My phone rings on my nightstand. I grab it, hoping to see my sweet, bearded nurse’s name on the screen, but my excitement fizzles out like a sparkler dunked in a bucket of water. My parents. I let their call yesterday go to voicemail and texted I wasn’t feeling well. I said I’d get in touch when I was better. I guess they’re overriding that.
I stretch out on my bed until my toes poke out from beneath the top sheet and answer the call.
“Rosie, how are you doing sweet girl?” Mom’s voice has a thread of panic as if I texted her I was in the ICU instead of just battling a summer cold.
“I’m doing better. Fever’s down today.”
“Are you drinking enough orange juice? Vitamin C is good for you when you’re sick.”
“I know, and I am.”
“You need to make sure you’re sleeping enough.”
“Not a problem.” I snoozed through four movies today.
“Did you get anything to eat? I wish I could be there to make you my special chicken noodle soup.”
“I’m okay, Mom. Reed made chicken and rice soup for me.” Best not to add I prefer it to her version. I can’t tell if it truly tastes better or if I just appreciate the chef’s efforts more.
“Reed’s been there? While you’re sick?”
“Yes. He’s been really sweet.” Sweeter than anyone would guess my gargoyle could be.
“Oh, Rosie. Having him there when you’re under the weather isn’t a good idea. You need to show him your best side, not give him a front row pass to you at your worst.”
I clench my jaw, Reed’s advice clanging against Mom’s in my head. “He’s my boyfriend. He should see all my sides.”
Mom’s laugh has me burrowing deeper into my bed. “Honey, it might be like that in your romance books, but in real life, men don’t want to see you when you’re sick. Your dad didn’t see me without a full face of makeup until we’d been married three years.”
“Came as a shock, too.” Dad laughs in the background.
I stop and think. Have I seen my mom without makeup? Surely I have. But…I can’t remember it. She’s always got flawless skin, rosy cheeks, and dark eyelashes.
“Why do you think your dad goes golfing all day when I get sick?”
“I don’t think Reed minded being with me,” I mumble.
Not when he went out of his way to take care of me and even stayed the night just in case I needed him. He held me close and kissed my sweaty forehead and helped me eat. He sure didn’t seem worried that I didn’t look my best.
“He’s a really good guy.” I’d get more flowery with my description, but it won’t make a difference. Not with them.
“Oh, Rosie. We know he’s a good guy. But romance isn’t aboutfinding the perfect person. It’s aboutbeingthe perfect person for whoever you find.”
Her favorite slogan. When I was younger, that advice sounded empowering. I even made a poster and stuck it in the corner of my dresser mirror.Be the perfect version of yourself.Working on yourself is the theme of every self-help book, right? A solid suggestion.
But it didn’t take long to learn she didn’t meanmyversion of perfect. It wasn’t about embracing my creativity or indulging my social side or even setting goals for my twenties. She meant I should conform to fit the definition dictated by whoever I was dating. Squeeze myself down to make sure I fit all the boxestheywanted checked.Be agreeable. Don’t argue. Don’t rock the boat.
Reed likes it best when I rock the boat. And I think I do, too.
“I’ve been thinking again about painting.” I take a deep breath, letting her sit with that a beat. “A fresh color would really liven up the living room.” And make it feel moreme.
“Rosie.” Mom breaks out her stern voice. She uses it infrequently enough, it still makes my stomach squirm even though she’s across the ocean, and I’m a full-grown adult. “We worked so hard to get the house exactly the way we wanted it. I hate to think of you changing it all up on a whim. Who knows what you might do to it without an interior designer’s advice?” Her laugh squishes me down until I’m two inches tall. “We’ve seen your room, Rosie.”
I glance around at the knick knacks I’ve collected, the brightly colored throw blankets, the pops of fuchsia and teal and orange. I love my room. I want to love my house, too.
“What about all your things?” I ask. “Everything’s still here.”
Like you never left.
