Chapter 32 Verity
THIRTY-TWO
Verity
“How about another slice of pecan sweet potato pie?” Aunt Roz yells from the kitchen. “Or some of this turkey? We got plenty. I could make you a sandwich.”
From my near-catatonic state on the couch, I groan.
“I can’t eat one more thing.” I rub my tight stomach, grimacing at the thought of putting anything else in my body. “Stop trying to feed me.”
Grabbing my phone, I fire off a text I hope I don’t come to regret.
Me: Happy Thanksgiving, Mr. Bellamy. Hope you’re eating me.
When I reread the text and spot the typo, my grin melts immediately and I try to edit.
Why won’t this let me edit? Have I updated my software?
Shit.
Me: I meant I hope you’re eating ENOUGH FOR me. Not… the thing I said before.
I slap my forehead and pray he laughs. This is all so new. We haven’t even slept together and my stomach’s already packed with butterflies.
Though, it could be all that pie. My butterflies have indigestion.
Aunt Grace settles at the other end of the couch and pulls my feet into her lap, gently massaging my toes and soles.
“You sure you don’t want another slice?” she asks. “You’ve lost weight.”
“Thank you,” I say, choosing to take her concern as a compliment. “I’ve been exercising. It’s good for stress and helps manage my moods.”
“You still use that mood tracking app?” Aunt Grace frowns. “I’m sure you’re staying on top of your meds. And you’re in touch with Dr. Baynard, right?”
“Yes to it all.” With a long-suffering sigh, I pull my feet from her lap and stand. “We met a few weeks ago to make sure I don’t need to adjust my meds.”
Aunt Roz marches into the living room and sits on the couch beside her wife, summoned by talk of meds and moods.
“Is there something you’re not telling us?” Aunt Roz asks, drying her hands on a dish towel. “What’s going on?”
“I had a little downswing,” I reply stiffly. “No big. Dr. Baynard and I huddled and it’s all good. Happens this time of year. I just need to stick to my routines and coping strategies.”
“If you need anything,” Aunt Grace says, worry sketching a little dent between her brows. “You know we—”
“Oh, my God.” I split an exasperated look between the two of them. “I’ve worked really hard to build something as close to a normal life as possible for myself. You don’t have to look over my shoulder every five minutes to make sure I’m not crashing out.”
“We’re not,” Aunt Roz replies hastily. “We’re proud of you, but you know a downswing usually means there could be a—”
“Manic cycle at some point,” I finish. “I’m well aware, but it doesn’t have to be. I’m vigilant. A little blip doesn’t mean everything will fall apart. I can’t live that way.”
“We’re sorry.” Aunt Grace reaches over and takes Aunt Roz’s hand. “But it’s not like you’re close by. You’re clear across the country and we never know if—”
“I’m also thirty-three years old and have been successfully managing this for over a decade. Have I had a few bumps in the road? Sure, but few and far between, considering. I’m healthy and I’m happy. Please let me enjoy that.”
“Of course, Vee Tee,” Aunt Roz says, her expression softening. “We love you.”
“You just… smother me sometimes.” I press a hand to my temple. “Maybe you shoulda had a kid or something.”
“We did.” Aunt Roz stands and pulls me into a hug, kissing the top of my head. “You.”
My irritation collapses under the sheer weight of their sweetness. They’ve been too good to me. I can endure a bout of extreme concern from time to time.
“A cat then,” I laugh, wrapping my arm around Aunt Roz’s plump middle.
My cell beeps with a text. I jerk out of Aunt Roz’s arms and dive for the phone, willing my heartbeat to slow down.
Mel: Happy Thanksgiving, ladies! Miss you. For the love of God, can we please go somewhere for Christmas?? Preferably to a hemisphere that does not contain my parents. If they ask about grandkids one more time, I cannot be held responsible.
You’re not disappointed Monk didn’t text back. You’ve gone twelve years not hearing from him on Thanksgiving.
I settle into the corner of the love seat and reply to our group chat thread.
Me: Happy Thanksgiving! Same over here. Not the grandkids, but the aunties are in rare form on the home front. What about you, Gem?
No dots appear and there’s no response from Tessa.
Me: Tessa, let us know you didn’t eat yourself into a food coma. I told you to go easy on your mama’s mac and cheese. We need proof of life.
Still no dots. Maybe she’s busy.
Another text comes in, this one from Mel, but on the thread with just the two of us, not the group chat.
Mel: I’m worried about her. I’ve been calling all day and no response. She told me she was back on her meds, but I’m not sure I believe her.
After the confrontation I just had with my aunts, I’m inclined to give Tessa the benefit of the doubt. I know our friends and family love us, but damn. When we come home, we want to feel like family. Not a patient.
Me: I’m sure she’s fine. She’s a grown woman.
Mel: A grown woman who has bipolar and has not been consistent with her meds lately.
Me: She’ll check in. Her family’s probably got a Spades tournament going. You know how they do on the holidays.
Mel doesn’t respond, but her silence sounds loud and skeptical. I’m about to assure her, when Tessa’s response comes through on our group thread.
Tessa: I’m here, guys. Just really busy. I’ll touch base after the holiday. Happy Thanksgiving!
I can’t shake a sense of unease. She’s saying the right things, but she’s been doing this long enough that she can mask for weeks, maybe even months, before someone detects things have gone off course.
I know what it’s like to need space to figure shit out. I’ll let her know I’m here when she’s ready to talk and if she needs me. I text her on the thread with only the two of us.
Me: Hey, you good? Us gems gotta stick together.
Tessa: Lemme guess. Mama Mel is worried.
Me: LOL! Maybe a little, but does she have reason?
Tessa: You of all people know how it goes. Up and down is par for the course. Nothing I can’t handle. I’m fine. I’d tell you if I wasn’t.
Not even an hour ago, I was reassuring my aunts of the same thing. Asking them to trust that I know my limits and can take care of myself. That’s all Tessa’s asking for.
So I need to give it to her.
Me: Okay. Well I’m always just one SOS away. You know that, right?
Tessa: I know, gem. Love you.
Me: Love you, too, gem.
I set the phone on the coffee table and lie down on the couch to nurse my turkey baby. An hour later, my feet are back in their rightful place, Aunt Grace’s lap, when my phone rings on the coffee table. If I can see Monk’s name on the screen from here, surely they can.
“Is that…” Aunt Grace tilts her head for a better view of my phone. “Monk Bellamy?”
“I need to grab this.” I leap off the couch and scoop up my phone.
“Tell Wright we said hello,” Aunt Roz calls.
Ignoring the decibels of curiosity in her voice, I dash to the back of our small house and don’t answer the call until I’m safely behind the closed door of my bedroom.
“Hey,” I say breathlessly. “Happy Thanksgiving.”
“Happy Thanksgiving,” Monk says, his voice raspy and shiver-inducing. “Got your text. Thought I’d just call.”
“Very elder millennial of you,” I tease.
“Maybe I’m a boomer at heart.” The deep rumble of his chuckle makes my belly flip. “Sometimes I think I should have lived in Dessi’s timeline. Better music.”
“Can you imagine meeting them? Dessi and Cal? Billie and Bessie? Zora and Baldwin?” I stretch out on my bed. “I wonder if they knew they were shaping not just a generation, but the world? With their music and their stories and their art.”
“You can never really appreciate how consequential something is when you’re in the middle of it.”
“Aren’t you philosophical tonight? Deep discussions over the dinner table?”
“Half my family is musicians and singers,” he says wryly. “So there was more singing than deep discussions. We wore that piano out.”
“You sang?” I ask, a wistful note in my voice. “It’s been so long since I heard you sing. I mean, of course I’ve heard you on TV or other stuff, but I mean… in person.”
“If you fly back to LA early,” he says, his tone roughening with gravel and smoke, “I’ll sing for you.”
My poor hummingbird heart may not survive this conversation.
I bite my lip, but there’s no holding back this goofy grin I’m so glad he can’t see. “And where would you sing for me?”
“I have a piano at my place. A few actually.” He pauses and I have no idea what to do with that empty space throbbing on the phone between us. “I’m flying to LA tomorrow. When do you get back?”
“Um, I was planning on Sunday, but the aunties are working my reserve nerve.”
“Fly back early. Come see my piano.”
“Oh, is that what we’re calling it now?”
His laugh is dark and rich, fine as Turkish coffee. “No pressure. There’s plenty of time for you to see it.”
I want to do more than see it. I want to taste it and feel it and choke on it.
Not the piano…
“Have you thought about what we discussed?” he asks.
My breath stutters and my cheeks burn. This is ridiculous. I’m not in high school, but tell my heart that with its schoolgirl flutter.
“You mean about us getting busy behind everybody’s backs?” I ask, deliberately injecting some lightness.
“Yeah, Brown Sugar,” he says, the smile in his voice. “Getting busy. What do you think?”
“What do you think?”
“I asked first, but I have no problem telling you I’m down.” He pauses, the silence swelling with possibility. “I want this.”
When I’m manic, I behave recklessly, impulsively.
I do things out of character and later regret them.
This is not like that. I’m stable and in my right mind when I succumb to this attraction that has never gone away.
It’s a calculation—lust times horny, divided by consequences, subtract guilt, equals don’t give a fuck.
And regret will not factor in. Even laying it out like a formula, the prospect of doing this with Monk makes my heart feel like it might float right out of my body.
“I want it, too,” I reply, my words no higher than a whisper, but certain.
“Then come home.”