“Fine. Be that way.” She turns and stomps off, stopping at the office entrance and using her hip to keep the door open. “I was only asking because Beck made it seem like Goldie was looking forward to seeing you, that’s all.” She shrugs, and it feels strategic. “Just wanted to see if it was true.” She blinks carefully. “Sounds like it wasn’t.”
The door clicks closed, and I’m alone again.
Sounds like she wasn’t, huh? Well, who fuckin’ cares if she wasn’t becauseIwasn’t looking forward to seeing her, either. I was doing Beau a favor, and I don’t know why it’s gotta be up for debate.
I’ve known Beau for years. Delane for a handful of years now, too. Same with Miller. They know me. I don’t date. I’m fuckin’ forty-two. Hand-holding and bended-knee proposals are long outta the fuckin’ picture. I work on cars, lift weights, drive my truck and sometimes my bike, and get inked. It’s all I fuckin’ need.
Goldieperky titsBerry ain’t diggin’ my old ass, and I’m not diggin’ hers, even though she’d fill my palms perfectly. She’s high-maintenance and rude, not to mention snotty as hell. No fuckin’ thank you.
It don’t matter that she clearly wanted me to build her bed and get the hell out.
I didn’t want to stay, anyway.
three
goldie
That existentialist thought is terrifying
“And,okay, hang on just a sec. Let me set the phone down so you can get the full effect,” I say, smiling into FaceTime as I balance my phone against the water bottle on my kitchen counter. Taking a few steps back, I outstretch my arms. “This is the kitchen.”
Mom’s face remains unimpressed, and the wrinkle of displeasure on her forehead doesn’t move either. Maybe the call froze?
“Mom, you still there?”
“Yes.”
Oh. My stomach aches a little, so I drop a hand to it, running my other over the tiled counter in my new little kitchen. “Well, it’s small but fine for me.”
“Yes, it’s quite small. But you’re right. For a single woman with no significant other to cook for, you can probably get by just fine at that place.”
I turn to the screen and see her long red fingernail pressed to her lips, a new look of dissatisfaction painted on her face. “I haven’t done much cooking yet. It’s only been a week. And there’s a great deli downstairs.”
God, I hate having to sell someone on something that I myself am not keen on. To want my mother to be proud of me so badly that I’m spinning shit into gold all for a four-minute phone call? I press my hand tighter to my stomach, trying to physically disperse the ache. It doesn’t work.
“A deli?” she asks, and it’s like I told her a drug den is below me, I swear. Actually, she’d probably have less of an issue with a drug den. Fewer calories in drugs than bread. “Well, be careful. Your legs look more filled out, and your hair is a bit dull. Have you been indulging?”
Amidst the ache, my stomach growls with raw hunger. I’ve been so stressed and depressed lately, eating hasn’t been at the top of my list. And by the way this call is going, I’m not sure I’ll have an appetite anytime soon.
“No, Mom.” I don’t know what else to say but realize that I’m now finger-combing my apparently dull hair, my other hand still firm against my howling stomach.
“Maybe it’s just the fumes from all the food bloating you,” she harrumphs, now drumming her nails like getting a monthly update from her daughter is something she can hardly make time for–impatience dances across her face.
“I don’t think smell can make someone bloat, Mom,” I say, picking the phone up off the counter to carry her to my room. “I have a nice sized bedroom, which makes up for the kitchen being so small,” I tell her, ready to tap the camera switching button on the screen so she can see my bedroom. But I don’t get the chance.
“Oh, Goldie. All this moving around is making me seasick, sweetheart.”
“I’m done. I’m in my room now. Wanna see?” I smile at her, and even though she doesn’t return it, I keep mine plastered on. I’m good at that.
“I have lunch with Lydia; I’ve gotta run. Talk soon, okay? Watch your carbs, Goldie.”
The screen goes black before she finishes the second syllable of my name.
Well, okay.
I flop back onto my bed. A week later and I swear I can still smell his anger and sweat in my cotton sheets. Before I can replay that conversation in my head to figure out exactly how I am both annoyed and disappointed in my mother, my phone rings in my palm. Beck’s name illuminates the screen.
“Are we still on for lunch?” she asks as soon as I’ve answered.