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I’m almost there when I hear an annoying, braying laugh, coming from the hot tub. “That asshole, he has the nerve to sit in my hot tub with a girl who laughs like a donkey. And hasn’t even said hello to me? I’m gonna tell him what’s what,” I mutter. I spin on my heel and head toward them.
“Hey, Regan, your seat is over here.” Tyson stands and heads over to me. But I don’t even look his way. I’m on a mission.
Stone looks in my direction, just in time for him to see me trip over my feet and fall flat on my face.
Conversation comes to a halt, and everyone looks over at me.
Humiliation burns, and I close my eyes, as I hear the scrape of chairs being pushed back and feet crunching grass, as they rush to help me.
A large hand cups my elbow, and I look up to see Hayes, lifting me off the ground.
Oh God, Hayes Rivers is being nice to me. This has to be the lowest point of my life.
“I’m fine, thank you.” I tug my arm free of his grasp and brush the dirt off my blouse and shorts.
When Tyson puts an arm around me, I let myself be led away. I grab a bottle of Blue Moon from the cooler. I drop into the seat ne
xt to his and chug it.
“Slow down.” Tyson pulls the drink out of my hand.
“I’m so sick of everyone saying that. I’m fine. Worry about your damn self,” I snap, then reach over and grab his glass and down the caramel colored liquid in one gulp. I wince as the liquor burns a trail down my throat.
“This isn’t like you,” he says.
“You don’t even know what that means,” I inform him.
He looks at me sideways. “Wha—?”
Stone and his little perfect perky young pretty are out of the hot tub and head our way.
“I need to pee,” I announce. “My bladder isn't what it was before three kids.” I use the arm of the chair to lever myself to standing, but sway as I do.
“Let me help you,” Tyson says.
“No,” I whisper angrily. But it’s too late.
“She’s really drunk,” Celine pretends to whisper, as she drops into a chair around the small table I’m sharing with Tyson.
“Aren’t you going to call her Captain Obvious, too? Or is that just for the girls you fuck?” I ask. I giggle, but no one else does.
“What did you just say?” Tyson asks.
“Oh, grow up, Tyson,” I snap at him, and then spin on my heel with a loud burp.
Halfway across the yard, I kick my shoes off, so I can walk faster.
I get to the bathroom and shut the door behind me and suck in deep breaths. I slide down the door and drop my head on my knees.
When my heart isn’t tap dancing on my sternum anymore, I open my eyes and use the counter for support to get up. I reach to turn on the taps, and, for a second, I don’t recognize my own hands.
In the months since I started rebuilding the shattered foundation of my life, nothing has changed more than they have.
They tell the story of the new me in a language that’s universal, but in a pattern that only I understand. They’ve become my visual anchor to the present.
The three diamond eternity rings stacked on to my right forefinger remind me that I gave birth to three little lives that will always be mine to cherish.
The tattoos that run on either side of my left middle finger read “Weh nuh ded, nuh dash weh” in my mother’s Jamaican patois, reminding me that as long as I’m breathing, there is hope.
