When I dialed her number, a stack of papers and empties on the counter vibrated, her phone lighting up under them. “Perfect,” I muttered, tossing the bottles in the trash, sorting through the papers, and throwing out junk. I was about to crumple a receipt from the gas station when I saw my mom’s loopy handwriting on the back.
Ran out. Back soon.
I tossed the note aside and cleaned off the counter before turning to the sink. I paid someone to clean the place every few weeks, but the garbage multiplied exponentially between visits, so the place remained in perpetual chaos. Cord made fun of me in college because I was adamant about our room being clean—he’d never seen my mom’s place. The sink was full of dishes, plus a cookie sheet covered in burned remnants of something. She baked?
My phone buzzed. Chat App had been acting up one night, and we’d switched to text messaging but hadn’t gone back.
B: Need your help. This is a grocery emergency, and since you finally stocked your fridge, I figured you were the man for the job. Do you have a few minutes?
Leaning against the counter, I tapped out a reply and tried to imagine B standing in a produce aisle, panicking.
Wes: How can I a-peas you?
B: LOL, I’m desperate.
Wes: Hit me.
B: That Thai chicken recipe you told me about, can you walk me through the tweaks you said you made?
Wes: Sure. Emergency, though? Does someone have a gun to your head demanding dinner?
B: No, I’m cooking for someone tonight.
Wes: Ooh, hot date?
B: Kind of.
My thumbs paused, and the muscles across my chest tightened as I worked through why what she said bothered me.
Wes: Kind of?
B: It’s not exactly a date. That’s why I need the recipe . . . to wow him.
I rolled my shoulders back to ease the tense muscles. What? Am I planning to fight this guy?
Wes: Wes to the rescue.
B: My hero. Thank you. I’ll be quick.
Wes: I’ve got a little time. Here’s the link to the original recipe, and I’ll send you the changes.
B: You are the best!
B: Do you have your own hot date?
In my mom’s cluttered kitchen that smelled like sour milk and a cheap scented candle, I couldn’t fathom a date. Would B care if I was going out with someone? “She’s a client,” I muttered.
Wes: Family thing.
B: Have fun! I won’t bug you anymore.
Wes: It’s okay.
Before I could stop myself, I added a second message, knowing damn well I shouldn’t.
Wes: You’re never bugging me, and I like talking to you. So, message if you have other questions . . . or emergencies.
A siren sounded down the street, and I stared at the screen, but there was no reply. I wandered into the living room and sat on the couch. The small space was making me itchy, and I wanted to get out of there. I checked my last message to Libby, more out of habit than expecting a response. Then I kept toggling back to the conversation with B, looking for a response. Mason might be right. I need to get laid, because this is pathetic.
Still, a growing anxiety filled my gut as minutes passed with no Mom and no reply from B.
The cheap plastic clock on the wall ticked away, and I leaned back into the couch with a frustrated huff. Mom had been gone for at least forty-five minutes. I should have been worried, but I was annoyed, not wanting to be in the house and not wanting to abandon her on her birthday. Waiting for my mom to return from mysterious outings was something with which I had decades of practice. I glanced at my watch and let my head fall back against the couch.
* * *
STARTLED AWAKE AT the sound of the screen door clattering shut, I blinked furiously, reacclimating myself to my location. Two figures stumbled toward me in the dim room, the glow from a streetlight illuminating their path.
“Mom?”
“Chris!” She smiled; her eyes were glassy, and her consonants mushy when she spoke. She tried to walk toward me but slumped against the wall instead. “It’s my birthday, baby.”
The drowsiness fell away as I took in the lanky, sagging man with a gray beard and bloodshot eyes standing behind her. “Who’s this?”
“This is . . .” She dreamily raised her palm to the man’s chest, her head lolling back with a dewy expression. “I met him at my birthday party.”
The man rested his arm on Mom’s shoulder, thick half-moons of dirt showing under his long nails.
I stood taller. “You need to leave.”
“The fuck I do,” he slurred. “Who are you?”
“Chris, baby. He’s my friend. And this is my Chris.”