Round Thirty-Five #3
“Alana’s bookstore consistently runs in the red, and Eliza compares herself to me and Raquel every damn day, like we’re superior because we went the medical route and she only became a fighter.
” He scoffs. “That girl has more money than I will ever have, times a hundred. So that thing she’s insecure about?
Looks like a gold mine from where I’m standing.
Nobody gives a shit that you sling dishes, Maggie.
No one except you. Sounds like you judge—not us. ”
“You want me to admit to the dogs I walk?” I whimper. “Or the groceries I sometimes deliver? Or the jewelry I found in my grandmother’s house and sold, because my Love Expert bullshit is exactly that: bullshit.”
“Fox’s actual job title is Chief Happiness Officer. Happiness. Happiness,” he drawls. “She made that shit up and convinced a Fortune 50 company to pay her a fortune for it. Should she be embarrassed?”
“No! Of course not.”
“What about my mom, then? Or yours? They poured coffee for a living, too. They slung dishes. Mine’s dead now, but should she be embarrassed for serving food for a paycheck?”
Fresh tears spill onto my cheeks. “No.”
“No one who matters would judge you, Maggie. And no one who judges you matters.” He points in Billy’s direction. “Meanwhile, he’s worrying himself half to death because you roll in at two in the morning most days of the week. Poor guy thinks you’re selling ass for a living.”
“He…” My heart slams painfully inside my chest. “What?”
“No one ever accused him of being a normal, level-headed, logical thinker. On the job? Yeah. But when it comes to the people he loves?” He shakes his head.
“Not a chance. Dude thinks you have a soaring dating life, or an overfull diary with men’s names and appointment times listed in it.
You’re breaking your own heart, Maggie, because you love him, too.
And Jesus,” he huffs, “you love Jeremy. But love doesn’t judge, so tell him who you are.
Stop expecting him to communicate at a level you yourself refuse to reach.
Sit on the damn bed,” he grunts. “Give me time to finish up with Jeremy, then I’ll come back here and take care of your hand.
You could probably even consider calling the girls while you’re waiting.
They know you sling dishes too, dummy. They’ve known for weeks. But they don’t judge.”
He whips the curtain open and steps through, then closes it again and leaves me in here.
All alone with a fractured heart and leaking eyes.
And because the universe enjoys taunting me, my phone trills with an incoming call, so as I reach back and take the device out, only to spot my mom’s name on the screen, I exhale a defeated sigh.
Am I embarrassed for trying to make a business soar, knowing these things take time and picking up other jobs to make ends meet while I wait?
Or is the voice pounding in the back of my mind hers?
Because she was embarrassed to sling dishes after my father died.
Because she’s bitter toward love, and furious that, despite her best efforts, she never again found what she had with my dad.
She tried. And tried. And tried. And tried again.
So many men. So many first dates and the smell of new, strange colognes in my house.
The more she tried, the meaner she got, and the meaner she got, the more obsessed I became with proving true love still existed.
I stare down at my phone, watching as her name flashes, flashes, flashes for attention. But I don’t answer it. I can’t. Not while Jeremy’s loud tears penetrate the hall and my name on his tongue weaves through the newly closed curtain and wraps a vise around my heart.
I want Maggie. Not more cream! It hurts, Daddy. I want Maggie!
“Knock, knock.” A hand emerges on my side of the curtain, then Rose’s sweet, smiling face as she peeks around the material. “Hey. Can I come in?”
I back up until I feel the edge of the bed on my butt, then I drop, twisting on the hard surface and curling into a ball.
And now that I’m down, I cry. I cry so hard, I can’t catch my breath.
But that’s because I do it on the inside.
Silent. I trap every morsel of sound inside my chest, because I refuse to allow my pain to become Jeremy’s pain.
I want Maggie.
“It’s gonna be okay.” Rose drags the visitor chair closer and peels my phone from my burned hand, powering it down so we don’t have to listen while my past actively haunts me.
She presents a cold pack, already covered in paper towel, and lays it over my aching hand.
“You’re way too accustomed to hurting alone.
” She strokes my hair, something no woman has done since before my eighth birthday, and slides the tip of her finger along the bridge of my nose.
Besides Jeremy, no one has done that for me since before my dad died.
“I was so judgmental of Billy when I first came back to town,” I whimper. “It felt like Jeremy was always getting hurt and never properly supervised.”
“And then he went and got hurt tonight,” she sighs. “While under your supervision.”
I try so hard to clamp my jaw shut. Anything to stop the quivering. Anything to save me from how it trembles.
“He’s a normal little boy. He’s energetic and silly and adventurous. These are the things little boys do.”
“I should’ve watched him better,” I choke out. “I was so focused on me and Billy, I wasn’t paying attention to the most important thing of all.”
“It’s ok—”
“I’ve become just like the person I moved here to escape,” I sob.
“Single, bitter, working at a diner, and more interested in my love life than I am with the kid who deserves my attention.” I bury my face in the starchy pillowcase and pray it’s enough to stifle the sounds of my sorrow. “He deserves better.”