Chapter 29
DEBBIE
I’m making pancakes for breakfast.
When I got out of the shower, I had over one hundred unread text messages from Garrett Meers as well as quite a few voice messages.
I deleted all of them, then I blocked his number.
He can deal with this on his own. After all, I’m not his tech person.
I was just the advice columnist, and I was fired, so the way I see it, none of this is my problem.
Also, right now, I need to focus all my attention on making pancakes.
I don’t make them from scratch. I’m not freaking Betty Crocker.
I have a box of powdered pancake mix, although I do have some tweaks to make them taste better.
I use milk to mix the batter rather than water, and I also add a dash of cinnamon.
And once you put it in the pan, you have to cook it just the right amount of time, flipping the pancakes halfway through.
It’s not foolproof, but it’s considerably easier than programming a phone app to track your family members.
Izzy comes into the living room first this morning. She hears the sizzling pancakes in the frying pan, and her eyes widen in that same excited expression that Cooper gets when I make him a dinner he particularly enjoys.
“Want some pancakes?” I ask her.
She does. I can see it all over her face.
She is torn apart by the inner turmoil of wanting to eat pancakes but also feeling like she needs to lose twenty pounds to get back on the soccer team.
The urge to wrap my arms around her in a hug is almost overwhelming.
I miss the days when a hug could fix everything and a well-placed kiss could heal any ouchie instantly.
These days, I have to be a bit more creative.
“I’m not hungry,” she finally says.
Great. Coach Pike has given my daughter an eating disorder.
Fortunately, that won’t be a problem very soon.
Lexi is the next to enter the kitchen, clomping on the hardwood floor in her Doc Martens that she’s been breaking in for the last two years.
She’s wearing a pair of oversize cargo pants, which I suppose are slightly better than pajamas.
She’s also not wearing her giant headphones.
She walks right up to me at the stove, and I stiffen, waiting for her critique of whatever I’m doing.
Last week, she informed me that I was breathing too loudly.
“Mom?” she says.
“Yes?”
She chews on her right thumbnail. “Can I have a ride to school?”
My first instinct is to ask why Zane isn’t driving her like usual, but I’m pretty sure that won’t go well. So this time, I keep my fool mouth shut. “Of course. Would you like some pancakes, sweetheart?”
She hesitates for only a split second. “Okay.”
“I’ll maybe have one pancake too,” Izzy speaks up, and I’m so happy, I could cry.
I portion the pancakes out onto two plates, and I’m placing them on the kitchen table in front of my girls when a loud horn sounds from outside. I cringe. I assumed because Lexi asked for a ride, that punk wouldn’t be spreading his noise pollution through our neighborhood this morning.
“Is that Zane?” I ask cautiously.
Lexi drops her eyes to the plate in front of her. “Mom, can you tell him that I’m getting a ride with you today?”
“Sure, honey. Of course.”
I wipe my hands on my blue jeans and head over to the front door. Sure enough, Zane’s Kia is parked in my driveway at a strange angle. I slip on my flats and step onto the front porch, not bothering with a jacket. This won’t take long.
Even with the windows closed, I can hear his music blasting.
I don’t know what he’s listening to. It’s definitely not anything I’ve heard on the radio.
I know it’s hard for “old people” like me to enjoy new music, but this song genuinely sounds like a man hacking up phlegm repeatedly.
He leans on his horn one more time, and I clench my teeth.
I walk down the steps of the front porch right up to Zane’s car. He is absently bobbing his head to the music, his shaggy hair in disarray. Once again, I fantasize about what I’d do to him with a pair of barber scissors. Then I tap on the car window.
I have to tap a second time, because he doesn’t notice me the first time.
He’s probably half deaf from the music. (If one could call it music.
I can only imagine that whoever recorded this did it as some sort of psychological experiment to see if anyone would listen to the sounds of bodily functions.) Finally, he swivels his head to look at me and rolls down the window.
“Hey, Mrs. Mullen.” As he looks up at me, I can’t help but notice how hollow his cheeks are, like he’s much older than he really is. “Where’s Lexi?”
“I’m bringing her to school today.”
“But I’m here.”
“Right. And now you can leave.”
Zane rolls his eyes. “Fine. Whatever.”
Without any warning, he backs the car out of my driveway, practically running over my foot. I watch him speed off, keeping my fingers crossed that this will be the last time Zane ever comes here to eat all the food in our kitchen and drink our alcohol.
But somehow, I have a bad feeling that it’s not.