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“Oh, my God. You have a guy over.” My hand flies to cover my gaping mouth and to stifle a laugh. Nora rarely has guys over and I can’t decide if I want to ask her if she’s okay or high five her.
“Don’t be ridiculous,” she says, far too squeaky for her normal voice.
“A guy puts out and you can’t even provide eggs?”
“… he’s not talking to me.”
“Nora!”
I hear muffled sounds, as though she’s covering the mouthpiece, before she yells, “Oh my God, shit for brains, stop talking!”
My smile is huge. I’ve decided she deserves a high five for getting some. “So…who’s the lucky guy?”
“Some absolute egg-obsessed loser, apparently… Ugh. I hate myself.”
“You do know how to pick them. He better be giving you areallygood time. That’s all I’ll say.”
“Eh… I can’t complain too much.”
“Well, you better get to finding eggs for your fella. Gotta keep that protein up… ”
“Jessica!” she giggles into the phone.
A quiet beat passes between us before she says, “Hey. You’ll be great.”
I nod, accepting her words. “Thank you. Enjoy your man.”
“Ugh, I hate you.”
38
Jessica
Formid-afternoononaTuesday, the café is busy. People sit at tiny square tables, blowing their hot coffee aromas around the room, laughing, chatting, and generally displaying every kind of happy emotion that I’mnotfeeling right now.
I glance at my watch. It’s 1:45 pm and she’s officially late. My leg jitters underneath the table, my nerves growing larger with each passing minute. I pick at a tiny piece of skin on my thumb that’s been bugging me since I sat down, trying to distract myself. Cam sits beside me, casually reading the newspaper he brought. A sharp, shrill bell rings through the room again, alerting everyone that another customer is coming in, but every time that’s happened, it’s not been her and I’m beginning to think she might not show.
Just as I turn to ask Cam how long he thinks we should wait, she hurries in behind the person who opened the door and frantically searches the room for us. Her short messy hair tumbling around her face as the wind pushes the door closed behind her. She’s dressed all in black; jeans and a long sleeve t-shirt with black, chunky boots. If I didn’t know anything about her, I’d say she looks normal, stylish even. What gives her away, though, is her eyes. They look tired and worn, like she has to battle through every day. When she spots us, my leg jitters even harder. Every noise in the room feels like it’s echoing right next to my head.
How are you supposed to greet your mother who abandoned you after years of not seeing her?Hi Mummy dearest, how’ve you been? I’ve been great, you know, only spent the last ten years feeling abandoned by you but, no, let’s talk about you.
When she stops next to our table, my body turns to lead, unable to move or utter a single word because all the hurt that I’ve ever felt in her presence comes hurling back to my reality like a smack in the face. I hate the way my chest feels like it’s bruised and the way my breathing stutters, I'm trying so hard to keep it together.
I feel Cam’s hand reach for mine, the anchor he likely sensed I needed right now, and he squeezes tight enough for me to focus on something else for a second and not spiral into a panic attack.
After a few seconds, she sits down and my breathing evens out. Although, when her scent hits me, I have to squeeze Cam’s hand once more, gripping it like I might disappear any second. Notes of orange and lavender flood my brain, making me feel foggy. I shake my head, willing it away, needing to keep as clear a mind as I can to get through this.
I straighten my shoulders and clear my throat, the sides of my mouth lift stiffly.
“Claire.”
“Cam, it’s good to see you again.” I don’t miss the slight malice in her tone, especially since I know their last meeting wasn’t easy.
Cam stands and my body leaps.He isn’t leaving me, is he?I look up at him, only to feel his hand gently hold my shoulder. “I’m going to get a few coffees. I’ll be right there.” He points to the counter and I hesitate, my head turning towards the counter to see justhow farhe’ll be from me, then I nod, letting the death grip I have on his wrist loosen so he can leave.
“So… how are you doing?” my mum asks, nerves lacing her tone.
I resist the urge to scoff at the mundaneness of her question and her attempt at small talk, even if it burns my throat not to say anything spiteful. If she really wanted to know how I was doing, she would’ve contacted me before now. A bitter taste coats my tongue as my mood sours, but I swallow it, not letting myself be controlled by my wayward emotions.
