AllFreeNovel
Share Us
“Just keep talking,” I said. “It helps.”
“I’m here. Now, focus on your breathing. In,two-three-four-five.” She paused. “Out,two-three-four-five.Good, sweetie. You’re doing good. Keep going.” She went silent, listening to make sure I was following her instructions. “I got your room fixed up real nice for you. Put up some of your old posters. Found one with that girl band you liked so much. I washed all your old covers and sheets. I even threw in some wax melts that I thought you might like. You’re gonna love it, I just know.”
The bell chimed behind me, and Bernice teetered toward the pump. Once she was at my side, she squeezed my shoulder before brushing my hand away from the nozzle.
“Why don’t you just get in the car, sugar? I’ll finish up here.” Feathering her fingers through the disheveled mound of dark curls on my head, she grinned. Her front tooth was missing, and when she spoke, a whistle accented the edges of her words. “It sure was good to see you. And don’t you worry about that demon. We’ll send that son of a gun back to the fiery flames of Hell where he belongs.” Bernice delivered an uppercut to the air before pressing her palm against the center of my forehead. She didn’t comment on the makeshift facemask I’d jury-rigged with my shirt, but she did unleash a string of words inGod’s languageto put me at ease.
It didn’t.
It never had.
There were quite a few things I didn’t miss about the city that brought me up. Grayson Collins sat at the top, but evangelicals speaking in tongues at the drop of a hat were a close second. I gave her a nod and turned around, hurling myself into the front seat and slamming the door.
My mother must have sent her a text when she’d heard me spiraling out of control. Just another way for her to take care of me, like the care packages she’d been sending me since I lost my job. Treats and trinkets meant to lift my spirit. All they lifted were the levels of shame I’d held ever since my ill-fated Grindr chat with a man called Mr. Fister.
That name… well, let’s be honest, that name was less than ideal. It hadn’t been his revolting choice of kink that drew me in, though. It was his face. Dark hair parted at the side. Brown eyes with unnecessarily long lashes. A light dusting of freckles spread out like poorly planned constellations. He’d looked just like Gray. At first, I thought it had been him. I didn’t know why the hell Gray Collins would have been in Atlanta, but that didn’t stop me from sending the man a message. I’d even called himTwo-liter.
“Did you tell her? Does she know about the lake? About me and Gray?”
“Not about Gray,” Mom said, her voice barely even a whisper. If she hadn’t told Bernice aboutus, she must have at least told her about the lake. The sympathy in her eyes when she took the nozzle out of my hand had been undeniable. If Bernice knew about what Gray’s brother had done to me, it meant the denim debutantes knew as well. And if they knew…
Shit.
***
It’s funny. They say that when you die, you see flashes of your life play out in front of you like a movie. This had been a death of sorts. The death of my dignity. Of my career. My independence. On the journey through West Clark, there had been a few of those flashes. Gray and I standing outside Bronson’s Bakery, sharing a bag of white chocolate chip macadamia nut cookies, minus the nuts. Us standing outside of the movie theater, waiting to see a scary movie. At the park, Gray giving me a Spice Girls album while I stared at him like he was Jesus.
When I stepped out of my rental car, I didn’t see any flashes of life, only my mother barreling down the steps that led up to my childhood home. Her lace apron blew to the side, revealing a terrible vision of disastrous double denim; a skirt that flowed to her ankles, and a blue jean jacket bedazzled to Hell and back with rhinestone crucifixes. She no longer rocked her signature Caterina Fox crimped updo, but her new, uneven bob with chunky blonde highlights was the stuff of nightmares.
She sprinted toward me as if she was competing in an Olympic decathlon. She showed no sign of slowing down, and all I could do was drop the bag I’d been carrying and brace for impact. When we collided, she crushed her arms around my waist, and every ounce of oxygen was expelled from my lungs. As I tried to take in trace amounts of air, she climbed my body like she was scaling Everest.
“I haven’t seen you in five years. I’m hugging you. Just let it happen.”
“Thirty—eight—years—old!”
“Still—my—baby.” She craned her neck, kissing my cheek before releasing me from her grip and allowing me to lower her to the ground. Once she was done with her ascension of Mount Kentmore, I picked up my bag. There were still three more in the trunk, but as she jerked my hand and dragged me toward the porch, I realized they would have to wait. The sudden momentum provided by her pull sent the bag I had been carrying out of my hand, launching its contents across the front yard. I looked back at the trail of boxer briefs and the travel-sized bottle of KY warming jelly now littering the lawn and sighed.
Once inside, the scent of sandalwood slammed into my senses. It was intoxicating. Overpowering. Migraine-inducing. “Christ,Mom, how many candles do you have burning in here?”
“With that mouth of yours, it’s a wonder He hasn’t struck you down already.”
The living room was just as it always had been. Crucifixes lined the walls like precisely placed artwork. No matter which direction I faced, the Lord was there, staring down at me. I walked toward the cheap, particle board coffee table. It had been stained a dark mahogany to give it a failed appearance of elegance. I picked up the framed picture that sat in the center of the table. Three faces smiled back at me. The first two belonged to my mother and a younger version of myself. The third was a man that I had never particularly cared for. A father who had held revivals in old, tattered tents in the summer. The man who preached fire and brimstone four days a week at West Clark Apostolic Church. My father, like myself, had a head of untamable curls. He’d kept his trimmed down and parted at the side, giving it the appearance of ripples and waves on the ocean. I’d also inherited his long nose and milk-white skin. Flesh that blistered and burned at the mere suggestion of outdoor activities. I wondered if his skin was currently broiling in the heated pits of Hell.
My mother squeezed my shoulder as I slumped down on the sofa, staring at the picture. “He loved you, you know. In his own way.”
“He kicked me out the day I graduated high school. Told me I wasn’t welcome in his house anymore. That’s not love.”
If she’d thought about arguing in his defense, she let the words die on her tongue.
After returning the picture frame to its home on the coffee table, I flopped down on the sofa and leaned back, pinching the bridge of my nose. “I won’t be here long,” I said, though I wasn’t sure which of us I was trying to convince. “Just until I land the next job.”
She took a seat beside me and squeezed my knee. “You can stay for as little or as long as you need, baby. I’m just happy to have you home.”
“A couple of weeks, tops.”
“Enough time to rest that weary soul of yours. We’ll get youback on track. Just wait and see.”
Those words. They were ones I’d heard before, though never from her. Words my father had said countless times in the last two months I’d lived there.
