Mine had. I’d find a gym bag filled with food in my locker every Friday, which would get Libby and me through the weekend. My football coach never said anything, never made a big deal about it, but I knew it was him, and I never forgot that.
Mom jabbed a finger at my chest. “I tried. I tried my best. Your dads were never there, but I stuck around. That’s something, right? Why’re you doing this to me?” She walked toward her bedroom.
My dad’s name was Chris, and she named me after him. He was tall, drove a green truck, and liked tequila. Everything I knew about him could fit on a Post-it note. He took off long before I could form any memories.
I reached her in two strides, pressing my hands to her upper arms. Her near-vibrating state worried me. She was ready to jump out of her own skin. “It’s okay, Mom.”
She collapsed, sobbing against my chest. “Libby wouldn’t do this.”
I stared at the wall over her head, clenching my jaw.
At one point, Libby would have helped, but she probably would have told me to let Mom live her life and to stop trying to fix everything. Sometimes I wondered if she was right. If I let Mom do her thing without me trying to step in, maybe I’d be happier. Maybe Mom would, too.
I patted her back and let her heave wet sobs against me.
She pulled away and fell to her mattress, clutching her pillow to her chest. “Go away.” She didn’t look at me as she curled on her bed. “I don’t want you here.”
“Mom . . .”
She was crying again, sobbing while she yelled and rolled to face the wall. “I want my little girl, but I’m stuck with you, and you take everything away from me. You have since the day you were born.”
I stood motionless in the small space, and I was thrown back to being the six-year-old trying to wake her so I could go to school, fighting back frustrated tears because I didn’t want to get in trouble for being late again but knowing she’d yell at me for waking her. I dropped my hands to my sides and twisted my mouth to stop the emotion rising in my face. “I love you, Mom.”
“Just go,” she said from behind her pillow.
My feet landing on the concrete echoed around me in a soothing, pounding rhythm when I left the house. I stalked to my car, muttering, “Fuck, fuck, fuck!” I wanted to punch a wall or break something, anything to take the emotion pooling in my chest and let it out, to forget it, because it shouldn’t affect me anymore. “Damn it!” I slammed my palm against the roof of my car, then leaned against the cold metal.
I fell into the seat and peeled out. Instead of going home, I kept driving until the suburbs were in the rear view and I was surrounded by rural stillness. The loud music and high speeds didn’t drown out my thoughts. I pulled over on the side of a gravel road and cut the engine, the still night outside a shocking juxtaposition to the music.
My phone buzzed twice, and I considered ignoring it, but I looked on the off chance it might be Libby.
Jake: You free Friday? Naya wants to harass you about bringing a date to the wedding.
Britta: Sorry to bother you while you’re out. We never set a specific time for tomorrow.
My shoulders relaxed, and I sent a thumbs-up to Jake. Naya’s not cooking, is she?
Britta: Is 6:30 too early? I know you might be out late tonight.
Wes: Works for me. Why do you think I’ll be out late?
Britta: Aren’t you out on a date?
I laughed, the sound reverberating off the interior of my car.
Wes: Why do you always assume I’m on a date?
Wes: And you think I would text you if I was?
Britta: I just assumed when you said you had plans.
Wes: No date.
Britta: And you’re not cheating on me with another client? I like to think of myself as your one and only.
Wes: No other client’s gonna do.
An old Whitney Houston song came on the radio. I remembered my mom laughing, pulling me and Libby to dance with her, twirling around our cramped living room.
Wes: I’m saving all my lectures for you.
Britta: Tube Sock, are you referencing a song from thirty years ago?
Wes: Don’t tell anyone.
Britta: It’s one of my favorites to sing in the shower. A perfect love song.
Wes: I think it’s about adultery.
Britta: But aside from that. Romantic.
Wes: You’re a romantic, huh?
Britta: A little.
I flashed to Britta’s face when she noticed the flowers in the hospital. The shock and appreciation, her open expression, had melted me. I imagined her giving me that look again while touching me, her body pressed to mine, and it made me want to have flowers delivered to her daily.