Chapter 13 – Angie, A Few Months Later
It’sa good thing that Brandon postponed our plans for today. We were supposed to go hiking at North Point, but he has to work, so we’re going to meet up for dinner. Tyler just called, and he wants to bring the girls home early. He had a convoluted story about Duck and a throttle replacement, and how he owes Duck for a chain adjustment from last year. Long story short, Tyler’s ditching the girls to go dirt-bike riding.
It’s okay by me. I’m never going to get used to weekends without them, and the girls don’t seem to mind coming back early. The plan at the beginning was every other weekend, Friday evening to Sunday evening. Now, it’s more like once a month, from whenever Tyler feels like getting them to whenever his mom brings them home on Sunday.
I leave off packing boxes and go hang on the front porch to wait for them. Tyler called from down the street. I don’t know what he would have done if I wasn’t home.
It sucks that Brandon and I aren’t going to have all weekend together now, but I really did need the time alone today to go through stuff. The girls and I are finally moving to our own apartment in two weeks. Brandon wanted us to move in with him, but I want to be married first. I learned my lesson. The next time I cohabitate with a man, both our names are going to be on the lease or the mortgage or whatever.
Besides, Brandon and I haven’t even been going out for a year yet, and we only said “I love you” a few months ago. It’s going good—really good—and it physically hurts not to be able to sleep beside him every night, but I also feel like I need to stand on my own two feet.
He understands. He doesn’t like it, but he gets it, and I’ve grown to the point where I don’t get unbearably anxious when a man doesn’t like something.
I didn’t realize how much like a frog in a pot of boiling water I was with Tyler until I got out. His wedding vows were the biggest favor he could have done me. I see that now.
Overall, I’m feeling fine when Tyler rolls up with his dirt bike in the back of his truck. The weather’s sunny, and I’m still achy and glowing from Brandon rocking my world last night. We were supposed to go out to the movies, but like always, when it came down to it, we decided to stay in. We watched about fifteen minutes of a comedy special, and then we got distracted touching each other, and he plowed me until I passed out from exhaustion while he was still finishing.
The man has the stamina of a jackhammer. I never thought that’s something I’d want, but I love getting my mind blown. It feels good to stop thinking for a while.
I guess I must be wearing a goofy little smile as I head over because when Tyler sees my face, his expression sours and his eyes narrow. He gets really prickly when it looks like I’m in a good mood. He takes it like I’m trying to mock him or something.
He usually stays in the truck and lets me help the girls out, but today, he puts it in park and hops down. Immediately, my stomach knots. He struts around the hood to stand on the lawn with his hands on his hips. He makes a show of checking me out, head to foot, and smirks.
My hair is thrown back in a ponytail, and I’m wearing pajama bottoms with an old T-shirt and no bra. I was doing laundry while I packed boxes, and I wasn’t planning on seeing anyone besides Miss Dawn. I hunch my shoulders to hide my boobs the best I can.
Tyler glances at the two cars in the drive. “Where’s lover boy?”
I shrug and reach up to lift Ivy out of the truck. The girls are quiet, but they don’t seem upset. More tired than anything. Tamblyn climbs down herself, carrying her and her sister’s overnight bags. The original duffel never turned back up, so I bought them kid-sized carry-ons with wheels when they went on sale after Christmas. Tamblyn’s has ladybugs, and Ivy’s has unicorns.
When Tamblyn hits the walk, she pulls up the handles and rolls both bags the rest of the way to the house like the world’s smallest, most jaded flight attendant. Ivy trudges after her. Neither says goodbye to Tyler, but he doesn’t notice. He’s too busy sneering at me.
“You know, free advice, it’s a little early for you to stop making an effort. Maybe wait for a ring first.” He folds his arm, pleased with himself.
He’s showered and shaved, wearing a spotless motocross jersey and aviation pants. I hope he doesn’t think that I didn’t notice the girls’ hair wasn’t brushed, and they were both wearing yesterday’s outfits, which I bet they slept in. Of course, I don’t say anything. I wouldn’t dare. Don’t poke the bear. Don’t make problems bigger. Those are the rules for a peaceful life, right?
I say, “Well, I’ll catch you later,” and head for the house.
Every step I take, a coal in my chest burns hotter and hotter. I’m not this person anymore. Why don’t I say something? I don’t let people talk to me however they want.
Or do I?
No one ever talked to me like shit except Tyler, and his mother, I guess. I think I’m different now, but am I? Here I am again—taking it. Every single time—taking it.
I stop in my tracks and turn, my gaze catching on the brand-new dirt bike in the back of his truck. I never even confronted him about cleaning out the joint checking account. I told myself lesson learned, and opened a new account in my name only. When Madison asked about it, I said I’d dealt with it. I hadn’t.
Have I changed? Or am I just ignoring the issues like I always have? Is it really okay with me that Tyler treats the girls like his last priority? Or do I just accept it because that’s all I ever was, and I don’t have the backbone to demand more for myself or them?
That dirt bike money was theirs, not mine. That was for their needs.
“Hey.” I square up. “I have something I want to talk to you about.”
Tyler hasn’t made a step toward his truck. When I turn around, his eyes light up. He’s spoiling for a fight. “What?”
“The money you took out of our account—when are you going to pay it back?”
He draws his head back like I’ve said the most out-of-line thing he’s ever heard. “What the fuck are you talking about?”
That’s always his first defense—act like I’m crazy, or I don’t know what I’m talking about.
“Back in November. You spent three hundred and fifty-two dollars from our joint account at Thom’s Cycle. That was money for the girls.”
I can see him weighing whether or not to keep playing stupid and then the exact moment when airing his perpetual sense of grievance wins out over the habit of gaslighting me.
“Bullshit,” he says. “If it was money for the girls, you would have spent it on food and clothes and whatever. You were using it as your personal petty cash.”
“I was not.” That doesn’t even make sense, and besides, he could see where I used the debit card just as easily as I saw that he used his card at Thom’s Cycle. If he had checked the statement, all he would’ve seen was Food Lion, Dollar Tree, and Wal-Mart. “I was saving for Christmas.”
He snorts. “Don’t lie.”
I’m not. I’m not a liar. He knows that. My eyes burn. “You owe me that money.”
For a second, I think I’m panicking because my chest feels so tight, but then I realize that this isn’t panic. This is fury.
I don’t ever get mad. My body doesn’t know what to do. I’m holding myself stick-straight, joints locked, fists clenched. If I don’t hold myself down, I’m not sure what I’ll do. Swing on him? Kick him in the balls?
I take a jerky step toward him. “You owe me, and you know it, and you better pay it back.” My voice is rough and scratchy and strange to my ears.
His blue eyes blaze, the pupils telescoping into tiny specks. Dread swamps my sad little moment of righteous anger. I freeze.
I’m no competition for him when it comes to meanness. I brought a knife to a gun fight.
His lip curls, and my body responds on cue. Panic surges through my veins, sweeping away the anger. I cringe, shrinking in my skin. My shoulders bunch. I stiffen every muscle so he can’t tell that I’m shaking. He’s meaner if I shake.
His face looks like a close-up in a scene from a wildlife special where the predator roars in slow motion. His neck cords. He bares his teeth. His nostrils flare.
“Oh, you think you’re hot shit now, don’t you? ’Cause you’ve dug your claws into some other dumb fucker to bleed dry. Goddamn, Angie. Aren’t you ever gonna get tired of being a user? Grow up.”
He pivots like he’s going to leave, but it’s a fake out. He does it to up the drama. He turns back around slowly, a movie monster who was heading out until he heard a muffled sound. His moves are so predictable. Why do they still tie me in knots?
“You know, I actually pitied you,” he says. “Your junkie mom was sucking off dudes behind the Quick Mart, and you had basically no friends, and I was nice to you once, and you just wouldn’t fucking let go. Like you were gonna off yourself if I told you I wanted to see other people. I was a teenager, Angie. I didn’t want 2.5 kids. I wanted a life. But you didn’t care what I wanted, did you? As long as Angie gets what Angie wants, who cares about anybody else?”
I want to cover my ears. Cry uncle. Scrub myself away with an eraser. Every word he says is true.
I did cling. I would have done anything so that I wasn’t alone. It was so lonely watching Mom slip away. Hot tears fill my eyes.
Another man would stop. For Tyler, tears are a cue to go harder. “You know, it was a complete asshole move to find your pride at the fucking altar at the last fucking minute, but I was actually happy for you. Did you know that? What you did was selfish as hell, but I thought, hey, maybe she’ll finally grow some self-esteem. Focus on being a mother. Make something of herself. But you’d rather suck the life out of another poor bastard. How long ’til you ‘accidentally’ get yourself knocked up by this one, eh, Angie?”
It was an accident. The condom broke. He was there. He said, “Shit. Guess I need Magnums.” I said we should get Plan B, but he didn’t want to spend the money, and I didn’t have it. He said it’d be fine. I decided to believe him because it was the path of least resistance, and really, deep down, I wanted a baby so bad. I didn’t want to be alone anymore.
I am selfish.
My anger drains away. Every word out of Tyler’s mouth flays me in strips. I know he’s the enemy, but I can’t summon up my defenses. I take the blows. I deserve them. I always have.
“Do Brandon a favor though, would you? If you’re just gonna bail at the last possible second, don’t be begging him all the time to buy you a ring. It’s pathetic. Don’t waste his money as well as his life.” He sneers, drops his metaphorical mic, and strides to his truck, swinging himself into the cab like he just won by TKO, and he’s the heavyweight champion of the world.
His engine roars as he peels off, a black plume of smoke rising from that stupid stack.
I feel like a worm.
Even though it’s sunny and cool, and birds are chirping in the trees, no one but me is outside. The sky is a hard blue. The sunshine is a spotlight.
I’m an embarrassment. A leech. Too weak to stand up for myself. Pathetic.
I creep back to the house, schlep myself up the steps, and skulk inside. Please let the girls be into something already. By some miracle, the tears have stopped, but if I have to put on a smiling face for them, they’re going to come flooding back.
The door to the basement is open, and voices from the TV filter up the stairs. Miss Dawn is futzing around in the kitchen. I duck into the living room to collect myself. It’d be easier to collect sand in a sieve. I collapse on the couch.
I thought I was good. I was happy. Am I deluding myself again? Am I forcing things with Brandon because I can’t take being alone?
But I love him.
Do I even know what love feels like? Or is this desperation? A drowning man loves a life preserver, too.
My head hurts. My heart is skinned. I sink onto the couch. My phone rings.
It’s Brandon.
“Hey,” I answer, trying to sound normal. There is a lot of noise on his end. He’s calling from a ship.
“Hey. Listen. The operation is going long. I’m not gonna be able to meet up tonight. I’ll have to catch you later,” he says. Loud. No hesitation. No hint of disappointment.
All of a sudden, it feels like all the blood in my body rushes to my head. I can’t breathe. I don’t have lungs.
A voice from deep, deep inside me says with total confidence, with glee—he’s not disappointed because you’re a burden. A clinger. He’d rather work than see you. He won’t admit it—he’s in too deep—but that’s the truth. He doesn’t really want you. You trapped him.
What twenty-five-year-old wants a woman with herpes and two kids who lives in his mom’s basement?
Vaguely, somewhere way out in the farthest reaches of my mind, I recognize that these are intrusive thoughts, but what does that matter? Where’s the lie? What’s the difference between an intrusive thought and a truth you don’t want to be true?
Metal clangs and clanks in the background, and Brandon shouts, “Angie? Did you hear me?”
I heard.
“Don’t worry about it,” I say.
“We can hang tomorrow.”
“Don’t worry about it,” I repeat. My voice is cold. Mean.
“Ang?”
“Just don’t worry about tomorrow. I’ve got the girls. And I’ve got things to do. I’ll catch up with you later.”
“Angie, what’s going on?”
“I said later.” Why won’t he listen? I’m giving him an out. Why is he pushing? “I just need space, Brandon. God. Can’t you get that? Why do you have to push? Just let it go.”
I end the call and drop the phone in my lap. Immediately, it vibrates. I power it off.
Whose voice was that? Mine, but it didn’t sound like mine. What the fuck just came out of my mouth?
My hands shake. I shove them under my thighs and stare at the dark TV screen. The room is bright and silent. Competing voices float in from the kitchen and downstairs—Miss Dawn humming, the girls chatting amongst themselves.
The blood drains from my head. In the vacuum left behind, my thoughts bump into each other, drunk and blindfolded.
What am I doing?
How am I even here in this house?
Except for the flat screen and couch, nothing much has changed since I first came over as a little kid. The pastel patterned curtains and valance with pom-poms are the same. The same mirror with the paint-speckled frame hangs on the wall. These are the same end tables with racks for the newspaper. Miss Dawn keeps her Sudoku books there now.
When Mr. Mike was on hospice, they put his hospital bed in here since it wouldn’t fit in their bedroom. Mr. Mike wanted the TV on 24/7, and Miss Dawn complained that she couldn’t sleep with the noise, but for those weeks, there was always bedding piled in a laundry basket in the corner. She camped out on the couch every night anyway.
The first months after he died, I couldn’t sit in this room without thinking about him. It only crosses my mind every once in a while now. Like when I drive past the Tremont Motel. Sometimes I catch sight of their vacancy sign and surprise myself with how many times I’ve driven past without remembering that Mom died there in room eighteen.
It’s a small town. If you stay, there’s no such thing as a clean slate or a fresh start. You have to make peace with the ghosts, one way or another.
And the boogeymen.
In the kitchen, the landline rings. I tense. Miss Dawn gets it, but she doesn’t call out to me, so I guess it’s not Brandon.
I lean forward, my elbows digging into my thighs, and stare at that dark screen. There’s something I didn’t think of, something I missed, but I can’t quite put my finger on it. It’s just out of reach.
And then, inside me, I feel a nudge. It reminds me of when we’re at the pool, and Tamblyn is paddling her heart out toward the wall, and she’s so close, but she’s about to give up, so I take her gently by the waist and glide her forward. Her hand touches the tile. Bam. Got it.
Connection made. I’ve got a grip on it now.
Everything Tyler says is backwards.
Focus on being a mother? He dropped his kids off early to go mess with dirt bikes.
I bled him dry? I made him dinner every night after I got home from work. I paid my half of the bills, and I cleaned the house and did the laundry and dropped the girls off to Miss Dawn and picked them up and did the grocery shopping and made sure we never ran out of Mountain Dew, salt and vinegar chips, and Captain Crunch, and I need to grow up?
I’m a user? I’m selfish? Everything he calls me is true about him.
And I knew all this. I’ve known he’s a gaslighter. But there’s knowing it in your head, and knowing it in every part of yourself down to the bone. Every part of me has a grip on it now—I am not what he says I am, what that lonely, abandoned girl inside of me believes.
My heart races. I’m in the Matrix now. I’ve slowed down time, and I’m bending in half backwards, and the bullets are flying past me.
All the shit Tyler says isn’t true. It’s what I’m afraid of. What’s the unwanted girl scared of the most?
Being a burden.
Being unwanted.
I’d say he’s an evil genius, but he’s not. He’s a dumbass, but he’s mean, and I swear mean is a form of intelligence.
Adrenaline kick-starts my muscles. I pop to my feet, dropping my phone to the carpet. I’m going after him, and I’ll scream in his face that I’m onto him now, and he can fuck himself, and then I’m going to punch him in the face, and I bet he’ll go down and stay down like he did when Brandon hit him.
Oh. Brandon. Shit.
I didn’t mean it.
I need to take it back.
I bend over, fumbling for my phone, but before I can power it back on, I hear the girls’ footsteps on the stairs. They pad into the living room with long faces.
“Snuggle puddle,” Tamblyn grumps, grabbing my hand and pulling me back down to the couch. The girls curl up, burrowing into my side.
Even though it’s the middle of the day, they’ve changed into their pajamas. Ivy has a stuffie tucked under her arm, and Tamblyn has Chickie wrapped around her shoulders like a cape.
“Whatcha doing, Mama?” Tamblyn asks.
Ivy lays her head on my lap and winds her thin arm around my thigh.
“Just thinking,” I say, smoothing Ivy’s hair. It’s going to be a bitch to get the knots out.
“About what?” Tamblyn stretches to get the remote from the end table.
“Nothing important.” Just how your dad set me off, so I was an asshole to the man I love. He thinks the sun rises and sets on me, but I agreed with your dad that no one can really want me since my mom OD’d and my dad left. I didn’t really believe anyone could actually love me until this very moment. That’s all.
Tamblyn turns on the TV and starts surfing from channel to channel, looking for something. “Is Brandon coming over?” she asks.
My heart twinges, dread rising in my chest. Did I ruin things? Did I dump him? I can’t remember exactly what I said.
“No,” I answer. “He’s working today.”
“He’ll come by later then,” she says.
“He probably has to work late.” And he’s probably pissed and confused. How do I explain? All of a sudden, I’m not so desperate to talk to him.
At what point does all my shit become too tedious?
“Then he’ll come over tomorrow,” Tamblyn says matter-of-factly, smiling as she comes across the channel she was looking for. It’s the Orioles game. They’re singing the National Anthem. Ivy perks up and climbs to sit on my lap.
When did the girls get into baseball?
They both begin to sing along, the lyrics indecipherable until the end when they bellow “O!” in unison with the rest of the stadium.
“You’re supposed to shout ‘O,’ Mama,” Tamblyn informs me.
“Okay. I will next time.”
We snuggle in to watch the game. I need to call Brandon, and I will, but I need to figure out what to say first. The last thing I want to do is make him even angrier when he’s operating heavy machinery.
I’m so pissed at myself. I’m a stupid fish, jumping for the bait yet again, and this time, I managed to drag Brandon down with me. I’m not going to do that again.
He’s a good man, and dammit, I’m a good woman. We have a good thing going. I’m not going to let anyone—including me—mess it up.
“See this guy? Number two?” Tamblyn asks when a new player comes up to bat.
“Yeah.”
“He started slow last season, but he came through in the end. We think this is his year.”
“Who thinks that?”
“Me and Brandon.”
“I think that, too,” Ivy pipes up.
“His year for what?” I ask.
“Baseball,” Tamblyn says, like it’s a very silly question. I guess it was.
Around the third inning, an amazing smell begins to waft in from the kitchen, and Miss Dawn comes to join us. She collapses into her easy chair with a huff and cranks the footrest.
“It’s too hot in this house,” she says, fanning herself.
“What’s cooking, Miss Dawn?” Tamblyn, my sugar monster, asks.
“Blackberry cobbler.” Miss Dawn, the original sugar monster, grins over. “It’s a little early in the season, but blackberries were BOGO this week. Who’s winning?”
“O’s,” Tamblyn answers.
“You girls remind me to check on the oven in twenty minutes. I don’t want the juice running over and ruining all that hard work your mama did scrubbing it out.”
Miss Dawn keeps a tidy house in general, but she only runs the self-cleaning cycle every blue moon, and it really needed a once-over with vinegar, baking soda, and elbow grease.
We watch the game together in silence while the whole house fills up with the scent of warm cobbler. It’s the best smell, but I can’t enjoy it. The need to make things right with Brandon is climbing up my throat.
I need to call him now.
But he’s at work. I don’t want to get him any more bothered while he’s operating heavy equipment. Longshoreman is a dangerous job. They can’t even get regular life insurance; they have to get it special through the union. That freaked me out when I heard it.
If I don’t call him, though, he’ll think I meant it, and maybe it’ll be the straw that’ll break the camel’s back.
But if I call him, how do I explain myself?
I’m so antsy that the girls abandon me for the opposite ends of the couch, but at least they’ve chilled out and got their playfulness back. Tamblyn wanders downstairs and comes back with her little fuzzy animal critters, and Ivy joins her on the carpet. Except for the anxious pit growing larger and larger in my stomach, it becomes an ordinary Saturday evening.
I make dinner while Miss Dawn and the girls finish watching the game, and when we’re done eating, we all have a big slice of cobbler. Miss Dawn says it’s not her best work, that the blackberries aren’t at the height of sweetness, but honestly, with the amount of sugar in the recipe, you can hardly tell what kind of berries she used. It’s delicious. I have to wash it out of both girls’ hair during bath time.
After I read the girls their story and put them to bed, I wait until they’re asleep and head upstairs to unload the dishwasher. Even though I tell Miss Dawn I’ll do it, she always puts the kitchen to rights while I put the girls to bed. At least I can put away the clean dishes and set up the coffeemaker so it’s ready to go first thing in the morning.
My phone burns a hole in my pocket.
I could call Brandon now. I really want to hear his voice, but I’m so freaking scared. What if he’s really, really mad at me?
I’m used to a man being mad at me for bullshit reasons, and frankly, it’s easier. All I needed to do with Tyler was kiss his ass until he got bored with punishing me, but Brandon isn’t Tyler, and I’m in the wrong this time.
Brandon will understand if I explain, though.
Won’t he?
He could still be working. He said the operation is running late. I should wait. I’ll text him when I get back downstairs.
I take my time, wiping down the counters and the stove range, even though Miss Dawn already did a thorough job of it. I’m going to miss living here when we move. I can’t say that Miss Dawn is like the mother I never had. That’s not the relationship we have. We feel more like reluctant brothers-in-arms.
She doesn’t let on that she’s lonely, and I don’t let on that I’m overwhelmed, and we face the day-to-day struggle together. We haven’t lost yet. Some days, that feels like victory.
Once I’m done in the kitchen, I wander into the living room to check on her. Sometimes she falls asleep in her chair, and I’ll cover her with an afghan. She’s awake, though, watching one of her real-life mystery shows.
“All right, Miss Dawn?” I ask from the doorway.
She smiles, rousing in her chair. She must have been drifting off. “There you are. I need a favor.”
“Sure.”
“There’s a covered dish in the fridge with some cobbler for Brandon. Will you run it over to him?”
I narrow my eyes. She narrows hers right back.
“He might be working late,” I say.
“I’m sure he’s home by now. I’ll keep an ear out for the girls.” She turns back to the TV. I’m dismissed.
She must’ve talked to him. He must not be too mad if she’s giving me an excuse to see him. A weight lifts from my shoulders, and butterflies explode in my stomach.
I rush downstairs as quietly as I can, changing into the cute T-shirt, jean shorts, and white sneakers that he likes the best. Before I duck out, I check on the girls. They’re conked out, sleeping like they always do—Tamblyn on her back like Sleeping Beauty, and Ivy on her stomach, arms and legs stretched like she’s holding the fitted sheet down.
They were fine tonight. It doesn’t seem to faze them when Tyler drops them off early. They don’t take it as a rejection. Yet. It hurts my heart, though.
I don’t want to wish he was a better father. I want to hate him.
I scoop Chickie off the floor, tuck him back under Tamblyn’s arm, and tiptoe up the stairs.
I almost forget the cobbler, but I remember when I’m halfway out the front door and dash back for it. When I open the fridge, for some reason, my eyes catch on the eggs. Due to the daycare kids, Miss Dawn buys the eighteen count.
A memory pops into my head. High school. Shrunk down in the passenger seat of Tyler’s old Civic while he and his boys egged poor Mr. Prescott’s house and his little car that they’d stuck up the gym roof for the senior prank. Tyler and his boys were mad that Mr. Prescott made a big deal about it.
The thing about Tyler is that he does what he wants, and if you complain, he gets worse.
The other thing about Tyler is that if you let it go, he gets worse.
On impulse, I grab the cardboard carton along with the cobbler and hustle back down the hallway.
Miss Dawn snorts a laugh from the living room. “No need to rush,” she calls after me. “Take as long as you need.”
Outside, it’s cool, but not cold, and the sky is black like velvet. Only a few stars are visible, like poked holes.
To get to Brandon’s, you turn right out of the cul-de-sac. When I get to the stop sign, I look over at the egg carton sitting on the passenger seat. What am I thinking? Egging a house is childish. It’s not me. I’ve never acted out of spite once in my life.
I turn left. My heartbeat picks up, and my palms get sweaty. I crack the window. My nerves are too jittery to turn the radio on, so I listen to the wind.
Am I really going to do this?
I think I am.
I obey the speed limit all through town and into our old development. When I turn onto his street, I turn my headlights off, cut the engine, and drift to a stop in neutral. I reach overhead and switch off the overhead light. I’ve never done anything like this before, but it comes so naturally.
Lights are blazing in the living room, spilling into the front yard. Tyler’s truck is parked in the short driveway. No one else is here. I’m surprised he’s home. Usually when he works on dirt bikes with his boys, they go to the bar afterwards. Maybe the story about Duck and the throttle replacement was bullshit. Maybe he just got tired of watching the girls.
I get out with the eggs, holding them carefully, with due respect. An eighteen count is almost seven bucks at the Giant these days.
I leave my car door open and stalk quietly to the entrance to his driveway. The maple tree is gone, and there’s a big hole where it used to be. What the heck happened? Did someone hit it?
There’s other evidence that things are going to pot. My flowerbed is filled with the husks of last summer’s annuals. For some reason, the kitchen trash can is sitting on the front porch. The HOA is going to get him for that.
I wish I could be angry. Not all the time. Not at the whole world. But this once. For my girls. And myself.
I close my eyes and hunt for the rage. I don’t want Tyler to get away scot-free yet again. I don’t want to be the person who lets him.
He ditched our girls.
He called me selfish and pathetic.
He cheated on me.
He treated me like a maid and then claimed I bled him dry.
He took advantage of me.
Where’s my anger?
I’m holding an egg carton in the dark, waiting for a cleansing rush of righteous fury that’ll wash away the past and all my mistakes, but there’s nothing but the wind rustling the neighbor’s hedge and the drone of traffic out on Route 1.
I screw my eyes shut tighter. I summon harder. I picture Mom, her cheeks sunken and her knees as knobby as the girls’, sneaking in the house from a bender while I was getting ready for school. I think of Dad, the same handful of memories I can still conjure, half of them from photographs.
I don’t want to beat myself up anymore over shit that other people did and that I didn’t deserve.
I open my eyes, flip the lid of the carton. There are two white eggs missing. They’re probably in the cobbler.
I am perfectly calm as I pick one up, draw my arm back, and pitch it at Tyler’s truck. It cracks against the rear window. Yolk and whites drip down.
I’ve heard if you let the egg dry, you can’t get it off without scratching the paint job.
I hurl another egg at the tailgate. And another. They crunch as they smash, dribbling down onto his back fender.
I’m still not mad, but my heart is speeding anyway. It’s lifting.
I keep throwing. I cover the rear window. I nail that dumb smokestack. I miss his bumper and egg splatters on the driveway.
A rush washes through me, but it’s not fury. I’m grinning like an idiot. The night air is sweet, I’m young, everything is ahead of me, and I have somewhere I want to go, someone I want to see. And it’s not here.
I’ve got two eggs left. Could I risk climbing into the truck and dropping them into that stupid smoke stack?
I wish I could drop them into Tyler’s big, fat mouth.
I pivot toward the house, aim, and wing one at the front window. Splat. Adrenaline surges through my veins. Kind of feels like winning.
The door opens. Tyler stamps out onto the porch wearing his gaming headset, holding a controller. He’s in shorts, no shirt, and his black sliders with white gym socks pulled high. He squints into the dark.
“Angie? What the hell are you doing?”
He sees his truck.
“What the fuck?” His eyes careen from the rear window to the tailgate to the open, empty carton in my hand. “Are you a fucking child?”
I aim. I’m not athletic, but he’s not very far away, and I’m warmed up. I take a deep breath, and on the exhale, I pitch the last egg at his stupid head. I miss. It goes splat on his bare chest. Yolk sprays, dousing his microphone.
“You bitch!” He bolts for me.
I’m quicker. I sprint for the car and leap into the driver’s seat, tossing the carton onto the floor. I swing the door shut as I peel off, gasping for air to scream, “Fuck you, Tyler!” out the window. Then I burst out laughing.
It’s a good laugh. It just keeps coming, shaking my belly until my abs ache.
I don’t feel closure, if that’s even a real thing. I’m still not angry, but I deserve to be, and I know it.
I deserve to be happy, too. We all do. And I’m going to go make it happen right now.
It’s onlya fifteen-minute drive to Brandon’s. I blast the radio, feeling young in a way I never actually was. This must be what sneaking out feels like.
The closer I get to Brandon’s townhouse, the more my butterflies collect in my stomach, and the heavier my foot falls on the gas pedal. I’m not sure if I’m hurrying to get this over with or if I’m running to him.
I park behind his truck. His porch light is on. Before I even turn off my engine, he opens his front door and steps out. He’s still in his work clothes, but he’s barefoot. His head is high, his shoulders back. He’s so handsome, but his face is hard. All of a sudden, I’m not in a rush anymore.
I undo my seat belt. Grab the plasticware from the passenger seat. Double-check that the car is in park. Step out into his driveway.
Which is when I notice the tree in the back of his truck. Budding branches hang over the side. It’s a young maple. It’s my maple.
“So where’d you get the tree?” I call to him softly.
His jaw tenses, and he crosses his arms, his biceps stretching his short sleeves. I love his arms.
“You know where,” he says.
“Did you dig it up from Tyler’s front yard?”
“I don’t know. Did Tyler do something that made you wig out on me?”
I walk closer until I reach the bottom of the steps. “Yeah.”
“Well then, yeah, I did,” he says, glancing down at me. His brown eyes are carefully blank. My heart aches. I did that. I made him put his defenses back up.
He stole me a tree. I want to wrap my arms around him and hold on forever, but he’s five steps above me, and I can’t skip the part where I explain myself. Even though I think if I opened my arms right now and said his name, he’d come to me without a second’s hesitation. Knowing that makes my insides glow.
I know him. He knows me. We love each other. It’s crystal clear now without the static in my head.
This is my man. I didn’t break things between us. We’re stronger than that.
“I’m sorry,” I say. “I didn’t mean what I said, and I shouldn’t have turned my phone off. It was a dick move.”
“If you do it again, I’m gonna walk off the job and hunt you down. And then they’re gonna have to fire me.”
“I won’t do it again.” I step up a stair. “I’m gonna work on my communication skills.”
“Yeah?” The straight line of his mouth eases into a faint smile. “You want to tell me what Tyler did?”
“I don’t want to, but I will.” I go up another step. “He brought the girls back early so he could ride dirt bikes, and I started with him about money, and he said a lot of mean shit, and I spun out.”
“You know that everything that comes out of his mouth is total bullshit, right?”
“Yeah.” I step up again. “I’m working on knowing that.”
His eyes soften. “Do you want to tell me what he said?”
I shake my head.
“Do you want me to beat the shit out of him?” he asks, a note of hopefulness in his voice.
“No. It wouldn’t be a fair fight.”
He sighs. “True.”
“Besides, I egged his truck.”
“You did? When?”
“Just now.”
He grins. I’ve managed to surprise him. “Attagirl,” he says.
“I’m sorry that you have to deal with my asshole ex making me crazy.” I step up one more time. I’m almost on the porch.
He shrugs. “It’s part of the package. I wouldn’t have you any other way than how you are.”
My face heats, and I glance down at the rubber toes of my sneakers. I feel the same way, but there’s nothing about him I have to overlook or deal with. He’s amazing.
One day, I swear, come hell or high water, I’m going to feel that way about myself all the time.
Brandon isn’t making a move, even though he’s getting impatient, scrunching and straightening his toes on the cold concrete. He’s letting me come to him in my own time. Again.
Another rush of love floods through me. It’s not a crash, but a swell, like in the ocean when you’re swimming past where the waves break, where the water lifts you, and you’re weightless. I smile, and it must be goofy as hell.
He grins back.
I step onto the porch. He lowers his crossed arms. I pad forward until we’re so close that I can feel his warmth and hear his breath.
“I don’t want space,” I whisper.
“Neither do I.” He grabs my waist and tugs me to him. I circle my arms around his neck, bumping him in the back of the head with the plasticware. “Is that my cobbler?”
I murmur, “Yes.”
“Hold onto it tight,” he says as he lifts me into his arms.
He kicks the door open and steps over the threshold. Our mouths slam together. I drop the cobbler. His knees hit the floor. I push him over, straddling his waist, scrabbling at his clothes. I get his shirt half-up and his pants half-down. He gets my jeans down around one ankle.
“Oh, shit. Wait a sec,” he says, doing a sit up while he maneuvers me so that I’m leaning left so he can get his wallet from his right pocket.
He grabs my ass with one hand and hoists me forward so he can roll on a condom, and then he moves both hands to my waist to lift and lower me onto his thick cock. His groans mingle with the moans from the back of my throat.
“Hold on, hold on,” he pants, pausing his thrusts for a second and scooting us toward the door. I hear a thud.
“Was the door open?”
“Not anymore,” he says with a grin and goes back to pumping his hips. I ride him again, back arched and breasts bouncing, my knees digging into the carpet.
He lies on his back in the foyer, mesmerized, like he’s never seen anything like me before and doesn’t want to miss a second. I don’t want to blink either. He’s gorgeous, and he’s mine.
“I’m gonna come,” he gasps. “Are you close?”
I shove a hand between my legs, find my clit, and catch up quick. “Yeah,” I say, breathless, folding forward so I can kiss him. He grips my ass and helps me keep rhythm as I lose focus on everything except the pleasure swirling and tightening inside me.
“You are the most beautiful thing in the world,” he says, staring up, apparently distracted by my face. He groans. His body tenses and then shudders, but he doesn’t break eye contact. He watches as I fall apart, too.
Afterwards, I collapse on top of him and stare dumbly at the boots lined up against the wall and the upside-down cobbler container. He wraps me in his strong, steady arms.
“We didn’t make it past the foyer,” I mumble, still trying to restart my brain.
He chuckles. “Give me a minute or two to catch my breath. I’ll carry you up to bed, and we can do it again.”
I push up on his chest so I can look at his face. He’s smiling, his brown eyes crinkling. “You’re beautiful, too.”
He smiles wider, cradles my head, and guides my mouth down to his. It’s not our first kiss, but somehow, it feels like one.
Careful and hopeful and so very, very sweet.
Like love.