Chapter 3 - Mike
I stare down at the text and my stomach tightens from anxiety.
Mom:
We need to talk.
Shit, I don’t want to talk to her, but we need to clear the air.
I’ve been avoiding her since Thanksgiving, and it’s now the middle of January.
My therapist suggested I could reduce my stress by at least seeing what my mom has to say.
I shouldn’t assume that it will be a horrible conversation.
But really no matter what kind of conversation it is, I just need to talk to her.
A shiver runs through me, but it’s not from knowing I need to call my mom—my damn apartment is freezing.
Rubbing my arms for additional warmth, I consider just getting the talk out of the way.
Eh, or not… she can stew for a few more days.
I dig myself out of my blanket pile on the couch and bundle up in a second sweater before making a cup of tea.
I really want to move, but on top of this being the only apartment I can afford, I’d also need a deposit for a new apartment.
If I had known how cold it would be this winter, I might have tried to move in with Alice.
She had to find a new place after Thanksgiving, but it’s too late for that now. Alice is settled and seems happy.
While the water heats, I chew on my bottom lip absentmindedly and consider my options.
Everything is so new with Mike, so I don’t want to assume he’s going to invite me to live with him.
..ever. Right now, I’m spending the weekends with him and sometimes other nights, but I need to grow up and support myself better.
Do I want to live in a tiny apartment like this for the rest of my life?
When the water is ready, I take my mug of tea and my laptop to the couch, burrowing under the blankets again.
I sip the soothing warmth while looking at the cracks in my ceiling.
How secure is this building? When I moved in, I was desperate and didn’t care, but the lack of adequate heat makes me wonder what other maintenance items are being ignored.
Yeah, I need to get out of here, and that requires more money.
A sense of purpose gives me the resolve needed to job hunt. It’s time to not let Oliver-the-Tool derail my life. He was a shitty boyfriend who cheated on me, but I can’t throw away my college degree because of him. It’s time to find a job in my chosen career field.
I start sifting through the employment sites I used to visit, and I quickly get lost in the search. My resume only takes a little updating, and by the time my stomach rumbles for food two hours later, I’ve found some jobs I plan to apply for.
I close my laptop and stretch. I wonder what Mike is doing right now. Should I text him and tell him I’m job hunting? Nah, I don’t want him to keep asking me how it’s going. I’ll tell him once I get an interview somewhere.
Knowing I need to eat something, I head to my tiny kitchen and toss my phone on my counter.
I dig in my fridge and pull out some sliced cheese and deli meat to make a sandwich.
When I grab my loaf of bread, I realize it’s got mold on it.
Well, shit. Why does life feel so hard today? Nothing is going my way.
As I’m rolling the meat and cheese together to eat them as little protein sticks, my phone buzzes with a text message. Ooooh, maybe it’s Mike!
No such luck.
Mom:
Please call me. We need to talk. It’s important.
Dropping my phone on the counter again, I stick my tongue out at it and grumble under my breath. Why doesn’t she text an apology for acting like she was going to shank me with a fork? If she really wanted to talk, she’d apologize first...wouldn’t she? Ugh, why is being an adult so complicated?
Tired of my own pity party, I pick up my phone and stare at it for a full minute while I munch on a meat and cheese roll.
The more I contemplate talking to her, the more anxiety I feel.
There’s an annoying nagging question in the back of my head.
Maybe my mom or dad is sick. Even though they frustrate the hell out of me, they’re still my family.
I swallow the last roll, then wash it down with a glass of water.
Talking to my mom is going to take energy and I have to prepare.
Once I’m cocooned in my blanket, I call my mom and stare out the window as the phone rings, letting my mind wander.
The icicles hanging from the top of my window look deadly.
If they broke off and fell on someone below, that could hurt someone.
When my mother answers, I shove the thought out of my mind. Please, please, don’t let this go badly.
“Hello, mom.”
There’s a huge sigh as soon as the connection is made and my heart drops. Oh great. I’m on pins and needles to see what this is about, but clearly she’s not in a good mood.
“Oh, Willow, finally.” She gives another exaggerated sigh. “Your father and I were worried something had happened to you with that old man.”
Uh...I don’t even know what to say to that. It takes extreme effort to keep a defensive edge out of my tone and I spit out the first thing I can think of. “Old? He’s younger than you are.”
Shit, did I piss her off? I hold my breath, hoping what I said came across as bland indifference instead of being full of the irritated exasperation that I really feel.
My mom doesn’t give an inch of ground. “Well, he was still too old for you.”
I silently count to four, staying calm before responding in a cheerful but firm tone. “Great to talk to you too, mom. Did you have something you wanted to say?”
There’s a slight pause. Did she hear my displeasure?
I guess it could have been implied in how I said everything.
..fuck, this is why I hate talking to my mom.
I wish she’d just say whatever she called me for so we can get this over with.
At this point it’s probably too much to hope that she plans to apologize for the fork incident.
“Do I need a reason to talk to my daughter?” She has a bite to her tone, like my question annoyed her somehow.
Shaking my head while pinching the bridge of my nose, I hold in a sigh, wishing I didn’t always get caught in the same emotional landmines with her. Is anything ever going to change?
“You said we needed to talk and that it was important.” I let the implication that she does have something to say hang in the air between us for a few beats, hoping it will motivate her to get to the point of this conversation.
When she stays silent, my shoulders droop, and I surrender to the reality that this is just her and she’s probably never going to change. “Look, I’m sorry I didn’t call or text recently. I didn’t mean to avoid you. I’ve just been busy.”
That should satisfy her. It’s the truth anyway, even if the main things on my list of busy-things-to-do is fucking Mike.
Oh, and therapy to help with the messed-up dynamic with my parents, and to deal with some other crap in my life like Oliver-the-Scumbucket cheating on me.
..and maybe not knowing what I’m doing with my career. So I’ve got issues, but who doesn’t?
“Are you seeing anyone?” My mom’s question feels out of the blue, and I’m suspicious.
I keep my voice light. “Actually, I am.”
“Oh.” Her flat tone tells me she didn’t like that answer. “Is it serious?”
A sense of dread overtakes me, and I have a strong impulse to just say no and be done with it. But I really can’t bring myself to lie to my mom about it—even when I want to avoid confrontation.
“Yes. It’s the guy from Thanksgiving.”
My mom pauses and is so quiet that I imagine steam pouring from her ears like she’s a cartoon character. Finally, when I’m about to ask her if she’s okay, she speaks again. “I didn’t like him.”
I want to tell her I didn’t ask her opinion. This is a weird conversation, but I really should have expected this. Was she going to not ask me about the naked dude in my bed from Thanksgiving?
“Mom, does that matter? Don’t I get to choose who I date? You could be excited that I found someone I really like who treats me well.”
Why do I sound so upset and defiant? I’m not mad that she doesn’t like my new boyfriend—well, actually, she hasn’t even met him properly, so how can she know if she likes him? That’s irritating—but why do I care?
My mom launches into a lecture. “It does matter. You’re far too young to know how men are. He’s taking advantage of you, and you can’t have a life with this guy.”
Every word out of her mouth makes me angry. Fuming, I grit my teeth before managing a neutral tone. “What do you mean? Why can’t I?”
There is another drawn-out pause before she speaks. “Because--”
That one word is all I need to hear. A flash of anger makes me cut her off. “You know what? Never mind. I’ve got to go. It wasn’t nice talking to you.”
I hang up on her before she can say anything else. It might be immature, but I’m too ticked off to handle any more of the conversation.
I close my eyes and try to relax. As I rub my forehead, I feel myself spiraling down into self-doubt. Shit, what if she has a point?
Pushing that thought away, I refuse to listen to that nasty little inner critic of mine, who I swear sounds just like my mother, but with less of a guilt trip and more pessimism.
Without thinking I find myself texting Mike.
Willow:
Just had a bad conversation with my mom. I need to be mindless.
Dots pop up so I can tell he’s responding, but instead of a message, my phone rings. It’s him.
I answer it and try to not sound glum. “Hi.”
“I’m sorry it went badly, Kitten.” His soothing voice helps dissolve the tight knot that is lodged between my shoulder blades. “Why don’t you get into bed and we can talk about whatever you want.”
Just hearing his offer relaxes me, and I throw myself onto my bed and close my eyes, clutching the phone tightly. “Will you tell me a story about a trip you went on? Something funny.”
I pull my comforter over me while he laughs lightly. “Sure. Actually, I do remember something from years ago. Let me see...”
He starts his tale of adventure in Paris when he was about my age and he got lost and then rescued by an older lady who hit on him. By the time he’s done, I’m feeling better, but emotionally drained.
When I yawn, he says, “Take a nap, Kitten. I’ll be around to talk later if you want.”
I end the call and roll over to drift off to sleep, feeling warm and peaceful. He’s a great boyfriend.