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When the pasta finishes, she scoops it out of the water and adds it to the veggies. Then she pours in a sweetened soy sauce from my fridge. After it all comes together, she portions us both out a plateful and we go to the couch.
A few bites into the delicious meal, Mom speaks up. “So, you want to talk about it?”
She doesn’t make it uncomfortable. And when I glance up from my plate, she’s digging around in her plate with her chopsticks. Mom has always had a finesse with conversations. Something I never had. Not with anyone except Gavin. And even that was questionable over the last week.
Conversations with Mom have never been awkward—not even the period and sex talks when I was younger. She always has this gentleness about her. One which could console the most anxious soul. And right now, her tranquility is the exact balm I need.
Thinking back, the past week had been great. Or so I thought. Until she showed up last night. Until some “fake” relationship they had was used as a weapon against me. The smile she threw after she spotted me in the room, that was nothing short of malicious. She knew her words would hurt me. Hurt us. And she tossed them like landmines and waited for the fallout.
Without further ado, the tears start back up and I immediately hate my stupid emotions and bodily functions. Can I not cry for a few non-sleeping hours? Is that too much to ask?
After I get my tear ducts under control, I peek up at my mom. “How much do you know about this past week? Besides me telling you I had a photo shoot on the beach.”
She sets her plate on the table, half her food forgotten. “Shelly said Gavin was your model for the shoot.”
I nod. “Did she say anything else?”
“Only that she was worried about you. But she gave me no specifics.”
I set my plate beside hers, mine hardly touched. Eating is the last thing I want to do, but I appreciate that Mom isn’t pushing the topic. For a moment, I stare at the fireplace as flashes of the past week flicker through my mind. Next thing, I cover my face with my hands and start crying. If Gavin leaving thirteen years ago is any indication of what is to come, I may as well just throw in the towel. Trying to be “okay” is getting old. And I am so tired of pretending to be something I am not.
Normal. Happy. Thrilled with my life.
“I let him in again, Mom. I let him wiggle his way into my heart and he broke it all over again.” I stop, unable to contain the torrent spilling from my eyes.
Mom leans into me and wraps her arms around me. She shushes me while she strokes my hair and murmurs unheard words into my ear. Her hand runs slow circuits up and down my back, soothing me like only a mother can. The occasional kiss to my crown as she squeezes me closer. The extra squeeze in her hug every once in a while.
“I’ve got you, sweetie. No matter what, I’ve got you.”
I sniffle between sobs. “Thanks, Mom. I love you so much.”
“I love you, too. And if you want to talk about it more, I’m here. Okay?”
I squeeze her tighter and nod into her neck. “Maybe another day. I just need a day without tears.”
* * *
When I told Mom I needed a day without tears, I didn’t mean today. I had already cried thousands of tears today and was okay shedding more.
But shortly after Mom left, Shelly called. As if the two of them were playing telephone tag and I was the name they passed back and forth. Shelly told me she was bringing Erin and Jonas over tonight. That we would watch movies and eat junk food and just hang out together.
The first thing I wanted to tell her was not to come over. That I wanted more alone time. Honestly, the only thing I want to do is sleep. Sleep for days or weeks or months. Sleep an eternity and erase all the bad memories. I just want everything that happened to fade away. Out of my mind. Out of my heart. Gavin. Layla. The whole thing. I want it all gone. Forgotten.
But there is no chance in hell Shelly will ever let that happen. She is determined to keep me from drowning. To keep my head above water as I gasp for breath. For life.
And that would be why my living room resembles something from our preteen years—blankets and pillows and snacks strewn across the floor. The television plays some movie from Netflix. To be honest, I have no clue what we are watching. Since the movie started, my eyes have been glazed over. My mind in a fog.
All four of us lay on the floor. Shelly on my left, Erin on her other side, and Jonas on my right. The only source of light spills from the screen. Occasionally, the room goes dark. I relish those scenes the most. The ones that give me a semblance of solitude. A breath of privacy.
Currently, Shelly’s fingers play with my hair as her eyes remain glued to the television. Erin is out of my line of sight, but I assume she’s focused on the movie. And although my eyes aren’t absorbing a single minute of the movie, I am fully aware that Jonas has been staring at me for the last five minutes.
And I don’t know how that makes me feel.
I glance over at him—to confirm—and catch him before he can look away. His eyes crinkle at the corners and his sadness for me weighs heavier than I can bear. When he turns back to the movie, he scoots down and lays flatter. And something inside me flips. Begs for his comfort.
Shelly and Erin bring me solace, but it isn’t the same. Women experience emotion different than men. They also console in other ways.
I roll onto my side and snuggle against Jonas’s frame. Without hesitation, he wraps his arm around me and draws me closer. His heat warming my cool skin. But the second he places a kiss on the crown of my head, I lose it. The flood gates open once again and I cry into his shirt. Soak the cotton. With each round of tears, he holds me tighter, strokes my hair softer, shushes my cries more, and I clench his shirt in my fists harder.
