26. Wrenley
Northern California doesn’t feel like coming home.
Home has always been New York, even when I wasn’t living there.
It’s the chaos of the city, the inescapable air of superiority on one block while the next is full of laid-back artistic types. It’s grabbing a slice at any time of the day, walking down the sidewalk and spotting a random movie star filming on any given night of the week.
Home is hues of pink and glitter and the ever-present scent of cookies and vanilla. It’s curling up in Dove’s bed, a bowl of popcorn in her lap and Fang in mine.
Even though I spent over ten years of my life in this godforsaken state, arriving back in California feels more like turning myself in for a crime I didn’t commit than returning to a place full of happy memories.
“I see you’re just staying the one night. Passing through?” The front desk attendant at the hotel asks. Her tone is suggestive, and if the smile she’s flashing me is anything to go by, she’s about to offer to show me around the shit small town my mother dragged me to during my senior year of high school.
I answer with a noncommittal hum, hitching my overnight bag higher on my shoulder as my phone dings.
The woman flutters her lashes as I pull it from my pocket. “Well, the hot tub closes at eight, but—” she leans forward and winks, “if you want to use it after hours, I won’t say anything. Sometimes, I like to relax after I get off work.”
I give her my best what the fuck is wrong with you stare before dropping my gaze to my phone.
Turtle Dove
How’s Hunter’s parents? I miss you. I know, I know. So sappy.
I can’t help the grin that curves my lips. I like it when she’s sappy because I might as well be a sugar maple when it comes to her. How I managed to withstand her allure for so long, I’ll never know. All I know is that I never want to be without Dove again.
Seizing the keycard from the woman—whose cheeks flush in embarrassment as she avoids my eyes due to my glaringly obvious dismissal—I head out of the main office without another word. The air is thick with petrichor from the afternoon rain, the parking lot nearly full as the hotel’s patrons settle in for the evening.
I wait until I’m in my room before replying. Another ripple of guilt courses through me as I carry on my fabricated lie.
I love the sap, and I miss you more. It’s fine. They have chickens.
Dropping my bag onto the bed, I send her a picture of Hunter and his mother, who’s holding a black chicken with a crazy hairdo and wearing a diaper. He sent it earlier as evidence, but also because I hadn’t believed Carla now spends her days tending to a diaper-clad chicken.
Dove came clean about C.W. not really standing for her mother’s initials. She admitted the trip she claimed she was taking was an excuse to leave for the weekend to target another douchebag. So I had to come up with a reason of my own for my absence.
Hunter was all too willing to provide an alibi, which worked perfectly since he was already heading to his parents’ anyway. He’s been in a great mood since his little rendezvous with Bunny in the bathroom at The Tipsy Taco. I have a feeling they fucked like her namesake—even she’s been friendlier since.
Turtle Dove
Eeee! So cute!
A picture comes through of her and Fang. Dove blows a kiss at the screen while the rat looks at her like she’s crazy. A smile curves my lips again as I collapse into a chair and scrub the day’s travel from my face.
Fuck, I miss them already.
Turtle Dove
We’re headed to Bunny’s for book club. I swear I’m going to make her tell me what happened in that bathroom.
Hunter won’t tell me. If Bunny tells you, I think it’s safe to say she wants him just as much as he wants her .
Dove’s reply is almost immediate.
Turtle Dove
Duh! I could have told you that! They love each other. She’s just worried about getting hurt again.
Anyway. Bunny’s house has shitty service, so if you call later and I don’t answer, that’s why. Talk tomorrow?
I need a long, hot shower to ease my tense muscles. More than anything, I wish I’d just been truthful with Dove and told her what I was really doing.
Talk tomorrow. And when I get home, I plan on having a very long, very serious conversation with your pussy while you discuss future living arrangements with my cock.
Just typing the words has me hard. If I hadn’t lied, I’d FaceTime her so we could mutually masturbate to relieve the frustration of being apart for the first time in weeks.
Turtle Dove
I’m on the train, Songbird! And you don’t want to go walking around Hunter’s with a hard-on! Down boy!
Guilt eats away at me for lying to her. She’s given me the strength I need to face my demons, but I refuse to drag her into my mess. I know she’d be by my side in a heartbeat if I asked her to come with me.
But now I finally understand why she doesn’t want me there when she becomes the Doll.
My mother is unpredictable. And I won’t put Dove in any situation that might put her in danger.
I can take care of myself, Songbird. I can hear her as though she’s beside me—hands on her hips, a pretty scowl on her face, amusement dancing in her big blue eyes.
Goodnight, Turtle Dove. I love you.
Turtle Dove
I love you, too.
Even though I know she can take care of herself, I need to do this alone. I have to face this to live the life I want with Dove. Otherwise, there will always be a tiny speck of splattered ink on every page of our story, an ever-present blemish in the margins.
Steam rolls out of the small bathroom as I turn the shower as hot as it will go. The water scalds my skin, but I barely feel it. The pain is nothing compared to the terrors that occurred in the house I’ll be visiting tomorrow.
For years, I suffered. Unable to walk away. Unwilling to face the proverbial monster under the bed. When I was old enough to know better, I should have stopped it. I could have left. Yet I did nothing.
What kind of sick fuck does that make me?
A traumatized one, Songbird. This is why we need to go to therapy.
Dove’s words from a few days ago echo in my mind as I wipe the fog from the mirror. Since interviewing Ginny Tailor about the new family center she’s opening, I researched their accommodations. Therapy happens to be one of them, and the branch near the Upper East Side has people who specialize in sexual trauma.
Dove is interested in various support groups, but I need something more solitary. I’m not ready to talk about what happened to me with a bunch of strangers.
My phone rings, startling me so abruptly I nearly stab the back of my throat with my toothbrush. I expect it to be Dove again, even though we already said goodnight, or maybe Hunter checking in. But when my mother’s name flashes across the screen, all the tension that melted in the shower returns tenfold.
Each shrill ring tightens my chest. The feeling of a thousand insects skitter across my limbs.
It’s like an out-of-body experience as I answer her call for the first time in months.
“Oh! I finally got you, my little songbird!”
Songbird.
Vomit rises in my throat, bitter against the minty foam of the toothpaste, when she uses the nickname I only want to hear from Dove’s lips. I screw my eyes shut as memories flood the graveyard in my mind where I’ve buried them for so long.
A warm wetness where it shouldn’t be. “It’s okay, my little songbird. Mommy’s going to make you feel good.”
Frantic cries of embarrassment as she coos, “It’s okay, Songbird. It’s a perfectly normal thing for your body to do.”
“Kiss me now, Songbird! Just like I taught you!”
“Wrenley?”
The room snaps back into focus. Panic surges through me. I clear my throat and press the mute button. Acrid bile mixes with sharp spearmint, and I vomit as she squeals, “Mommy misses you, sweetie. How are you? How’s New York? ”
It takes a moment to compose myself after spilling my stomach into the sink. I hate that my body reacts so violently to just the sound of her voice, how a single word drags up everything I’ve tried to lock away. A name that once made my skin crawl—until Dove turned it into something sacred.
After a deep breath, I unmute the phone. “I’m back in California. I’ll be stopping by tomorrow.”
Another squeal. I press my palm into my temple, trying to block out the throbbing that begins at her cries of joy. “Oh, baby boy! You have no idea how happy that makes me! Why aren’t you here yet? Where are you? You’re alone, right?”
The familiar warning edge sharpens her last question. I was never allowed to date, never permitted to show interest in a girl without my mother making thinly veiled threats about telling everyone what a disgusting little boy I was. She always said no one would believe me if she said I forced myself on her .
She always said men aren’t victims, that women will always be believed over them.
I wasn’t willing to take that chance in high school. Even in college, I was careful never to tell her my whereabouts.
“Yeah. It’s just me.” I keep my answers short. “I’m staying nearby. I’ll be there tomorrow in the late afternoon. ”
There’s a pause so thick with suspicion I can feel it through the phone. “Why didn’t you come home, Wrenley?”
“Late-night work call,” I lie, staring at my reflection in the mirror. “Hunter says hello, by the way.”
It’s a warning.
An indirect way of saying someone knows where I am. Someone expects me back in New York.
Her voice hardens. I can picture her gritting her teeth, her fake smile faltering as she speaks through them. “Well, tell him I say hello, too. I’ll see you tomorrow then, my little songbird. I’m so happy you’ve come home.”
She hangs up without waiting for a goodbye. And for some reason, her parting words feel final—like I’ve come to stay.
Or like she doesn’t plan to let me go again.
I toss and turn all night, debating whether to call Dove regardless of the late hour, just to hear her voice.
In the end, I decide against it, and I don’t sleep worth a damn.
Nothing has changed since I left.
The old two-bedroom house still needs a paint job, but the multitude of flower pots and various- colored blooms in the garden beds out front manage to make the chipped cream exterior look warm and cozy.
My mother’s Camry sits in front of the ostentatious red garage. The color always made me feel like the house was a target—a giant bullseye. A complete contradiction to the rest of the aesthetic.
A predator lives here. Stay away.
And people did. Despite my mother’s friendly demeanor and penchant for joining every social club that would have her, no one ever visited. She always went out, always needing to control how others saw her. Out there, they didn’t see past her mask. They only saw a good mother and a son in desperate need of a father figure.
A fly on any random wall in this house could have told them tales that would churn their stomachs.
The freshly trimmed grass catches my attention. Who’s taking care of it? Did she finally get a boyfriend? Or should I worry about her attentions turning to one of the neighborhood boys who mow lawns for easy cash?
My foot barely hits the first step before the door swings inward. My mother appears in the entryway, wearing a flowing sky-blue dress and a bright smile. Her long blonde hair is pulled back in a ponytail. She’s the picture-perfect image of warmth and welcome, even if she towers over most of the women in town at five foot eleven.
“My sweet songbird has finally returned to me,” she greets with wide arms.
I stop on the top step, neither returning her smile nor stepping into her hug. “Mother.”
The side of her mouth twitches. For a moment, we’re frozen. Just a boy and his mom. The person who should love and protect him from the world. I hate that the little boy inside me still wants his mother’s love.
Just not the way she wants to give it.
A gentle breeze lifts strands of her hair, sending them drifting over her face. Her dress sways. She drops her arms with exaggerated disappointment. “Well, geez, Wrenley. You look like you’ve lost your best friend. What’s wrong with you?”
“I’m not here to visit, Mother. We need to talk.” My gut clenches. The steel nerve I’ve built up begins to liquefy into something cold and anxious.
She turns her back to me, leaving the door open as she storms inside. “What do we need to talk about, Wrenley? How you’re coming back home?”
Following her is like wading into the ocean. You know you’re at risk of the waves becoming tempestuous at a moment’s notice, yet the water can be calm and warm before the storm .
Robyn Campbell is beautiful. It’s part of why I hated Dove so much when we first met. Because no matter how deranged and fucked up my mother’s actions are, I still think she’s pretty.
Call it a coping mechanism. The woman is ugly as sin on the inside, and that’s the difference between her and Dove. My girlfriend is beautiful, inside and out—even when she’s stabbing men to death, covered in their blood.
“I’m not coming home. I’m staying in New York. Permanently.” I set my keys and phone on the small kitchen table and sit as she flits around, gathering items to make tea. I have to admit the smell is nostalgic as she opens the bag of loose leaves while the kettle heats. It infuses the air with a warm, fruity fragrance with a subtle undercurrent of rose.
My mom is unresponsive as she begins to hum to herself, as though she didn’t hear what I said. A second later, she chirps, “We should go to the store for lasagna ingredients. It’s been so long since I made it for you.”
She disappears down the hall without waiting for a reply. A few seconds later, my phone lights up with a message from Dove.
Turtle Dove
Kay, so I’ve decided this spending-the-weekend-apart thing isn’t gonna work again. I miss you way too much. The bed was cold and lonely without you. I hated it.
A smile touches my lips just before the air stirs beside my face. I jump, looking over my shoulder to see my mother standing over me, staring at my phone with a disapproving grimace. I didn’t even hear her return.
Goosebumps break out along my skin. A shiver racks my body at her proximity. My muscles remember what my mind tries to forget.
“Is she why you’re staying?”
I swallow. “It isn’t only her.”
She straightens and returns to the counter to prepare our tea.
I push my tongue against my cheek, fighting for the strength to say what I need to with the same eloquence Dove delivers her monologues.
“She’s a pretty little thing.”
I stare at the photo on my lock screen showing Dove and me cuddled up in bed. Her head is resting on my chest, my arm curling around her bare shoulder while the other is extended holding the phone. Fang is in it too, lying on his back in my armpit, squished against my side .
This is why I’m here. They say you can’t choose your family.
But I did.
“You can’t hurt me anymore.” The words slip from my mouth before I can stop them. They aren't wrapped in an articulate bow, but as my mother freezes, I know they land exactly as intended. “What you did to me was wrong. You know it was.”
Like sour milk, she curdles. Her shoulders hunch, her head dipping between them before she rolls it side to side, a grotesque mimicry of nonchalance. “Whatever do you mean, Songbird?”
“Don’t call me that!” I snap, slamming my fist onto the table. My keys rattle, and the vibration makes my phone light up again. Dove’s face stares back at me from the screen. I take a breath, steadying myself.
“You no longer have the privilege of calling me that.” My voice is steel. “You need to stop calling me. I want you to leave me alone. As of this moment, you are no longer my mother, and I am no longer your son. And if I ever hear that you’ve hurt another child the way you hurt me, I will make sure you suffer.”
Each word is slow, deliberate, thick with such disdain that it makes me want to gag. My leg bounces, restless, and when she slides a cup of pink, strawberry-scented tea toward me, I drink, hoping to soothe the tight dryness in my throat .
A heavy darkness coils inside me like smoke as the warm liquid courses through my body. I cling to it, let it fortify me like armor. “You are a disgusting, vile woman. You should be in jail. But we both know there’s no point in reporting you. There’s no evidence. And, just like you once told me, no one would believe me now.” I lift my gaze from my phone to her. Her cornflower-blue eyes narrow in something like pity, as if I’m telling her about someone else’s suffering.
“So this is me, getting the closure I need. After this, I never want to see your face again. You can’t hurt me anymore, Mom.”
The familiar pressure of tears builds, flooding my sinuses, burning beneath my eyes and into my jaw. I clench my teeth to keep them from falling. The darkness I wielded as a shield suddenly turns inward, its fangs bared at me, an unfamiliar panic rising at an alarming speed.
My gaze drops to the tea as my limbs grow heavy, my voice alien in my own ears as I rasp, “What did you do?”
She smiles. And just like that, the liquid in my stomach sours.
I think of Dove as the edges of my vision blur, then darken. I think of all the things we planned, the places we said we’d visit. The promises we made to each other over the last few weeks .
I’m sorry I wasn’t strong enough, Turtle Dove.
The gleaming lemon-colored linoleum rushes toward me as I try to stand, but my legs buckle, sending me crashing to the floor. My head lolls, my brain sloshing like soup in a pot. I try to shake the haze away, but it only worsens, dragging me deeper.
Hands clamp around my biceps, and I jolt, clawing at the floor, desperate to escape the monster who has so easily reclaimed me.
“Shh. It’s okay, my little songbird. Mommy’s got you now.” I want to retch as she smooths my hair back and presses a kiss to my forehead.
Please don’t touch me. The little boy inside me sobs.
“Don’t worry, sweetheart.” Her voice is syrupy, sickly sweet. “When you wake up, Mommy will have your lasagna ready, and we can talk about you moving back home. With me. Where you belong.”
Dove…
The last thing I see is a pair of big blue eyes.
Then, everything goes dark.