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We talk and hang out for a while longer before departing. I plop onto my bed back in my dorm room and decide to do some homework. My mother stopped calling a few hours ago, but I wonder if I’ll regret not attending Michelle’s party. Sure, I’ll hear about my absence for a few weeks as she fusses at me and expresses her extreme disappointment with how I couldn’t do this one little thing for our family. That’s how she always phrases it. Everything I fail to do is just “one little thing for our family.”
They make a big freaking deal out of ‘one little things’.
It takes hours upon dreadful hours to do my work. Mostly because I welcome every distraction, frequently bang my head against the wall, and procrastinate as if it’s my middle name. Around nine, my mother calls. Like the smart person I am, I don’t answer. She leaves a voicemail, though. When she doesn’t immediately call again, I decide to check it.
“You can’t do one little thing for our family, can you?” See? “I told you it was important for you to be here, Jamie. You missed out on the proposal and the family pictures with your sister as an engaged woman.” She rambles on and on for another minute or so, ending with, “Why must you do this to our family? Please stop thinking about yourself and stop disappointing us.”
Gotta love my mom.
A loud banging coming from my front door wakes me up. Sunday mornings are sacred. It’s the one morning I will sleep in and be lazy for an hour. That’s not happening this morning, obviously. As I walk down the stairs, I hear, “Brent! Come on! Open up!”
I hurry at the sound of Jamie’s voice. What is she doing here so early in the morning? I unlock the door and yank it open, and the knocking stops immediately. Jamie is dressed in her running gear, a coffee cup in her hand.
“Jamie, what are you doing here?”
“I need to run, but I want to do it your way. Let’s go.” She shoves her coffee cup at me and begins jogging in place.
“It’s Sunday morning.”
She shrugs. “Are you coming with me or not?”
I step aside for her to come inside. She hesitates, but comes in and takes her cup back. “Sit down.” I point to the couch. Jamie frowns immediately. “It’s Sunday, Jamie. I don’t run on Sundays.”
“I bet you work on Sundays.”
“That’s different. Work isn’t work for me. Sit.”
“I need to run, Brent,” she complains as she walks around to sit on the couch. I take a seat next to her. “If I knew you didn’t run on Sundays, I wouldn’t have be so rude and woke you up. I could’ve stayed on campus.”
“You need to talk. You did rudely wake me up.” I grab her ankles, place them in my lap, and remove her shoes, letting them fall to the floor. “So, you can try my method. If it doesn’t work, we’ll go running.”
She thinks about it for a second. “Promise?”
“Wouldn’t lie to you, hon. What happened?”
“What makes you think something happened?”
“You need to run when your emotions are all over the place. Did you answer one of your mom’s calls?”
“No. She left a voicemail last night, then my dad, and then my sister.” Jamie sighs. “Apparently, my sister got engaged last night. Mother must’ve known about it beforehand, and that’s why she wanted me to be there. Can we run now?” She looks so hopeful, yet I’m about to destroy that hope.
“No. I’m assuming the voicemails weren’t nice?”
Jamie looks down at her lap and drags her finger around the lip of her cup, around and around. “Just the usual. Can’t decide if I should feel guilty or not.”
“What would’ve happened had you gone to the party?” I ask.
She doesn’t answer right away, but I think the dip of her lips says plenty to start. I grab a blanket from the back of the couch and cover us up since there’s a bit of a chill in the room. She can take her time; I can wait.
“If I tell you, I’d have to tell you more about my family and myself and I don’t know if I want to do that yet,” she finally admits, looking at me.
“Why?” What is she worried about in particular?
“It’s all...” she pauses for a moment as if considering the word she wants to use, and settles on, “unpleasant. Do we really want to put a damper on us already?”
I raise an eyebrow at her. “I’m eighteen years older than you with a daughter slightly younger than you and you woke me up before six on a Sunday morning. We have plenty we could worry about already. Just hit me with it.”
“I don’t like talking, Brent.” Her voice is quiet, but I’m more determined than ever.
