Mrs. H just nodded but didn’t look at all convinced.
“Well, I know she’s happier than a fox in a henhouse to have you back. And you’re working for Mari’s catering?”
“Yeah.”
“I know she’s happy to have you, but I’ve heard that woman does not keep light hours and expects the same of her employees.”
That was putting it nicely. Mari was a slave driver. After every event, she expected the van cleaned out, all the dishes washed, the silverware sterilized, everything done just so. To be fair, she stayed until the very end, too. But it was exhausting work.
I’d thought coming home would mean some time off to think, reflect, and maybe do a little healing. When in fact, it turned out to be non-stop work-till-I-drop manual labor. Between working with Mari and helping Mom clean out her old place and move into a smaller apartment, I went to bed exhausted every night.
It was in a nicer apartment complex, but still, it was an apartment. Always an apartment. Even after all this time, she didn’t feel financially confident enough to afford a mortgage. A lifetime of cleaning people’s toilets and for what? For what?
Mom had shared walls with neighbors her entire life. She always hated having to step quietly so she wouldn’t make too much noise and have elderly Mrs. Toomey downstairs yell at her for it. Or being woken up by the neighbors we shared a wall with who couldn’t grasp the idea of “quiet hours,” blasting music and having parties at all hours when she was exhausted after her shift.
After a life of hard work, the woman deserved a little peace and quiet. But no, that wasn’t how the world worked, was it? The men of some stupid secret Order practically lived in the huge manor while their other residences sat empty, and my mom broke her back her whole life—
Ugh, it was so infuriating. While I was away, the fury could stay at a low boil, but seeing Mom’s delight at having an apartment with an in-unit laundry and thinking it was the height of luxury just pissed me off even more. She was excited about it being easier to do her own laundry after spending all day washing and folding other people’s clothes.
I hated the way the stupid fucking world worked. It was backwards and fucked and I hated it. Mom thought it was ridiculous I refused to stay with her unless she allowed me to pay rent, but I know how hard she worked just to get the nicer apartment.
I’d always imagined that one day my art would take off, and I’d be able to buy my mom any house she wanted.
Then maybe you shouldn’t have majored in Studio Art, idiot.
Yeah. I’d been regretting it lately. I of all people knew how frivolous it was to major in something so difficult to make real money at.
To be fair, I did minor in Accounting and almost did a double major. But my funding didn’t allow for that, and I’d always been a slave to other people’s whims as far as my education was concerned. So, fuck them, I was going to get the useless degree instead of the useful money-making one.
Uh, so yeah, I might not have the goth look anymore, but I never said I’d learned quite how to manage that annoying little rebellious streak in me.
“How’s your mom, by the way?” Mama H looked at me over her cup of tea, her too observant eyes probably taking in far more than I wanted them to.
At least I could give another genuine smile. “Good. She’s really good. She loves the new apartment. Though I swear she spends more time out on that tiny little back deck than she does in the house. She just sits out there and drinks coffee, swiping at the mosquitos, and reads on her eReader any time she’s not at work.”
I was still smiling as I lifted my coffee for a sip.
“You seen Rafe since you’ve been back?”
I choked on my coffee and set the cup down so roughly even more sloshed over the side onto the table than earlier. Jesus.
I swiped at the spill with my napkin and then glared at Mama H.
She knew the R subject was off-limits. He had been ever since I was driven out of this town in the middle of my senior year. I called to talk to both my mom and Mama H regularly but never, never, never did anyone involved bring up the accursed name of Rafe Jackson. Rafe, the boy who’d broken my heart and frankly, broken me.
I finished mopping up the coffee and mumbled, “I saw him the other day.”
Never one to beat around the bush, Mrs. H asked, “How’d it go.”
I glared up at her. “How do you think it went?”
She just raised an eyebrow slightly. “I don’t know. That’s why I’m asking.”