I took a step closer to Mom, but I didn’t look away from the guy. “What are you on, Mom?”
“It’s my birthday, baby. I stopped to get cigarettes, and he took me to a party.”
The man was wobbly on his feet and a good four or five inches shorter than me. He smelled like whiskey.
“Leave,” I said flatly, shoving the man backward and stepping between them.
“You can have her when I’m done. Nobody tells me what to do, especially not some pretty boy.” He stumbled, regained his balance, and sneered at me, struggling to focus on my face, his eyes darting back and forth.
“Get your damn hands off my mother and get the hell out of here.” I don’t want to hit this guy.
“You ain’t a kid, and she owes me for the oxy,” he said, a smirk crossing his lips. “We’d arranged a . . . trade.”
“She’s not trading you shit. How much?”
“Baby, no. I have it covered,” Mom said, into the wall where she was leaning.
I dug two hundred-dollar bills from my wallet and held them out to the man. “Now leave and stay the hell away from her.”
He stuffed the bills in the front pocket of his grubby jeans and slunk back. “Whatever, man. Your mom likes to party. I’ll see her again.”
“Bye.” Mom waved, sliding down the wall to sit on the worn carpet.
“Are you okay?” When I crouched down next to her, she reached for my face, her hands covering both of my cheeks.
“You should have told me you were coming over. It’s my birthday.”
I wanted to say that we’d made plans for me to take her out just that afternoon, that it was dangerous to bring these guys home, that I’d been worried, and she’d disappeared for hours. The hopeful kid in me wondered how she’d just forgotten her son was waiting. I swallowed it all. “Happy birthday, Mom.” I wrapped an arm around her back and helped her to her feet. “Let’s get you some water and then you can go to bed.”
When she was settled and sleeping it off, I crashed on the couch. I’d make sure she didn’t choke on her vomit, like I’d been doing since I was nine. After midnight, I pulled out my phone.
B: I think the chicken turned out well. [photo attached]
B: Wish me luck!
I pinched the bridge of my nose, tucked the phone away, and sat back on the couch, listening to Mom’s snoring and the clock ticking.
Good luck.
19
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“Hi, #TeamBritta. I wish it wasn’t the case, but so much of my relationship with my body is tied up in my history with men and feeling desirable （or undesirable）。 Last week I told you about how I now own the word hot, but today I want to tell you about the first boy who made me feel the opposite, like I was the furthest thing from it. My group of friends in high school was inseparable, but one night, only Isaac and I were free to hang out. It was a night like most others, until that moment when Isaac’s fingers brushed against mine in the dark movie theater and our hands intertwined. It’s been ten years, but I remember those tingles that zipped through me when his fingers stroked my palm. My head swam with the turn of events, and I was sure it was the beginning to some great love story, because holding hands with Isaac was the most romantic moment of my seventeen years, and that story lasted until . . . curfew.
“I don’t share this to introduce how I pined over Isaac for years （I didn’t） or how that night began a lifelong love of hand-holding （it did）。 I share it because that night, I felt desirable, attractive, and wanted for the first time in my life. So, the next day when he said it was a mistake, I was certain feeling wanted was a mistake, too. I know I’m not alone in having one of those moments. It took me years to fully shake that and realize his assessment didn’t have to shape how I felt about myself.”
* * *
I GLANCED AT my reflection in the mirror, turning from one direction to another. My jeans hugged my curves. Damn, I look good. I thought about texting a photo of myself to Wes but stopped. That would be weird.
My stomach rumbled as the spicy smell of the chicken wafted through my small apartment. Ben wasn’t coming over until close to nine, and I was starving. I was usually enjoying my evening snack by that time, and my body protested the wait. Checking myself over one more time, I returned to the kitchen to snap a photo of my handiwork—something safer to send to Wes. I wanted him in my corner tonight. The strange thing was that I’d felt guilty after telling him I was cooking for Ben, this odd feeling I was doing something wrong talking to another guy, which was silly, because of course he wouldn’t care. Shortly after I hit send, Ben knocked, and I set my phone aside.