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I’m balancing on one foot, trying to take my shoes off without falling on my face. Okay, so I had a few more drinks than I should have, but I laughed so much. For a few precious moments, I felt free. Something I haven’t felt in… well, in ages. If ever.
Mom, wearing a pink nylon bathrobe and rollers in her fine gray hair, stands at the bottom of the stairs and glares at me. I remember the menacing powers of that glare and shudder at its current version. She looks so fragile that I worry that even me speaking would blow her away.
“I’m sorry, Mom. Why don’t we have some warm milk and go to bed?” I try to articulate clearly. It costs me more effort than it should. How much gin did I have?
“No warm milk for you, young lady. You were not here to help me out. Everything is up to me and your father…” Her gaze shifts slightly and her eyes widen as if the realization she’s a widow crashes over her once more. As if remembering my father is gone comes in phases, shattering her world again and again.
“Your father isn’t here to help anymore.” Tears glisten in her eyes. She turns, the hunch of her shoulders even more pronounced as she shuffles toward the stairs.
I watch her carrying her sorrow and confusion up and I’m unable to move. To help her out. To share her grief. To be there for her in any useful way. The realization that the only reason I’m staying is a sense of responsibility hits me hard and I collapse onto the small bench.
Tears roll down my face and I’m not even sure why I’m crying. I hear Mom’s bedroom door click open and then closed, followed by the creak of her bed. Only then do I allow a strangled sob to escape.
I sit there, sobbing quietly in the hallway, until physical discomfort brings me out of my reverie. There is no point in reminiscing about what could have been or what if. Those are stupid concepts that bring nothing good with them. Shit went down all those years ago, severing my relationship with many people, including my parents.
Looking back, I might understand their position. Faced with my mother’s devastation when I arrived four days ago, I realized understanding is a useless notion, because it doesn’t grant forgiveness. And to mend my connection with my home and my family, to mend my broken heart, forgiveness seems to be the necessary stepping stone.
That’s what my therapist keeps saying, anyway.
I stand up and trudge to the guest room. Another surprise that waited for me here. This house. I had no idea my parents had downsized. Or when. This house isn’t far from our old one, but it’s small. Significantly smaller.
I get to the cold bed. The little stars glued to the ceiling—this must have been a child’s bedroom—swirl as I keep staring at them for what might be minutes or hours. Every time I close my eyes, Mila’s words haunt me.
Am I really a control freak? Perhaps a hidden one, but what other choice did I have? When one’s life implodes, survival instincts kick in. And it’s not my fault I survive by control.
Mila calls me a spreadsheet queen, but how else am I supposed to manage? Would a mindless fuck really help me? A therapeutic orgasm?
With a sigh—God, I’ve been doing that a lot lately—I get up and rummage through my carry-on to find my vibrator. I return to the bed and pull down my panties. My reliable toy works its magic and within minutes I stifle a scream, biting my forearm.
With a sigh, I sag into the mattress. Orgasm, yes. Therapeutic, definitely not. That’s the problem with sex toys—they don’t deliver the closeness of another person, a kiss, a hug or human intimacy. They leave me empty and lonely. Satisfaction that only intensifies the longing.
I throw the toy across the room. It lands with a thud and I cringe. Fuck. I hope I didn’t break it. It might not be therapeutic, but it’s the only O I’ve been getting. At the age of thirty-six, I can’t decide if that’s pathetic or normal.
I groan. An upgrade to the sighing—I really want to roll my eyes at myself. But my pity party is interrupted by a vibrating sound. I guess I didn’t break the Womanizer after all.
I sit up and switch the bedside light on. Shit, there are two pink parts by the door. There go my future orgasms. But the sound buzzes somewhere by my feet. My bag is by the nightstand where I dropped it earlier.
Finally, the rest of my brain completes the picture and I dig my phone out. If I thought my week had been shitty so far, I was wrong. Seeing the caller ID, I decline the call, but I know I can’t escape the caller.
ChapterFour
Massi
17 years ago
“You’re so handsome, Massi.” My mother held my face in her soft hands and planted a kiss on my forehead. “I still don’t understand what the rush is, but I’m so happy for you.”
“I’m happy too, Mom.”
By sheer luck, Blue got her period shortly after our night of passion and the boulder of responsibility lifted from my chest. Slightly. The short engagement, the initial wrath of her parents, the wedding preparations and my work didn’t allow for much reflection. But the heaviness of the responsibility—it’s weighed on me daily ever since that night.
I fought her hard for something I wanted. Something I still wanted, just in a version that might not completely align with Blue’s. She looked sad, finding out she wasn’t pregnant. Or maybe I’d just been imagining things, but I was too freaked out to even broach the subject.
I wanted to be with her, but not with the burden of a family life. Not just yet.
The room around me lacked the same excitement that was missing from my mother’s eyes. My brothers lingered around the suite, wearing their boy versions of tuxedos and utterly bored. Gio, at seventeen, had only one goal for today—to get laid. God help all the mothers at the wedding in protecting their daughters.
Andrea, at fifteen, might try to score a girl as well. Thirteen-year-old Baldo would stir up trouble just because he wanted to, and he could.
