“Her mom makes comments about everything, and I can’t be upset about her talking about the Brutes because she didn’t know what happened until today. But…” I shake my head. “She gets in Goldie’s head. Today, Goldie wanted curry noodles, and Constance shit-talked her, and then Goldie hardly ate a fuckin’ bite.” My body buzzes with anxiety. I hate that someone has power over her like that. Enough mind games to make her not fuckin’ eat.
Mom sips her Brandy and finds my eyes over the mug as I drink, too.
“You should talk to her about that. Be there for her. Encourage her to share.”
I finish my Brandy as irritation climbs my spine. “You’re talkin’ like once again you know more about my girl than me,” I grit out, now feelin’ all sorts of irritated. But I can’t be. Because the fact that Goldie found safety and solace in my Mom… that does shit to my heart. And while I wish it were me, I know it’s gonna be soon. “Why didn’t you tell me? Why don’t you tell me?” I balk, the urgency to know whatever it is running through me like lava.
“I thought she would or that she already had told you,” Mom says calmly, not a single wrinkle in her forehead.
“Is it a bad sign she hasn’t?” I ask, wishing there was more Brandy left in the mug.
Mom shakes her head, and I know when Mom’s lying, and she isn’t. Her face never shifts, and her eyes don’t leave mine. “No.” She pats my hand over the table. “When did you tell her about Meredith?”
The mention of her folds my heart in half. “Just last night.”
“Then,” Mom bargains.
She’s right. I don’t need to be worried; I just need to be better for her.
“I’m gonna go,” I tell my Mom. I shout goodbye to my Dad, and he gets off the hook without a secondary lecture about the garbage disposal.
“Keep loving her, son; that’s what she really needs,” Mom says as we part.
I don’t tell her that Idolove Goldie. Guess I don’t have to. It’s clear she knows. She smooths her fingers over the bruises running across my knuckles. “I saw on the news that Reynold Porter is taking leave for six weeks.”
I cock an eyebrow. “Is that right?”
She doesn’t smile, but she pulls me down for a kiss on the cheek. “I love your heart, son.”
twenty-three
goldie
Our version
Oh my god.Oh my god. Oh my ever-loving god.
“I called him three times, and he’s not picking up. And I sent him a cute text and… I don’t even think he’s read it!” I shout through my phone, pacing my tiny kitchen. The floor sticks to my barefoot a little with each step. The Lysol is sticky.
My floor was Lysoled by my boyfriend.
Who I had hot freaky sex with last night.
“Hold on; I’m putting on socks,” I moan to Beck as I pad down the hallway and start digging through my top drawer.
Beck laughs. “Honestly, Goldie, I think you’re freaking out and overreacting.”
“Tell me how you really feel,” I deadpan, sitting down on the edge of the bed to pull on socks with little black cats wearing witch hats on them.
“This is a time when now that you’re in therapy and I can totally get away with saying this–”
“Nice.”
“Right? Anyway, this is a time when you are like Connie. You get all twitchy and high-strung and, like, project all these fake worries onto people, villainizing them in the process.”
“I didn’t villainize Atticus. I wouldn’t–”
“I know. I’m just saying. You’re in the twitchy phase, and I’m trying to back you out before you go too far.”