And not to be selfish or anything, but . . . where the hell am I going to live?
Yeah, my parents are well off and all, but there’s no way in hell I would ever ask them for money, not after everything that happened . . .
And besides, I’ve spent most of my life hearing my parents tell me over and over again, We make our own way, we make our own life.
To prove to them I’m not a screwup, that I didn’t need their assistance, that’s what I set out to do, make my own path, but boy oh boy did that come back to bite me in the ass.
Now I find myself toeing chipped wood on the deck, thinking about how my life has gotten to this point.
The possibility of being homeless—actually homeless—feels like a punch to the gut. There’s nothing left to do but tip back the wine bottle, again and again.
Glug, glug, glug, there go all my plans.
Talk about a kick to the old baby maker.
Childhood house? Gone.
Devious schemes to not end up homeless and broke? Out the window.
Whoosh, just like that, all my worries come flooding back like an endless tidal wave, crashing into me over and over again.
“Hey, slow down there, kiddo,” Ford says, popping out onto the deck. He attempts to take my wine bottle away from me, but when it comes to her “grape juice,” this mama bear is protective.
“This is my wine; get your own bottle,” I hiss.
“I would, but there’s none left.”
Facts.
Hmm, maybe that’s why I’m also more on the emotional side right now . . .
Pffft.
No, wine doesn’t make you emotional.
Wine makes you feel . . . it makes you feel . . . like you’re galloping on the back of a prancing unicorn.
“Why are you doing that?” Ford asks.
“Doing what?” I pause and take inventory of my limbs.
“You’re pretending you’re on the back of a horse, galloping in place.”
Huh . . . I thought I was just dreaming about that.
“Don’t you worry about what I’m doing,” I say, straightening up as I motion to the house. “You should be worrying about what they’re doing.” I lean forward and lower my voice to a dramatic whisper. “A high-rise? Ford, come on. They are not a high-rise couple. People who live in high-rise apartments don’t know what shopping at a Costco feels like. Can you imagine Mom and Dad not buying in bulk? Honestly, it’s too traumatic for me to even think about. Not to mention, they built an enterprise from being down-to-earth nature people. Moving to a high-rise apartment where they have inside jokes with the doorman completely contradicts the foundation they built their family on.”
He sticks his hands in his pockets and looks back at the house. “It is rather confusing.”
Ugh, Ford. Always the calm one. The sensible one. The responsible older brother who thinks logically, never ever thinking with his heart. Not sure the computer in his brain knows how to calculate emotions or play off the drama life hands him.
This is not a calm, pensive moment.
This is an all-out, rear up the rotors, fire up the engines, throw gas on the flames kind of moment.
I’m going to need anger from him.
Outrage.
Drama!
“That’s all you’re going to say?” I hiccup. “Why aren’t you angry?” I sway to the side.
He looks me up and down. “Palm, maybe lay off the wine.”
I shake my head and clutch my bottle close to my heart. “This right here, this is my only friend.”
“You’re using the wrong thing to cope.”
“Ugh, get out of here with your big brother sensibility. Can’t you see I’m letting myself have a moment?”
“You were having a moment before the announcement.” He studies me. “Is there something else going on you’re not telling me about?”
Sensible and intuitive.
“What? No,” I answer quickly. “Why would you think that?”
“Because your eyes are shifty. Because you’re acting weird. Because you’re having an outlandish reaction to Mom and Dad moving.”
“Outlandish?” I say, my voice rising. “Ford”—hiccup—“this is our childhood home; this is where you once drove over Mom’s garden with a tractor, and then all three of us ran to the market to buy vegetables and restocked the soil with them. Don’t you remember the look on Mom’s face when she held up her prize-winning eggplant that we bought from the store . . . on sale? You’re telling me you’re okay with them selling the garden that brought us all together that fateful summer?”