Goldie smooths her other hand down the condensation on her glass, wetting the tablecloth. “I like my new job,” she says, staring at the shifting ice.
“And there’s just no give on going back to the Brutes? Reynold must miss you,” Constance prods.
“She ain’t goin’ back there.” I don’t want that name over this table.
Constance fluffs her dark hair, which is styled a lot like Kitty Foreman, and I’m not sure that’s a good thing. “So that’s what’s happening. You’re letting your boyfriend dictate your life choices.”
“While I could go back to the Brutes,” Goldie starts, the control in her tone awe-inspiring. Because I’m about ready to grab my girl and leave. What the fuck, man? How does a mother treat their child this way? I don’t care if Goldie’s nearing forty; this is fucked. I don’t let her finish her sentence.
“She’s not going back to the Brutes because they disrespected her, and some mistakes cannot be forgiven,” I say briskly as Carlos reappears with our food.
I can’t help but wonder if Carlos didn’t sense we needed this lunch to end quickly, too.
After depositing our food on the table, Goldie clears her throat and something about the way she does it gets the hairs on the back of my neck standin’ up. Her voice is low and controlled, a mix of fuckin’ terrifying and, if I’m being honest, sexy, when she practically growls, “Reynold Porterrapedme and had me excommunicated from the Brute family and franchise. Do you understand that? Do you understand that going back there means going back to the company that tossed me out like trash and supported a rapist?”
Constance doesn’t flinch. At all. She picks up her fork, pushing greens around with the tines when she focuses right on Goldie’s eyes and says, “don’t be ridiculous. He was your boyfriend. That’s not rape.”
Well, fuck. I wanted to get through this without any bullshit, because I don’t wanna add to Goldie’s stress. But it ain’t even up to me anymore.
I find her leg under the table and squeeze it. She falls silent but I take over, because that’s how a team works. “If Goldie takes this knife here,” I start, reaching for the center of the table where a metal cup holds two sharp knives and two extra forks. “And if she stabs you right through the hand,” I say, nodding my head toward Constance’s hand wrapped around her water glass. She glances at her hand too and I don’t miss the nervousness that flashes across her face. “Would it be okay that she stabbed you because you’re family?”
“That’s silly,” Constance says.
“No, it ain’t. You’re silly for having a child here on this planet that you intentionally treat like shit. If anything or anyone is silly, it’s you.” I lean back as Goldie feeds her fingers through mine and brings them to the top of the table. “No always means no, now let’s get boxes to go, baby,” I say, turning to see Goldie, tears streaming down her face. “I ain’t sharing a table with her. Not anymore.”
I drop cash on the table, and I don’t wait for boxes. I carry our plates to the serving station where Carlos is talking up a waitress. He boxes it up, we shake hands, and not more than two minutes after handing Constance a dose of reality she’s needed for too long, we’re walking through the parking lot, leaving.
In the cab of my truck, I ask Goldie how she’s doing. I drive her back to work as she pretends she’s okay, but I grab her hand and tug it to my lap as I drive.
“Talk to me,” I finally say.
When her bottom lip quivers and I swear, I can feel my heart turn to broken shards, never to fit together easily again. I hate hurting her. But this is love. Telling people their shit when they need to hear it. Even if lunch went off the rails, we gotta be honest. She taught me that.
“Okay, I’ll start. I think some part of you had a problem bein’ with me in front of your mom today. And that’s not because of who I am but who you are. You’re used to feelin’ like you gotta make her happy.” I force my tongue across my bottom lip so my mouth doesn’t seal shut. Even if it’s the truth, purging the words is painful. “You don’t deserve to feel bad when you’re actually happy. You know that, right?”
She stays silent, looking lost and hurt, and confused.
“I love you. But I won’t make room for shame and guilt for our entire lives…” I shove my hand through my hair and let a chestful of frustration out. “And more than that? You need to be good to yourself. Because until that happens, no one else can.”
When she swipes at her cheeks with her wrists, tipping her chin up, I nearly fuckin’ puke. I love her more than I should. I love her dangerously. The wicked type of love that fucks up your logic and makes you mad. I’d do anything for her.
“Atticus,” she says, but then she doesn’t move, and neither do I. It’s silent for what’s probably only a few seconds but feels like a goddamn lifetime. She blinks slowly, and I swallow dryly.
“I’m not ashamed of you, I love you.” Sobs wrack her chest, and my mind goes a little fuzzy, desperate to tune out her deep cry. “I’m just not used to the person I’m becoming, and today I felt trapped between two worlds!” Nothing is gentle anymore. Her sobs have turned to pants, and her eyes are wide with palpable anger. I don’t think it’s for me, but I’ll absorb it. I’d rather her get this poison out than keep it trapped inside.
“I understand.”
Our eyes idle together in silence as barbed wire claws its way up my spine, making my skin slick with nervous sweat. “You may not be confident in who you’re becoming but you know who you wanna be. In those two worlds, you know which one has people who will go to the ends of the earth to support you and which will keep you trapped in the past.” I wipe her tears. “I am so proud of you for standing up to her today, about Reynold.”
The anger slides off her face, and for a moment, I see vulnerability. A few seconds where she realizes I’m not in this to fight, and I don’t dream of disturbing her life. I just want her in her best fuckin’ form.
I grab her by the chin and yank her toward me. “I fuckin’ love you.” I seal her lips to mine, kissing her before I continue.
“I’m gonna say things right now because that’s who I am.” She doesn’t flinch, so I go for it. “Your mom is a bitch, Goldie, and you gotta get away from that shit. She poisons your head. You like your new job, and she has you feelin’ bad about it, I can tell.” I’m not even gonna touch that she tried to gaslight her daughter into believing she wasn’t actually raped. “And you wanted the curry noodles; she didn’t want you to eat.”
“That happens a lot. I lose my appetite often,” she says, voice low and her gaze focused on her hands in her lap.
“What’s that mean?” I ask, a flurry of comments about food and eating rushing back to me in pieces.