"Heather!" I am once again disturbed by my name. I look over. The pain has
faded and the laziness has settled. I bury myself into the pillow. "Dude, I
called you like three times." I blink. Spinner? I look up and there he is.
"We really need to talk."
I clear my throat. "Okay." I motion for him to sit on the end of the bed. He does so, awkwardly, uncomfortably.
"Um, I just wanted to like, clear things up."
"Okay."
"Uh, last night? You know it was, um... just the drugs."
"Okay."
"And, uh, we're not like..." He motions between us. He's an idiot. He's my idiot. "Together." He's an idiot. He's somebody else's idiot.
"Okay."
"Um, just in case you like, thought, you know... something else."
"Okay." He stares at me. I flinch.
"Dude, aren't you going to say anything else?"
I think for a moment. I want to tell him that it wasn't the drugs it's the human connection and for once someone actually looked into me and saw me and when he touched me I didn't wince or pull away and I didn't think I was such a dirty whore just because I prostitute my looks and while I can give three adjectives for one noun and I can only think of one for him, 'Amazing', but apparently I think too long for him because he stands up.
"Oh, and don't tell anyone," He says before he disappears. Of fucking course. Who does Heather Sinclair tell? Who is she supposed tell?
~@~
"Please pass the potatoes," I say, but I'm not looking at the potatoes or the potato passer that is my mother, I'm looking at him. He shifts uncomfortably, soaking in the atmosphere. My mother smiles sympathetically at him. I don't know why. She has to live with me all the time.
The boyfriend dinner. Vaguely familiar, highly uncomfortable. I put potatoes on my plate. I don't eat them. I look at their plates. No one is eating; everyone is sculpting and digging and cultivating their potatoes but not once does anything reach their mouths. I take a big bite of potato. It tastes like regret. His regret, specifically. I know I shouldn't have dated a single mom, he thinks. I hate kids. This, of course, I don't actually know, but I pretend just as well as I always have.
"Good potatoes, Mom," I say, shoveling more into my mouth.
"Yes, very good," He says quickly, guilt a quick dagger in his heart. He begins to eat them, slowly chewing. They aren't actually good at all. They're okay, though, the word of the day. They shoot each other glances and I want to shoot myself while she tries to think of wholesome dinner conversation.
"So, Luke," I say, though I'm not sure that's his name, "What do you do?"
"I'm, uh, an accountant," he clears his throat.
"Interesting," I say, though it is truly not.
"He's Christine's accountant," Mom offers me a tossed salad of useless information. "And a very good one."
"Uh, thank you," He blushes. Embarrassed by his superior accounting skills.
"May I be excused?" I put down my fork. For a second, my mother blinks, looks at me, expecting me to know an absolute no, give myself a lecture. But I don't. And I leave.
I go outside and sit on the lawn and look up at the sky because something about wet dew on bare feet is a cliché I can't avoid. Everything spins and of course I think of Spinner because I only have one thought. One single solitary thought that keeps me breathing.
"Did I do a horrible job raising you or something?" Mom appears, grass sitting to her feet, kneeling down next to me. I shake my head quietly. "Do you hate me so much you can't give him a chance?"
"No, I just..." I stop, because there really isn't anything to say here. She wraps her arms around me and I melt into her chest because maternal adoration is the only kind with true second chances.
"I can make things better," She whispers into my hair. "I promise."
I clear my throat. "Okay." I motion for him to sit on the end of the bed. He does so, awkwardly, uncomfortably.
"Um, I just wanted to like, clear things up."
"Okay."
"Uh, last night? You know it was, um... just the drugs."
"Okay."
"And, uh, we're not like..." He motions between us. He's an idiot. He's my idiot. "Together." He's an idiot. He's somebody else's idiot.
"Okay."
"Um, just in case you like, thought, you know... something else."
"Okay." He stares at me. I flinch.
"Dude, aren't you going to say anything else?"
I think for a moment. I want to tell him that it wasn't the drugs it's the human connection and for once someone actually looked into me and saw me and when he touched me I didn't wince or pull away and I didn't think I was such a dirty whore just because I prostitute my looks and while I can give three adjectives for one noun and I can only think of one for him, 'Amazing', but apparently I think too long for him because he stands up.
"Oh, and don't tell anyone," He says before he disappears. Of fucking course. Who does Heather Sinclair tell? Who is she supposed tell?
~@~
"Please pass the potatoes," I say, but I'm not looking at the potatoes or the potato passer that is my mother, I'm looking at him. He shifts uncomfortably, soaking in the atmosphere. My mother smiles sympathetically at him. I don't know why. She has to live with me all the time.
The boyfriend dinner. Vaguely familiar, highly uncomfortable. I put potatoes on my plate. I don't eat them. I look at their plates. No one is eating; everyone is sculpting and digging and cultivating their potatoes but not once does anything reach their mouths. I take a big bite of potato. It tastes like regret. His regret, specifically. I know I shouldn't have dated a single mom, he thinks. I hate kids. This, of course, I don't actually know, but I pretend just as well as I always have.
"Good potatoes, Mom," I say, shoveling more into my mouth.
"Yes, very good," He says quickly, guilt a quick dagger in his heart. He begins to eat them, slowly chewing. They aren't actually good at all. They're okay, though, the word of the day. They shoot each other glances and I want to shoot myself while she tries to think of wholesome dinner conversation.
"So, Luke," I say, though I'm not sure that's his name, "What do you do?"
"I'm, uh, an accountant," he clears his throat.
"Interesting," I say, though it is truly not.
"He's Christine's accountant," Mom offers me a tossed salad of useless information. "And a very good one."
"Uh, thank you," He blushes. Embarrassed by his superior accounting skills.
"May I be excused?" I put down my fork. For a second, my mother blinks, looks at me, expecting me to know an absolute no, give myself a lecture. But I don't. And I leave.
I go outside and sit on the lawn and look up at the sky because something about wet dew on bare feet is a cliché I can't avoid. Everything spins and of course I think of Spinner because I only have one thought. One single solitary thought that keeps me breathing.
"Did I do a horrible job raising you or something?" Mom appears, grass sitting to her feet, kneeling down next to me. I shake my head quietly. "Do you hate me so much you can't give him a chance?"
"No, I just..." I stop, because there really isn't anything to say here. She wraps her arms around me and I melt into her chest because maternal adoration is the only kind with true second chances.
"I can make things better," She whispers into my hair. "I promise."