4 - Kayla
Kayla
The dryer shrieked, a high-pitched metallic death rattle I’d been ignoring for weeks.
I silenced the machine with a quick whack from the heel of my palm, balancing a basket of damp hockey jerseys on one hip.
My free hand stayed busy stirring a pot of pasta sauce, navigating the transition hour as seamlessly as I always did.
That frantic, blurred sixty minutes where the role of mother ended and my shift behind the bar began.
The front door thudded shut, followed by the heavy, rhythmic drag of a backpack hitting the floor.
"Lunch is in the microwave. It’s chicken again, so I don’t want to hear it. It’s gonna be chicken until we’re out," I called, my eyes never leaving the stove. "How was school? Did you turn in your History assignment?"
"Yeah." Gabe’s voice was a flat monotone.
He shuffled into the kitchen, his hair a mess of dark cowlicks and his eyes fixed on his phone. The resemblance to his father in the fading afternoon light sometimes made my chest ache. He grabbed the plate, the scent of reheated poultry filling the small space.
"Double shift again tonight," I warned, resting the spoon on the side of the pot before I started toward my bedroom. “But I’ll have my phone on me if there’s an emergency. Gabe? Are you listening?”
“Yeah.”
My hands hovered over a row of black work shirts in the closet. Normally, the first one without a visible stain won the lottery. Today, a soft pink v-neck knit I saved for days not spent in the bar found its way into my hands instead.
But one look at myself in the mirror made me want to gag, so I tore it over my head in a huff.
I was halfway into a dark green button-down, wrestling with a stubborn cuff, when a shadow fell across the carpet. Gabe stood in the doorway, plate in hand, his fork suspended halfway to his mouth. The phone was gone, his gaze anchored to the green fabric.
"What are you doing?" he asked, his voice losing its teenage apathy.
"What does it look like? I’m getting ready for work." The nonchalance felt thin. I snatched up a pair of gold hoops from the vanity.
"You have a uniform," he said, chewing a bite of chicken slowly. "The black polo with the bar logo. The one you wear every shift."
"Yeah, well…”
Yeah, well, what, exactly? What was I about to tell him?
“I didn't feel like wearing the same thing I wear every shift." I shoved the earring post through my lobe with a bit too much force. "It’s laundry day. Most of them are damp in the dryer."
"The dryer that just stopped? I heard it." He stepped further into the room, leaning his shoulder against the doorframe. The fork scraped against the ceramic plate, a sharp, accusing sound. "And didn’t you say Nanna’s earrings are for special occasions?”
"I’m feeling festive. Sue me." A strange, fluttering tap-dance started against my ribs. I picked up my hairbrush, then put it down, then snatched it up again. The vanity mirror showed Gabe’s reflection right behind mine.
Stony, protective, and far too observant.
He watched every frantic movement of my hands, his silence making the air feel tight.
"You keep changing," he said, his voice dropping into a low, jagged register. “You haven't done that since the guy from the gym started texting. The one who ended up being married."
I stopped mid-reach for my mascara. "That's enough, Gabe."
"Apparently it’s never enough with you, Mom," Gabe snapped, the raw drama of fifteen years surging through him.
Beneath the bite lived a tremor of genuine fear.
"You get that look. You check the mirror every five seconds and turn your whole life upside down.
Then it's a month of you crying in the kitchen at 2:00 AM because some guy turned out to be a loser. "
"There’s no look," I lied, my voice steady despite the heat rising in my neck. "It’s just work. I swear."
"Is it the hockey guy? The one with the Jeep?" He stepped closer, his jaw locked, the half-eaten lunch forgotten on the plate. "I saw how you looked at him. I’m not a kid anymore, Mom. I’ve seen you make stupid decisions because you're lonely. I'm not going to watch you do it again."
The boy in front of me wasn't just being a brat. He was standing guard over the wreckage of past heartbreaks, trying to be the man I hadn't managed to find. The weight of his scrutiny felt heavier than any shift on the schedule.
"Michael’s a regular, Gabe. Nothing more." I gripped my keys, the metal feeling cold and sharp in my palm. "Finish your lunch, then go do your homework."
I pushed past him on my way to the kitchen and pulled containers from the fridge, lining them up on the counter with a series of sharp, rhythmic thuds.
"There’s lasagna for tonight. Don't just eat the middle and leave the edges to dry out. And the kitchen needs to be cleared before I get home. Might as well get that last load out of the dryer too, please."
Gabe didn't answer. He just picked up his plate and wandered into the living room, the heels of his socks sliding over the linoleum. He dropped onto the sofa and reached for his headset, the blue light of the gaming console blinking to life.
"Are you listening to me?" I raised my voice to cut through the cinematic swell of music I knew was pumping at top volume in his ears. "The dryer. If your laundry’s still there when I get back, it’s going to be a wrinkled mess, and I’m not ironing your practice jerseys."
He pulled the headset over his ears, his thumbs already working the joysticks with frantic, practiced twitches. "I got it, Mom! Quit babying me and chill out."
"I’ll stop babying you when you stop acting like you need a project manager to navigate a Tuesday," I shot back.
The flickering light of the TV threw shadows across his face.
"Speaking of projects, I got an email from Mr. Henderson today. Something about an outline for your Science term paper that’s currently missing in action? "
Gabe didn't even flinch. He just leaned into a turn on the screen, his eyes narrowed. "It’s not due for two weeks. I have it under control."
"Under control usually means 'handed in,' Gabe. Not 'living in your head where nobody can see it.'"
"I said I've got it!" He suddenly yanked the headset down around his neck, the game still blaring tinny explosions from the speakers. He stood up, the half-eaten chicken forgotten on the coffee table. "You're always on me about this stuff. Just go to work, okay? I can handle myself."
He abandoned the game and went storming off down the hallway, the heavy tread of his feet vibrating through the floorboards before his bedroom door slammed shut. Calculated exclusion.
I stood in the center of the living room for a moment, the silence of the apartment suddenly feeling claustrophobic.
Guilt pricked at the back of my throat. I was rarely here when the actual work happened, but always the one shouting instructions over my shoulder as I ran out the door.
Trying to manage a life through Post-it notes and frantic texts.
I walked down the hall and stopped outside his door, tapping softly.
"Gabe? I have a few minutes before I have to leave. I can help you hammer out that outline. We can just sit at the kitchen table and get it done."
"I'm fine, Mom," his voice came through the door, muffled but firm. "Just go."
I let my hand drop. The rejection was a dull ache, a reminder that the gap between us was growing faster than I could bridge it. The chasm between the little boy who needed me for everything and the young man who now felt my presence hindered him almost broke my heart.
I retreated to the bathroom, the harsh fluorescent light making the gold of my earrings gleam with a mocking sort of brightness.
I leaned over the sink, fluffing the roots of my hair and checking the sharp lines of my eyeliner one last time.
A woman ready for a night of high-stakes flirting, but my chest felt like it was full of lead.
I adjusted the collar of my shirt and took a breath that didn't quite reach the bottom of my lungs, then headed for the door. Ready to leave behind predictable uniforms and common sense for the next few hours.
My phone buzzed in the back pocket of my jeans and for a split second, I believed it was Gabe texting me a solemn apology from his bedroom.
But my heart dropped when I saw the notification from the sophomore group chat I belonged to.
A digital hive of mothers I usually kept on permanent mute.
I swiped the screen, and the air left my lungs in a sharp hiss.
RE: Sports Expo Bake Sale. > Just a reminder for Kayla J: We’ve got you down for 75 gluten-free, nut-free cookies for the booster booth tomorrow. Thanks for stepping up!
“Shit.” The sale had totally slipped my mind.
I stared at the words until they blurred. Seventy-five cookies. Gluten-free flour cost more than my electricity bill, and finding time to bake between work and everything else was a physical impossibility. I caught my reflection in the hallway mirror and nearly laughed out loud.
It was a costume. A lie I’d told myself for forty-five minutes.
I didn't have time for a life that wasn't built around spreadsheets, bake sales, and a son who was currently barricaded behind a bedroom door.
I reached up and yanked the pins from my hair, feeling the weight of it fall against my shoulders before I gathered it back into its usual, unassuming ponytail.
Going back to the bathroom, I grabbed a makeup wipe and fixed my delusion with three brutal swipes.
The winged liner and the carefully blended shadow were gone, replaced by the familiar (and more fitting) shadows of exhaustion.
I pulled the gold hoops from my ears and tossed them onto the sink, the clatter sounding final.
I was Kayla Jennings. I was a mother, a bartender, and a volunteer baker for a school that barely knew my name. There was no room in that equation for a soft green shirt or a man with quiet blue eyes.
I turned off the light, grabbed my keys, and walked out into the humid Texas night, once again a ghost in my own skin.