s stuffed her keys somewhere into that massive black bag looped over her shoulder, she’s forced to pause and acknowledge me with a clipped, “Elliott.”
I bob my head. “Loren.” I haven’t seen her in the week since I accidentally listened in on her conversation about the guy she’s dating. I didn’t hear everything, but I heard enough. I thought the guy was a dick the first time I saw him milling around the parking lot waiting for her instead of coming up to her door, and my opinion has only gone downhill since.
“What’s in the box?” she asks, eyeing my dinner as she withdraws receipt after receipt, a tube of Chapstick—a pair of socks? She’s like that Poppins lady with her bag. You never know what’s going to emerge from the chaos.
The deeper she digs, the redder her cheeks turn.
