I swallow hard. “Then I’d be done with her.”
“Exactly.”
“I’m sorry to hear she’s having a tough time, but . . .”
“But . . .” repeats Briar.
“Exactly,” I say as I nestle deeper into my old bed. The only real sign of my personality in this room is the old My Chemical Romance poster on the back of the door. I’m kind of surprised it’s still there. Because otherwise, this house has always been very much my mother’s domain. A pale pink feature wall and a white bedspread with small embroidered pink roses. It’s a room fit for a princess. I hate pink. Mom let me redecorate when I was ten or eleven or so. Right before I hit the tween years and got myself a personality that wasn’t I Love Ponies. Any attempt to update the color scheme in the past almost twenty years has been stonewalled. And as accommodating and above-and-beyond-the-call-of-duty helpful my mom has been, I need to get out of here. I need to figure out who I am now. Away from Ryan and away from the color pink. Away from the baggage of my childhood or people who think they know who I am and how I should be.
Which is what I tell Briar. “As much as I’d love to come visit you, I can’t move far away yet because of all the medical appointments. But I do need my own space.”
“So get your ass into gear and start looking.”
“Yes.” I smile. “I believe I will.”
“You’re really not going to let me take you, are you?” asks Mom, sitting on the edge of the sofa with her legs neatly crossed at the ankles. It’s her queen pose. Very regal and self-assured. I wish I had her poise. I think I used to. But now, most of the time I feel like I’m stumbling from one disaster to the next. Leif would probably tell me to embrace the journey, or something like that. And today I am taking a step in the forward direction, which is great. Two weeks’ worth of legal appointments and apartment hunting have led to this moment. To a chance of some independence from both Ryan and my parents. I am an adult, dammit. I can do this.
“I feel like I need to do this by myself,” I answer.
“I still think it’s too soon.”
“I disagree. It’ll be fine.”
“If you say so.”
And I mean it. It’ll be fine because I have a plan. Everything I do takes a bit more effort and organization these days. A bit more time to get ready and get sorted. However, I’m up to the challenge. Hell yes I am.
My cell chimes with a text.
Leif: Talk to me.
Me: Greetings. How are you?
Leif: Talk to me as if I’m someone you actually know and like.
Me: That was me being nice. This is a trap. Whatever I say you’re going to give me trouble.
Leif: Of course I am. You went silent on me again for two damn weeks.
“Is everything alright?” asks Mom.
“Ah, yes. Just a friend.” I frown even harder, because what the hell do I say to him? He kind of has a point. I have a bad habit of going into hiding when things go wrong. And because I’m me and this is my life, things tend to go wrong often.
Leif: Open the door.
Me: What?
Which is when someone knocks at the door and huh. How about that? Mom smothers a brief smile, and what is going on here? The woman is neither surprised that we have a guest nor making a move to answer said door. I sense a setup. A bizarre one.
When I open it, Leif is standing there all ridiculously hot and happy with himself. Is it any wonder I did the wrong thing and kissed him? I’m not used to being around beautiful sunshine-y people. Wild men with long hair and ink who keep smiling at me and giving me chances when I mess up. They’re an adventure all their own. I don’t know how to act. I don’t know how to be just his friend. Invasive naked thoughts keep taking over. I feel like a complete asshole for objectifying him all of the time, when I know good and well that there’s so much more to him than how he looks. But here we are. Shame on me.
He waltzes right past me and says, “Hey, Denise. Nice to see you again.”
“Leif.” Mom gives him a polite nod and smile. “Welcome to our home.”
He nods and looks around. The beige color scheme does not impress, according to his expression. Same goes for the collection of golfing trophies on the mantel. Which is where Dad is, at golf. I don’t know why he doesn’t just move to the course.
Leif is the last person who should be judging Mom’s suburban castle. Any bet his condo is still rocking the blank-white-wall look.