Next-Door Nemesis(2)
“Oh darn. Well, maybe next time.” My mom pouts and the fine lines of aging pull on the corners of her delicate mouth, which has never muttered a single curse word. “At least Dad’s going to get some quality time with you.”
She may not curse, but those lips are well-versed in spewing passive-aggressive jabs.
“We watched an entire season of House Hunters last week; quality time doesn’t get any better than that.” I can almost see the wheels turning in her brain to come up with a retort, but she stays quiet because even she knows it’s true. Nothing can bond two humans more than watching incompatible couples argue about a house they can’t afford and screaming at a television about gray laminate floors.
“Fine, but if you’re set on abandoning me and Jesus, can you at least make sure Dad doesn’t forget to get the white oak tree while you’re at the nursery?” She steps to the side as I squeeze past her.
She follows close behind as I try to keep my eyes trained on the carpet they replaced last year and ignore the barrage of inspirational quote art littering the walls. The collaged picture frames filled with every single one of my school pictures break up Bible verses, proof of days when I loved overly teased bangs and scrunchies working overtime to keep me humble.
As if I have any pride left.
“Sure, Mom.” I pull open the cabinet and grab the “World’s Best Dad” mug I gave my dad for Father’s Day when I was in third grade. I pour in some of the hazelnut coffee my mom is still trying to convince me doesn’t taste like sludge and hope that today will be the day I learn to love it. “Text me the name, though, because I definitely won’t remember.”
“The white oak.” Dad’s deep voice bounces off the white cabinets before he enters and drops a chaste kiss onto my mom’s mouth. They celebrated their thirty-sixth wedding anniversary in February. He still kisses her every time he enters a room and my mom still blushes each time she lays eyes on him. It’s sickeningly sweet. “That’s what we’re going to get; I had to order it. Noreen called me last night to tell me it finally came in.”
“Really?” My mom’s face lights up and I’m not sure if it’s because she’s married to a man who does thoughtful shit like special ordering her trees or because she loves landscaping that much. “You didn’t tell me!”
They planted a tree in the front yard when our house was built thirty years ago. Unfortunately, two winters ago, it fell victim to a blizzard that knocked out power lines and roots alike. And while the Reserve at Horizon Creek may be a stifling hellhole put on Earth only to torture me in my lowest moments in life—let’s not talk about being one of ten people of color in my middle school of more than a thousand—it’s been around long enough that I can’t say it’s ugly. The trees planted at the inception of the neighborhood have grown into beautiful, mature trees many planned communities can’t brag about.
If the opportunity presented itself, there’s a ninety-eight percent chance I’d sell my soul to be back in LA. But even so, no palm tree can compare to the droopy willow tree in my backyard where I spent countless summer days losing myself between the worn pages of my favorite books. Now with my dad dedicating all his spare time to the flourishing vegetable garden and rosebushes, it’s almost possible for me to pretend we’re not in the middle of Ohio when I step into our fenced-in backyard.
Almost.
“Well, since it seems as if you two need a little alone time”—I hand my dad the remaining coffee, which I don’t think I’ll ever adjust to—“I’m going to run and get some caffeine I can actually stomach. Do either of you want a bagel or something?”
My mom opens her mouth, probably to defend her choice of hazelnut, but my dad beats her to it.
“Two everything bagels, toasted, with cream cheese.” He recites the order they’ve shared for years. “Just make sure to drink your coffee there and take the long way home after.”
He wiggles his eyebrows and my mom giggles.
My stomach turns, but I can’t blame the coffee this time.
“Filthy.” I grimace and shake my head in their general direction, trying to avoid direct eye contact. “And before church group, Mom? What would the Karens say?”
“Oh, honey.” She swipes a stray hair out of her face, and with one glance at her expression, I regret ever getting out of bed this morning. “Trust me. The Karens and every other woman in this neighborhood would love to experience anything like I do with your father.”
“La la la!” I stick my fingers in my ears and pretend to be disgusted by their overt and never-ending PDA. “I didn’t hear any of that!”
I hurry to my bathroom with my parents’ laughter chasing after me and make quick work of brushing my teeth and wrestling my curls into a careless bun. In LA, I never left the house without putting ample effort into my appearance. Living in the land of opportunity, I was convinced I was always one outing away from meeting someone who’d change my life.
I needed to be prepared.
So of course the one time I was caught slipping in public happened to be the one time everyone witnessed. Life is rude like that.
I contemplate putting on a bra before heading to the chain coffee shop down the road before deciding against it.
Standards? Don’t even know her!