Page 59 of Detour

I bark out a laugh, shoving him. “You’re insatiable.”

The cool night air swirls around us on our ride home. Wrapped up in Coty and my thoughts, I feel lighter than I have in a while. Like maybe some of the weight on my shoulders has been lifted. Not transferred, not gone—it’s still there and it’s still mine—but it feels lighter, not as stifling. I just don’t know if that’s a good thing yet.

CHAPTER 22

Angela

With graduation on Saturday, many adult lives are set to officially begin come Sunday—the ones without severe hangovers anyway—but mine started years ago when my role switched from child to the only mature figure in the house. The one saddled with holding my emotionally immature mother together. Reminding her when bills were due. Then the one paying those bills after she chose to neglect them. Soothing her as she sobbed in a heap on the floor about the life she’d never have. The one dodging the insults hurtled my way for purportedly robbing that same unattainable life. Taking care of myself with my own earnings while she squandered away any money she could get her idle hands on. Her latest ex-husband being her most recent victim—that I know of—she never discriminated where she could get the money. Willing to lie, cheat, and steal from anyone to get it, Rianne would find a way.

I had hiding places all over the house for income I garnered. At first, she showed restraint, only taking small amounts so as not to alert me. Bored with not causing friction though, she grew bold and raided all my hiding places at once, leaving them bone dry.

I’ll never forget the day I came home from work to find my room upturned, everything ripped from the walls, clothes thrown about, mattress flipped, shoes tossed around. Seeing the drawers to my secondhand dresser yanked clear out was what set me off though—I’d taped money under the bottoms of those drawers. I was diligent in keeping them closed whenever she was around or before I left the house. Already doing my own laundry for years, she had no reason to be near my dresser. She was never quiet about her dislike in my clothing choices either. Too sporty. Not feminine enough. Just the way I like them.

No, the only way she would’ve found the money was if she went searching. Finding the tape pockets empty was the last time I came close to losing it. My temper. My grip. My fucking sanity. I had saved hundreds of dollars. And it was gone. All of it.

The worst part was seeing her standing in the doorway with a victorious smirk on her face. Not an ounce of guilt. No shame whatsoever. Just sick anticipation awaiting a reaction. Which is exactly why I didn’t give her one. I cleaned up my room with shaking hands and cloudy eyes. Not saying a single word even as she made comments from her spot at the threshold. Still, I didn’t break.

With each shirt folded, I added another brick to my border. Every shoe reorganized was another wall built. Replacing the drawers, I set the armor in place. Righting my bed was attaching the final piece of defense in keeping me safe.

She could be the hurricane that destroyed everything in its path, but she’d never break me. The little bits in my life I’d mistakenly cared for became meaningless in that moment. Anything she could use against me were no longer important—memories, hobbies, interests, trinkets—they didn’t lose value, they just lost value to me. Because I made it so, not her.

From that day forward, her attempts to get under my skin turned from childish and petty to nasty and malicious, even violent at times. She got the reactions she was looking for in the beginning. That was until I realized I had to strengthen my body, too, not just my mind. Staying composed was hard, becoming better wasn’t. Rianne was willing to sink to such low depths but I chose to climb outside her reach entirely. She wanted to hurt me, I ensured she couldn’t.

That’s something my sister still hasn’t learned. She thinks we should cater to my mom and handle her with kid gloves, where I’d rather just not handle Rianne at all. Having chosen to live with her dad for the majority of her life, she only saw the good side of our mother. She was only shown the good side. Our mom always behaved differently around Kelsie though, careful not to let her crazy show. Thinking Perry would come to his senses one day and take her back, she was always on her best behavior. The weekends my sister would visit were the only times I saw the kind of parent my mother could’ve been had I not been born. A fact she made sure to remind me of whenever Kelsie left again.

Kelsie and I get along for the most part, only if for short bursts at a time. She even gave me some old items for my apartment like utensils, cups, and a nightstand she scored at a thrift store but didn’t fit her new house decor. Kelsie and her high school sweetheart got married just before she gave birth to their baby boy, Miles, in the fall. The small house they moved into has a cozy cottage style where my place has more of a I’ll-take-what-I-can-get vibe, so I got a few things they found lacking.

Where we disagree is our mother which is ironic considering the very tie that binds us doubles as the noose around the neck of our relationship. Every time there’s an altercation she takes Mom’s side, no questions asked, no explanation needed. Of course she’s never seen the ugly, sinister side I grew up with so she can’t imagine the heinous things Rianne has done to me.

That’s why when I met her and Miles for dinner yesterday, I tried to steer the conversation toward safer topics. I needed her help finding an outfit for graduation so I bribed her with dinner just to get her out of the house. It was worth it though. I got to spend time with my chubby-cheeked nephew while buying something nicer than cut-off shorts to wear. The outfit we picked out was flirty and fun, not exactly what I’m used to, but Kelsie swore I could pull it off. The topic of graduation obviously led to discussing who’d be in attendance. The invitation is still open to our mother. I want her to see what I’ve accomplished without her help. Despite Rianne having the invitation on the empty fridge for months, whether she comes is up to her. I’m sure Drew will be there, maybe even his dad since he was my stepfather for a short time. When I asked Kelsie if she’d make it, things quickly went south. She maintained she couldn’t attend unless Mom went, saying it wouldn’t be right to celebrate without her. Unsurprisingly, I grew defensive and things escalated from there. She left in a huff with Miles flailing in her arms. I hate fighting with Kelsie, especially when it affects seeing my nephew, but I don’t understand her logic.

My world history teacher spent a summer in South Africa when he was in his teens. Mr. O’Conner’s parents let him visit his cousin who had sold all his possessions to start an animal rescue sanctuary on this oasis in the South African wilderness. Anyway, he told us this story once about these Mozambican Spitting Cobras and how they would get inside the house sometimes. They’re insanely venomous and a single bite could kill a human in under forty-five minutes, so it was a huge ordeal when they’d find one. They’d retrieve the snakes using special tools, including safety goggles, then release them back into the wild unharmed. Apparently, the spitting cobra—aptly named—also spits its venom at their targets. It doesn’t actually do anything unless it gets into the eyes, then it can scar the cornea leaving a person blind. I can’t help but wonder if this is what’s happened to my sister. Our mother’s poison has reached Kelsie without her even realizing it.

I came home to discover a red rose placed in front of my door. Upon finding the stinky flower, I tossed it in the dumpster outside. The boys, well Coty and Beckett, had been leaving me little notes and treats all week, so the rose was an unwelcome surprise to say the least. I’m still not sure who it was from either.

* * *

Joe enters the office carrying a stack of work shirts.

“New shirts came in. Make sure you grab a few.”

The last time we spoke was on the phone when he insisted I meet him for some BS excuse, yet here he stands, acting like a normal, non-skeevy boss.

Nose twitching at a strong odor, I cautiously approach the pile and take a handful. Scanning the sizes, I look up.

“They’re all extra small.”

“That’s what everybody wears so that’s what I ordered. You trying to tell me you don’t fit an extra small?”

Not that it’s any of his damn business, but no, I don’t.

“It’s hotter out there,” I point to the front, “than it is back here. I like my shirts loose for a reason.” Multiple actually.

Why am I explaining my clothing preferences to my manager? How is this okay?

“Well, this is the new style the boss wants everyone in so either make it work or…”

Sighing, I leave, throwing them in my locker on the way to my station. He’s making it impossible to keep working here. Mandatory infant size shirts? What’s next? Wet and Wild Wednesdays? Stripper Sundays?