Chapter 10
Mari
@melovemuscleXXdaddiez: we need more training vidz ... can’t get enough of ur sweaty abs
I dry heave at the image sent alongside the message I’ve just opened and quite literally fly out of Kas’s DMs.
Note to self: Never look in an attractive man’s DMs.
New fans of Kas are eating up the topless training videos I’ve uploaded of him. With that comes unsolicited images from everyone with the audacity to send body parts I’d rather not see.
For every nude Kas receives, I make it my job to follow a hot fighter to cleanse my eyes.
“Have you finished looking at the nudes your client has received?” Quinn’s voice combined with the sound of the sun visor slapping the roof of the car makes me jump.
I snap my head to her, and she stares at the business phone in my lap while coyly fiddling with a silver cuff sitting snugly around one of her twists. She must’ve assumed that me picking her up from her summer job at Mel’s was an invitation to watch me do mine.
“I said you could go in without me because I’m finishing up some stuff,” I say, nodding to the front door of Auntie’s place.
At this stage, interacting with new fans is important. It’s also tedious work figuring out how to respond to them like Kas would. My replies are a lot of “thanks bros,” “appreciate its,” and thumbs up emojis. If I were to respond with Kas-level accuracy, I wouldn’t respond to comments at all.
And I would’ve deleted social media.
“Work ... riiight . You’re getting paid to look at cocks, balls, and boobs.”
“Incorrect. I’m getting paid to manage social media accounts. There just happens to be cocks, balls, and boobs.” Quinn rolls her eyes, the thickness of her lenses magnifying them a little. “It’s like when your dad decides to bring his homemade black cake to every family event. It’s disgusting, but it’s always going to be there.”
Quinn smirks and hops out of the car. “Boo, that’s the worst comparison I’ve ever heard. Cake, prunes, and rum? Yum-my .”
“Too much rum,” I say, scrunching my nose and following Quinn into Auntie’s house.
The entranceway welcomes us with the waning scent of meat that’s either been freshly cooked or reheated. I continue past the kitchen and into the living room of my childhood home. It’s filled to the brim with framed graduation photos and any award that Auntie’s children have achieved, from kindergarten graduations to diplomas.
“Hello, my gorgeous girl,” Auntie coos, hugging me tight.
“Hi, Auntie.”
Her silk bonnet brushes against the side of my face, and she plants a kiss in the same area before pulling away. I lean down to give my uncle a peck on his stubbled cheek, interrupting his dinner. He’s still dressed in his construction clothes, not long returned from work.
“Do we not exist to you, Quinn?” Auntie says to my cousin’s outstretched form on the other sofa. Quinn reluctantly rises and stalks across the room to embrace her parents. Auntie watches me sit down on her red leather sofa over Quinn’s shoulder. “You look tired, Mari.”
“Do I?” I respond.
Tired? I’m far from tired. I’ve been a freelance social media manager for three days and I’ve never had a routine that was so consistent. This new job has changed me for the better; I’m well-rested and completely invested in everything social media. I’m also doing a free training course whenever I take my breaks.
“I hope Mel isn’t overworking you. Is she being overworked, Quinn?”
“I wouldn’t know, she’s got a new job,” she replies without looking away from the TV.
Auntie kisses her teeth and turns to my uncle.
“See, she’s forgotten about me,” she says to him.
He shakes his head. “Mari’s a busy girl,” Unc mumbles, scraping up the last few grains of rice from his plate.
“I haven’t forgotten about you, I only started this week. I didn’t want to jinx anything,” I say. I shove my middle finger up at Quinn when Auntie looks away.
“Come, tell me about this job,” Auntie says.
She takes my uncle’s plate and beckons me into the kitchen. I follow the rhythmic shuffling noise of her fluffy slippers to the sink where she positions herself to wash some dishes.
I grab a cloth to assist her. “I’m a social media manager for a sportsman.”
“Mhm. What sport?” she asks.
“MMA. Mixed martial arts.”
“TJ likes that,” Auntie says, referring to one of my fifteen-year-old twin cousins.
“No, TJ likes boxing. Has he mentioned the name Kacper Paj?k at all?” I ask, curious to see if he’s entered the minds of other sports fans.
“No.”
Quinn must’ve heard Auntie’s reply because she snorts as she rounds the corner to the kitchen and heads to the refrigerator. “Mari’s got a big girl job now. She’s going to be living in Vegas for six weeks.”
“What?” Auntie presses her hand against her chest at Quinn’s words. “Vegas? Why? For what reason?”
“For his fight,” I clarify. “That’s the whole reason I got the job so soon.”
Auntie squints in confusion and the small beauty mark beneath her left eye disappears into her deep smile lines. “But you do social media for him? You can’t just text him instead of staying in Vegas?”
Quinn snickers into the refrigerator. Auntie has absolutely no idea what a social media manager is.
“No, my job isn’t messaging him. I ensure his public image is good and create content for his social media to get people interested.”
She nods slowly, still not grasping the dumbed-down concept of the job. “Does it pay well?”
“ Pretty well.”
Auntie does a little squeal and jogs up to me with open arms. “I’m so proud of you, Mari. See, Quinn, Mari can help you with a job after college.”
I relax in her hold as she rubs my back up and down with a comforting roughness.
“I’m literally majoring in computer science,” Quinn mutters, grabbing a can of Coke from the refrigerator. “Just because we’re both required to use screens for our respective careers, it doesn’t mean we do the same job.”
“You’re always on your phone, it would be good if you could get paid for it too. Here, pass this to your father.” Auntie retreats back to the sink and fills a glass of water for Quinn to take to the living room. “How are you and Isaac?” Auntie asks.
Quinn freezes at the kitchen threshold.
“Great,” I say, more chipper than usual to compensate for the fact that in the past two days, I’ve resorted to sleeping on the sofa.
“Still no ring? Hm.”
“No ring, just focusing on my career right now.” Technically not a lie.
“At least you’re not separated. Seeing you crying on my sofa again would break my heart completely. Lord knows my lupus would flare.”
My heart drops at the mention of her chronic illness. Stress is a huge trigger for her and is something I don’t wish to contribute to.
“Yeah, we’re good.” I lie with confidence and accept a dish she’s washed.
Quinn’s body deflates and she disappears, leaving me trapped in a bubble of my lies.
“This job, wow,” Auntie muses as she scours me from top to bottom. “I’m so proud of you, baby.” I know what is coming next, I can feel her next words dancing on the tip of her tongue. “I can’t believe you’re my sister’s child.”
There it is.
The opportunity to voice disdain about my birth mother is never missed during these moments. It’s like the memories of her little sister are rekindled and riddled with contempt.
I press my lips together to prevent myself from speaking. Instead, I redirect my gaze to a small childhood photo of Auntie and Mom, no bigger than the palm of my hand. It’s discreetly nestled into the corner of a framed school photo of me that’s hanging on the kitchen wall.
“Why is it hard to believe?” I press, reaching up to rehome a dried plate.
“She was a lazy girl, constantly made stupid decisions, and never strived for anything. Her and your father.” She takes a couple of my braids into her hand and weaves them between her aged fingers. “You’re nothing like her. You do important jobs that you go to Vegas for.”
I draw my lower lip into my mouth, feigning indifference to my aunt’s description of my estranged mom. They say comparison is the thief of joy, and they’re right. It feels awful being compared to the woman who dropped little six-year-old me off at Auntie’s and never came back.
The memory swamps me. I remember her and my dad shooing me onto Auntie’s porch and driving away before she could even open the door.
My dad decided to show up in my life a couple of months before leaving with my mom, and the whole ordeal was traumatic: Did they hate me? Was I a bad child? Did my dad force my mom to leave me behind?
I’ve put a ton of pressure on myself trying to prove to Auntie that I’m the child she raised and nothing like my parents.
“Did you do these yourself?” Auntie continues, now distracted by my braids.
“No, Quinn did them.”
“I can tell.” She walks away and starts retrieving filled containers from the fridge. “I could’ve done your hair in time for your trip.”
I gaze at myself in the mirrored microwave door and then back at the small photograph of my mom before continuing to dry some cutlery.
Auntie hunches over her outdated countertop to dish up some leftovers for me to take home, something she always does when she has some food remaining from the community club she runs.
“It takes practically a whole day to do. When have you ever had a whole day free?”
“I would have found time, MarMar.”
She would not have found time unless she pulled an all-nighter to do it. When Quinn is at college, she still has three other children to look after in this house. If Auntie parents anything like she did when I was in school, she’s one hundred percent busy. Bake sale? She’s hosting. Bingo? She’s organizing.
The community club already takes up most of her time, and she’s been running it for almost twenty years. It’s her entire life, feeding people who struggle to provide themselves with warm, hearty meals. I’m too old to be concerning Auntie with things I should be able to handle as a competent adult.
Imagine dropping everything to raise your abandoned niece, only for her to turn out to be the “lazy girl, who constantly made stupid decisions and never strived for anything.” I’m stuck in a living situation with an ex that hates me, and I’m only able to get a job because of Violet’s advocacy. I don’t want her to see that I’m no different from my mom.
My skin turns clammy at the thought, and I blink away rapidly forming tears.
Auntie finishes packing up a bunch of the leftovers into a reusable bag and passes it to me. “Love you, baby,” she says, squeezing my arm as she flutters around the kitchen.
I hug the bag close to my chest and allow the chilled foods to cool my heated skin through my tank top.
“Love you more,” I reply. Her proud gaze lingers on me, and I smile back, though I’m unsure if it reaches my eyes.