Chapter 8 #2
“I’m not closed off!” If Mika were here, I’d playfully smack her arm, and she’d probably shove me into the corner of this bench and tickle me right back.
“Not with the people you love,” she agrees. “Which is me and…okay, just me.”
The wind whips a strand of hair out of my neat bun, and I tuck it back behind my ear.
“You have a version of yourself that you give to the rest of the world. The friendly, cheerful, surface-level Bellatrix. I get the real Belly,” Mika says.
“You’re the only one who can call me Belly, that’s for sure.”
“Don’t be dismissive. It’s okay. We all do it.
I’m honored to be your person. I love you exactly the way you are.
But I do think someone needs to tell you that it’s okay to be loud and awesome and take up space in the world as you and not the tidy, fitting into neat little boxes you that your parents and clients want. ”
“My clients just want a confident person to tell them that their wedding isn’t going to get all messed up. But fair enough. I have no disagreement when it comes to my family.” Mika has met my parents several times, and she’s heard enough from me over the years for her opinion to be accurate.
“Anyway, if you find something cool during picking, you should get it and put it in your place. Do the wallpaper you’ve been wanting.
I’ll come over, and we’ll paint! We’ll put together bookshelves so you can look like you live in a library.
All those paintings you’ve been storing in your pantry because you’re scared to put holes in the walls?
And the creepy things you want to display but can’t because your mom thinks they will legit eat your soul?
Pah, let’s do it. Let’s remake your place over! I bet if I asked my dad, he’d help.”
“No! I…well, the place maybe. I’ll have to think about it,” I mutter.
“Or you could just go for it because it’s your place, and you’re the one who bought and paid for it.”
“My parents gave me the down payment. They wanted it to be an investment.”
“Tell them we’ll paint all the weird colors back over and drywall over all the holes when you want to sell. That might not be for years. In the meantime, your place should be yours.”
It’s a hard decision. A big part of me knows she’s right, and I resent the iron fist of control my parents still have over my life, even if it’s just one word or one sentence or their voice banging around in my head when it shouldn’t.
The other part has been broken and tamed, and it just doesn’t want to deal with the shitstorm my mom would create if she walked into my place and saw it as anything less than a duplicate version of our sterilized family home.
At least Mika has dropped the whole seduction-of-her-dad line of reasoning.
“So, about my dad…”
Damn it.
“If you find a farm with tons of junk, it will probably be old people owned. They’ll want to have tea with you after, and they’ll feed you dust cookies.”
I laugh. “If you mean fresh gingersnaps, then you’re probably right.”
There’s a second group of guys getting onto the green that are already shoving and roughhousing with each other and dropping all sorts of interesting variations of curse words.
“Nah, they’re probably those cookies from the tin that everyone hates.”
“Sigh,” I say again, just to drive her nuts, but Mika only laughs.
“I’m just about done with my lunch break. Cat Sue is peeking around the corner and gesturing at me madly while trying not to interrupt my conversation.”
I love Mika’s nickname for her boss. It’s really Cathleen Susan. She’s the one who started the Cat thing, seeing as she’s feline-crazy.
“No worries. See you soon?” Between work hours, it’s not always easy to coordinate, especially when mine often run into overtime and every Saturday ever.
“You know it.”
I tuck my phone back into my bag and pull out my apple. I ate a late breakfast before driving out, so this will be enough to get me through the rest of the day.
Yet another big golf group is pulling up, with two teenagers who challenge each other to a swordfight with their golf clubs.
Hmm. I love the barn, but I should probably check the golf course hours. The last thing someone needs is to get whacked with an errant ball or hear very loud talk about balls and the inventive and repeated use of the word fuck.
I’m good with balls and fuck, but some of my clients won’t like it, and it’s the little things that can ruin a wedding.
Then again, if I get shot for trespassing in the next hour as I drive all willy-nilly down the backroads trying to find someplace that looks both old and inviting, I might not need to worry about that.
It blows my mind that people approach other people’s yards like that for a living, but then, that’s probably what some folks would say about my job. Weddings and technical fussy details aren’t for everyone.
I do have to get back for a meeting with a prospective client this afternoon, so I shoot up from the bench and take my apple to go.
If I’m going to get shot at, I suppose it’s best to get it done and over with.