Chapter 11
Chapter
Eleven
XAVI
My mother didn’t track me down yesterday. When I returned to the kitchen for lunch, her car was gone. Only Enfield’s sat in the driveway. I feel bad for yelling at her, and yet, what was I supposed to do?
Maybe he’ll come around? Was that really the best she could come up with? Maybe a straight man will suddenly decide to give gay a try, like it’s a new tie he’s not fond of or a TV show that he’s not into. Maybe he’ll come around!
I don’t expect him to any more than someone should expect me to come around to being straight. Despite what idiots believe, it’s not a choice. I didn’t wake up one day and think, hmm, I’m going to only find men attractive from now on. That’s not how it works.
The irony of this isn’t lost on me, though.
It’d be expected if this were a gay man/woman being tricked into a straight marriage.
But the other way around? In hindsight, I might find it funny.
Years from now, if by some fucking miracle I haven’t turned into a miserable shrew, I may laugh about it.
At this point in time, though, it’s not funny at all.
I spent the rest of yesterday watching those short chapter reels on my various apps to pass the time. Enfield was nowhere to be found, and I didn’t look for him. I didn’t make sure he ate lunch or dinner. I didn’t look for him at all. He’s a grown-ass man and can take care of himself.
This morning, as I head for the kitchen, I half expect to find him there like I did yesterday—cooking over the stove.
He’s not. The kitchen is empty. My stomach drops, though I try to ignore the disappointment.
I’m not expecting anything else. He doesn’t want to be here, and he’s not going to play nice.
As much as I’d like to be mad at him, I’m not. I can’t be. All I keep thinking is what if I were in his shoes?
Honestly, I’d probably be sobbing. And yeah, I’d probably also be trying to have a conversation with her and figure out how to make the best of this situation.
But I can also imagine how hopeless, frustrated, and angry I’d feel.
That feeling wouldn’t just go away. Certainly not less than forty-eight hours into a life sentence.
I move about the kitchen and wonder if I should make Enfield breakfast like he did for me yesterday. He’d known I was coming down. He’d already whipped up eggs to be ready for both of us. But maybe that was because I’d had dinner prepared the night before.
Instead of overthinking this, I pull out a frozen breakfast sandwich from the freezer and stick it into the toaster oven to heat through. That’s easy enough to make two of if he comes down.
While it warms, I open the dishwasher to see if it needs to run. I’m not obsessive over dirty dishes, but I note that the only dishes in there are the ones from dinner two nights ago, breakfast yesterday morning, and my lunch and dinner yesterday. There’s not even an extra mug.
Did Enfield eat at all yesterday?
I chew the inside of my lip and head into the pantry, where there’s a window overlooking the driveway. His vehicle is still here. Did he go out for the rest of his meals yesterday?
“Not my problem,” I mutter and turn back to the kitchen as the alarm on the toaster oven fills the room, signaling my breakfast is heated.
I run a hot rinse cycle on the dishwasher and take my sandwich to the breakfast booth to eat it. Shapiro jumps onto the bench beside me, and I rip off a little bite of bacon for him without a word. I could lament this situation, but I don’t. Why bother? All I can do is take one moment at a time.
Enfield doesn’t come into the kitchen to eat while I’m there. Maybe he saw me walk in and doesn’t want to be in the same room as me. Is he disgusted that my mother just showed up unannounced? Maybe that’s something we should discuss.
When I’m finished eating, I wash my hands, make some tea, and head to my workshop.
Might as well keep myself busy. I still have a shit ton of products to photograph and pack up.
That’s not even the end of it. Once that’s finished, I need to create the shop with all the products I want to sell, listing every item with details and whatever.
Then I head to social media and make some teaser posts with the date of the sale drop. Between that, I begin dropping the products that will be going live, including the prices.
It’s a damn process.
And then, once the shop is live, I need to print all those damn labels and get them to the post office.
However, I think I’m going to break this into three drops.
Not only will it lighten my load, but it’ll also extend sales.
It’ll close the gap a little between sales, too.
Only now that I’m taking photos of the inventory I have stocked up do I realize how incredibly long it’s been since I last held a sale.
My social media is generally silent otherwise.
I should at least get better at keeping things on social media. Sparrow suggested I do time-lapse videos where people can watch me create in super-speed. It’ll grow my following and keep me relevant in the algorithm.
It seems like a lot of work for a hobby, though.
I’ve gotten through a dozen when the doorbell rings. Shapiro, who I didn’t realize had followed me, jumps down and runs for the front door. If he were a dog, he’d be barking at the intruder.
Curiosity has me following. I’m not expecting anyone, and those who usually come over let themselves in. My mom, my family, and Sparrow. Maybe there’s a delivery. That makes sense. Not that I ordered anything, but who the fuck knows?
Shapiro is standing in front of the door when I get there. The doorbell rings again before I can answer it. I scoop my cat up, settle him on my hip, and pull the door open.
I don’t recognize the woman standing there. She smiles widely when she sees me.
“You must be Xavi,” she says.
You don’t tell strangers who you are. Rule number one. “Who are you?” I ask.
“Oh, I’m sorry. Betty Undergrove. Your soon-to-be mother-in-law.” She beams at me.
I can see the family resemblance now, but I don’t share her enthusiasm. This is the woman responsible for the situation we’re in. She’s the cause of Enfield’s fury. I stare at her, unsure of what I’m supposed to do right now.
“Can I come in? Is Enfield busy?” Betty asks.
Before I can figure out how to answer, I hear Enfield behind me. “What are you doing here?”
I jerk away from the door, relieved that I don’t have to determine how to handle this situation. I step aside as Enfield removes an earbud from his ear and walks into the foyer. He looks livid.
“You haven’t answered my calls in two days,” Betty says.
“You interpreted that to drop in uninvited?” he snaps.
She sighs dramatically. “You’re still upset?” she asks. “Honestly, Enfield—”
“GET OUT!” Enfield shouts.
I jump, pressing my back to the wall and hugging Shapiro to my chest. Betty jumps too, obviously startled at her son’s outburst.
“GET OUT!” he shouts again. “Stay out. I don’t want to see you again for the rest of my life.”
“Enfield, be reasonable. This is just—”
“You fucking tricked me,” Enfield yells. “You tricked me into marrying a man, and you think I’m going to just get over it and pretend like this is nothing more than handing me flowery drapes?”
I almost smile, because drapes were the same example I used when talking to my mother.
“I thought.. the Duke… and you could have read—”
“Stop gaslighting me. Get out of this house. Get out of my life. Stay away.”
“Enfield—”
“GET OUT!” he screams again, this time storming to the door.
Betty, alarmed, takes several steps backward.
Enfield keeps going. He shoves past her, knocking Betty sideways, and storms to his vehicle.
I watch as he climbs in. The lights turn on as the engine starts, and his tires squeal as he peels out of the driveway.
I wince. I’m going to hear about that from the neighbors.
I watch as he drives away. Oh, my god. Is he coming back? Betty turns to look at me, and once again, I think, oh my god. He left me with his mother!
She stares at me. Silent seconds pass. Is she expecting me to say something?
“This will pass,” she says, smiling.
“I think you should leave,” I say.
She looks startled, and I almost roll my eyes.
“Oh, Xavi. I’d love to have a relationship with my new son-in-law,” she says, taking a step toward me again.
“I guess you should have thought of that before tricking him into a gay marriage when he’s straight. Please leave, or I’m going to call the police.”
Betty looks at me, maybe contemplating whether I’m telling the truth. A minute passes, and neither of us moves. Another minute. Just as I determine that I’m going to apparently have to force the issue, when I hate confrontation, she smiles.
“Okay, dear. I’m sure this will all be put behind us in a few days. I’ll see you soon.”
“You should respect your son,” I say. “He said to get out of his life, and by extension, that means you’re to stay out of mine, too. Please leave and don’t come back.”
Silence. This time, I can feel the tension rising.
Betty looks hurt. I’m guessing she’s used to playing the victim and getting her way.
Newsflash: I’m the baby of seven. I usually get my way.
The least I can do is make sure she doesn’t come back and make it really fucking clear that I’m on Enfield’s side. Even if he doesn’t want me there.
Without a word, Betty turns on her heel and walks away.
I don’t wait for her to get to her car before I shut the door and lock it behind her.
I do, however, move to the window and watch to make sure she leaves.
She gets into the car, phone already to her ear.
I wonder who she’s calling. Trying to get Enfield to talk to her again.
Maybe her husband. Maybe my parents to complain about what a rude son they raised.
Once her car turns down the road, I let the curtain fall and turn away. Shapiro wiggles to get free, and I let him down. He turns back to the door and jumps onto the windowsill, standing guard.
I grin. “You should have been a dog.”
Shapiro looks at me, and I’m sure that’s a death glare. I raise my hands. “Sorry. Didn’t mean to insult you. Cats rule. Dogs are vermin.”
He turns his attention out the window again.
Sighing, I head back upstairs to my workshop, where I stay for the rest of the day.
I don’t hear Enfield return. Shapiro comes and goes as if he’s checking on me.
If Betty called my parents, they don’t call me.Maybe my mom is mad at me for yelling at her yesterday.
As I’m mindlessly moving through the monotony of taking pictures and packing items, I wonder if maybe I should call Sparrow. I’ve already called him twice in as many days. He’s heard me tear up twice now. I’m not a crybaby, but I feel helpless, and that’s making me leak through my eyes.
Tears aren’t going to change my situation.
Screaming won’t. Throwing a tantrum won’t.
I need to be an adult and… maybe carry on as if nothing is happening.
Nothing is different. I didn’t sign a contract yet, and Enfield isn’t here.
The last week plus hasn’t happened. I’m in my workshop doing something I enjoy doing.
When mentally insisting that’s what’s going on doesn’t work, I flick on the television to some ghost show.
Each episode is about a real story of how a ghost ruined someone’s life.
This is one of the better shows that follow the same premise.
The better ones aren’t just believable in their storytelling but frighten me as I watch.
As a kid, I used to wonder if ghosts were real.
This house isn’t particularly old, but I always wondered if there were ghosts here.
I never put a voice to those thoughts, though.
I didn’t want to invite any in. There’s no guarantee that what you invite in will be nice. They could very well be demonic.
No thanks. I already have a hellstorm to navigate through right now, and that’s with the living.
Maybe later in life, I’ll take up ghost hunting as a hobby.
It’d be fun to visit an old asylum or battlefield to interact with ghosts.
Who knows? One experience might traumatize me from ever doing it again.
I’m big and brave watching others’ stories on television.
I make it through all my products by dinnertime and decide to finish for the day. Tomorrow, I’ll start uploading every single item onto my website on hidden store pages. Maybe tonight I’ll take a picture of the mountain of packed up product and post that online with the title Something is Coming!
Enfield’s bedroom door is closed when I walk by.
There’s light peeking out through the crack under the door.
I pause on the landing across from the stairs to look through the window.
His SUV is parked in front of the garage.
Maybe I should give him one of the remotes.
I could just leave one on the kitchen counter. Let him take it if he wants.
I head downstairs. The house is empty. No sounds. Nothing at all. Nothing except Shapiro trotting along to catch up with me. His footfalls are silent. He’s a cat. They’re practically invisible predators. That’s why he has a loud collar. Sometimes he still manages stealth, but not right now.
I wait for him at the kitchen door. He trots in and jumps onto the counter to sit and watch me.
There’s a single corner that’s dedicated for him.
He has a treat bowl there. I honestly don’t make a big deal about him on the counters.
Sure, he sheds, but he doesn’t get close to me cooking or anything.
He sits in his corner and supervises. If he’s good, he gets treats.
Tonight is no different from any other night since my parents moved out. It’s just Shapiro and me. Easy to imagine that we’re all alone. The solitude has never bothered me before, and I determinedly refuse to let it now. I don’t care if there’s a broody man upstairs. It’s just me and Shapi.
Forever. Not sad at all.