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It was more than a wish. It was a goal. And I had every intention of succeeding.
Tracing where she’d scraped her tongue, I smiled. Challenge accepted.
The next time I saw Avery Johansson’s nipples, I intended to sink my teeth into them.
8
Avery
The following few weeks passed in a whirlwind of projects, dates, and cramming for upcoming finals. Although I heard Noah in the hall at times, I made sure to avoid crossing his path, and he seemed to do the same.
Late November, my mother called crying. It had finally happened. She’d lost her job at the mill and wasn’t sure she’d qualify for the subsidies her neighbors were receiving, because I’d been sending her additional income.
“Why does Sheryl Pinkerton know I’m sending you anything, Momma? It’s nobody’s business.”
“She saw the check stubs and said the IRS would see it as income and it’ll mess up my welfare.”
Although educated about a lot of things, income tax and subsidized programs were outside of my knowledge. “Sheryl isn’t an accountant. And why are you leaving your banking around for the neighbors to see?”
“Don’t you get it, Avery Dean? The checks are drawing suspicions. You’re gonna have to get me cash.”
“How am I going to do that? No one mails cash.”
“You could come home.”
“No.”
Momma scoffed. “Ain’t you ever comin’ back? You know Bobby Pritcher’s been askin’ about you.”
I frowned. Bobby Pritcher wasn’t going anywhere in life, and I doubted he had rotting teeth left in his sneering, perverted mouth. When he spoke, never saying nice things, it looked like a slithery snake tongue slipping past his lips.
“That’s not the way to get me home.” All the things that made home a tolerable place weren’t there anymore.
“Then what will it take? You’ve been gone three years. It’s enough already.”
“I thought you wanted me to make something of myself. That’s what I’m doin’.”
“By hooking? That ain’t what I meant, Avery Dean. I don’t know what’s become of you. You ain’t even a Mudd anymore. Got yourself a fancy name for all those fancy Johns.”
My jaw locked, but that didn’t stop the sharp prickle of tears burning my eyes. “That’s not what I do, Momma. I have to go.”
“Don’t you blow me off, young lady. I raised you better.”
She’d always been the one person capable of cutting me down. No matter how much I said her opinions didn’t matter to me, they still stung. And now, with her out of work, she’d become more dependent on me for help, more entwined in my life, more toxicity eating away at my goals to be normal.
Unable to draw in enough air, my lungs burned as if I were drowning. “Goodbye, Momma.”
After I got off the phone, my mood and focus were shot. In no state of mind to study, I cleaned my apartment.
Within an hour, I had an enormous pile of designer clothes on my bed mixed with shoes, purses, and jewelry that were hardly worn. One by one, I took pictures of each item and uploaded them onto an online auction site. Once I made it halfway through the pile, my tears had gotten the better of me, and I needed to find a tissue.
I was not a hooker. I’d never have sex with someone for money, and certainly not with any of my clients. Though there were a few I enjoyed spending time with, like Micah and Josh, there wasn’t any real attraction there.
As I reorganized my closet, I thought about how empty my life remained. I had company almost every night, but no one to really call a friend.
Even on campus, when other students spoke about their weekends, I longed to chime in and relate, but I couldn’t because I had nothing relevant to add. My life remained different, shrouded in secrets typical twenty-somethings didn’t keep.
“Fuck this.” I shoved the rest of the shoes into a laundry basket and went to the kitchen in search of something to make me feel better.
As I rummaged through the fridge, shoving away various high-protein, low-carb snacks, my frustration grew.
“Goddamn it!” I slammed the refrigerator door.
My back hit the stainless steel as I slid slowly to the floor and wept. I was pathetic, giving into shame that shouldn’t be there.
There was no shame in what I did. Prostitution was a different animal entirely.
If she wanted more money, I’d send her more—enough that she’d never be able to make a comment like that again. But I had to send something fast. Without a paycheck, her calls would turn relentless, and I had too much going on to battle her criticisms on a daily basis. Her words would distract me from my goals, and the guilt for hating her would eat me alive.
Avery Johansson didn’t do guilt.
I also didn’t easily accept the hatred my mother spurred. Such negativity grew from bitterness. Little comments and digs that cut deep and failed to heal over the years, seeping pain into my dreams for an ordinary life until nothing but mirrored resentment between us remained.
