Thinking of the red lining her eyes and how I told her to be quiet–I most definitely made her already bad day much worse.
Hurting someone who’s already hurting is a new fucking low for me.
One that is so low, for the first time in a long time, I have the desire toattemptto climb out of my depression.
My phone vibrates in my pocket. I slide it out and know Atticus is watching.
“You gonna answer?”
I look at the name and I’m sure he does, too. I don’t care if he knows who’s calling. I slide the phone back into my pocket after silencing it.
“Nope.”
One thing at a time. The call can wait. After all, pulling out of this fucking year long nose dive will be hard enough. But making beautiful women cry? That’s my rock bottom.
And it’s not going to happen again.
2
Beck
What’s a best friend for if you can’t say the unsayable?
“Carl, make sure you get the boxes labeled kitchen off the truck first, okay?” My mom pats her hips–something she’s been conditioned to do after years upon years of wearing a lap apron.
My dad doesn’t verbally respond but instead kisses mom’s cheek and waves her off, ambling out the front door in a sweat-drenched Champion tank top.
Mom turns to face me, her cheeks rosy from work. Moving sucks; there’s never a time when it doesn’t, but it both sucks and makes me feel guilty having my sixty-something parents help with the hard part.
“We’re so glad you’re here, Rebecca,” my mom says, her voice going all soft and thoughtful in a way that usually makes my eyes warm. But I’m so hot, grouchy, and tired–and my boobs are so freaking sore–that I don’t have the spare energy to get emotional.
“Me too, mom.” From the floor comes a loud clunk, making us both shudder. I turn to find Jett has discovered the box of pots and pans and is currently slamming the lid to a Viking six-quart Dutch oven against the wall, making the drywall crumble off in chunks.
“Oh, Jett, no,” I sigh, bending over to scoop him from the freshly waxed hardwood. I almost waited to have the floors done in here until after we’d walked a thousand steps over it moving in but when you have a very curious and quite handsy (and mouthy, for that matter) eight month old, the floors need to be as clean as a damn dinner plate. Unfortunately.
Jett squawks to high heaven when I pry the lid from his sticky little fingers.
“Ohh,” my mom gushes in her most adoringmy grandson can do no wrongtone. “Come to grandma. I bet we can snag a pear from the tree. Do you want to taste pear? Do you?” she coos, as Jett immediately twists his fingers in her Saffron-colored blouse, pulling it to his face to wipe his nose. My mom would roll in a puddle of Jett’s snot if it meant she got to spend time with him, so it’s no surprise to me that she is his human Kleenex as she heads to, then opens the back door.
I was lucky to find this place near my parents’.
Okay, Ididhave to wait an excruciating amount of time for a decent home to come on the market. Waiting eight months means I have perseverance, maybe not luck, but still.
I wanted to be close to my parents so they could help me with Jett. And if I’m being real with myself? I wanted people who love me unconditionally nearby because seventeen months ago, my life was flipped upside down like an undercooked pancake, turning me out and leaving me an absolute crumbled, disastrous mess.
Dad bustles in; boxes stacked four high in his arms. He can’t see anything, but somehow manages to carefully lower them to the hardwood after I tell him Jett isn’t down there.
I quirk an eyebrow. “You’re good at moving.”
He wipes his forehead with the bandana tied onto his wrist. “I don’t really want to perfect that skill.” Sweat beads on his upper lip, so I pull open the fridge and get out one of the beers he’d stocked yesterday.
We’d gotten most of the big things done yesterday, including my furniture and Jett’s stuff. At one point, when the lifting became too much for mom, she and Jett went to Sprouts and stocked the fridge and some shelves. Today, the remaining stuff on the truck are cabinet fillers. And thank the lord, we arealmostdone.
February or not, California always has a way of feeling warm. Dad pops the top off the beer and takes a few long, slow pulls, leaving the bottle nearly empty.
He belches, and when I shoot him the “where are your manners” look, he smiles. “Jett’s not in here. I don’t have to be on my best behavior if the baby isn’t around.”
I roll my eyes but smile. “I guess that’s true.” I test his theory. “Motherfucker!”