5. Jenna
Chapter five
Jenna
I’m already cutting it close. My flight for Grangewood Creek leaves in less than an hour, and of course I fumble with my keys in front of my apartment door.
Why is it always this difficult to find the hole when you have somewhere to be?
I sigh a heavy breath when I manage to crack the door open, slamming it shut once I’m completely inside.
Thankfully, I prepacked everything I needed to take with me for my best friend’s wedding, so all I have to do is take off this guy’s shirt, slip into some comfy travel clothes, collect my overnight bag, charger, and toothbrush, and leave.
Slipping my heels off, I groan at the relief. Barely walking two footsteps along my hardwood floor, I know something is off.
I smell her before I see her.
My body stiffens at the familiar scent of rosemary, musk, wine, and cigarette. I don’t think I’ve ever hated myself more than I do at this moment. Not only is my mom somewhere inside my apartment without my knowledge, I’m also wearing nothing but a button-less shirt that belonged to a man whose name I never got.
A man I’ll never see again.
I can’t tell her that, though, because while she’s allowed to have all the one-night stands she wants, God forbid a man wants anything like that from me.
“Men don’t want to use women for their bodies when their bodies look like yours,” she’d said to me once, scrunching her nose up while very obviously looking me up and down. She was drunk out of her mind, but it’s no excuse—I know that now.
She had no recollection of it the next day—conveniently—and never mentioned it to me again, but it’s something I’ll always remember. She says a lot of things to me I’ll never forget. A lot of things that no one should hear from the woman who was supposed to love them unconditionally.
It doesn’t help that his shirt on me is snug, and not at all over-sized like you’d see in the movies.
It may have looked sexy on Angelina Jolie, but not me. Not right now, anyway. I felt like it might’ve twenty minutes ago when I had surfer dudes eyeing me off as I walked past them awkwardly, clutching the shirt over my chest while attempting to cover my breasts for dear life.
“You’re home,” my mom says to me, her voice low and raspy. Evidence of too much wine and multiple packets of cigarettes. Her big night is obvious from the messy blonde hair on top of her head, to her chipped, but painted toe nails.
“Why are you here?” I ask, my voice a gentle whisper to match her tone and not at all accusatory. I scold her internally, though, because I’ve never been brave enough to do it to her face. “And how did you get inside?” I ask, pushing past the frame of her tiny body to get to my bedroom, where a man rests face down in my brand new, freshly washed sheets.
Sheets I now have to burn.
I would say I’m surprised, but it happens a lot more than I care to admit.
She’ll never leave the trailer park, but will happily crash here whenever she realizes I’m not home.
“He’s a nice man. This was our first date.” She shrugs with an uncomfortable smile. “We needed a place to stay, so I told him this was my apartment.” She walks to my kitchen to fetch herself a glass of water before pulling a cigarette out of my black robe that swims on her tiny figure.
A cigarette I know for a fact wasn’t there when I left last night. She lights it up with no regard for me, or if I allow it in my home. But I say nothing, because I know when to pick my battles.
And telling Becky Rogers that she isn’t allowed to do something in a home that doesn’t belong to her will end in a tantrum, and I can’t afford to miss my flight.
“How did you get inside?” I ask again, rummaging through my wardrobe for an outfit, not at all caring if I wake the man my mom somehow convinced to sleep with her.
His snoring echoes around my room, and I know nothing could wake him at this point.
I pull out a pair of black, bike shorts and an oversized t-shirt—much to my mother’s obvious dismay—and I throw my torn dress onto the edge of my bed to discard later.
“The better question, Jenna, is why you’re dressed like that?” Her eyes wander down my body, from the matted strands on top of my head, to my freshly manicured toes.
At least I have one up on her.
“And what the hell happened to your dress?” She picks it up between her fingertips as if the damage is a direct attack on her.
It’s impossible to miss the look of disgust on her face, but I try to ignore it. I’ve always tried to. I’d like to say I’ve gotten better at it over time, but that would be a total lie.
No matter how often I tell myself that I don’t care what she thinks of me, I think I always will. I’ll always seek her approval, and right now, I don’t have it.
“It’s not a big deal,” I tell her through gritted teeth.
The white shirt sits closer to my knee than it did while I was making my way home, but that’s only because I’ve pulled at the hem and slightly slouched my shoulders.
She always tells me off for wearing dresses that are too tight, or if they sit above my knee. She likes to remind me that ‘men don’t need to see every lump and bump, and they certainly don’t need to see dimples in any place other than your cheeks or your lower back.’ She seems to forget that almost every person on the face of the planet does, in fact, have cellulite.
“Please don’t tell me you walked through the streets of California looking like that, Jenna. You look like a mess.” She sips her water to wash down the distaste my appearance clearly leaves in her mouth, and I roll my eyes.
“Are you done?” I ask, shaking my head in frustration. I’m used to the berating. I’m used to the comments on my figure. I’m used to her disapproving of my life choices.
Though I’m not used to how it makes me feel.
Thirty years of the same shit, and it still feels as raw as the first time she ever said something hurtful to me.
“I wasn’t planning on telling you anything, Mom. You shouldn’t even be here. How I choose to live my life shouldn’t concern you,” I say with a sigh, my voice slightly raised. She shushes me loudly as she hurries to close my bedroom door. Her eyes dart frantically between me and the man who lays limp, no doubt without any form of underwear as a barrier between his junk and my expensive linen.
“Are you going to tell me where you were all night? I was worried sick.”
“He’s out cold, Mom. You don’t have to pretend you like care, and I don’t have time to sit and justify my actions to you. I have Cassandra’s wedding today. I have to catch a flight in…” I check my phone. “Now.” I hurry to collect my purse, shoving the spare phone charger from my kitchen counter into my suitcase before zipping it shut and standing it up on its wheels.
“Which one is Cassandra again?” She asks, though I know she doesn’t really care for whatever my response is going to be. She’s making small talk to delay me in the hopes I miss my flight.
“You’ve met her a handful of times, Mom.” I pinch the bridge of my nose. I preferred to keep my friends’ interactions with my mom to an absolute minimum.
Checking my purse one last time, I make sure I have everything I need. My suitcase is packed to the brim with hair and makeup products, comfortable shoes, clothes for sleeping and my flight home.
My maid of honor dress is already in Grangewood Creek with Cassandra’s sisters. My shoes arrived there this week. “I’m meeting Tahnee at the airport, Mom. I really have to go.” I grab the handle of my suitcase and start to wheel it out.
“OK, now I know you’re making this up. First Caitlin and now Tansey? At least pick believable names.” She rolls her eyes, slumping down onto my no longer neat couch, collecting the remote from the space beside her.
Ever since I was in high school, she could never remember the names of the friends that I’d made. The only name she ever remembered was my high school boyfriend, Harrison, and that was only because she was screwing his dad, in turn, ending his marriage.
It was also the reason Harrison and I broke up.
“He mustn’t have really been into you if something so small could have made him break it off,” she’d said to me, while I sobbed into my musky, old pillow, trying to come to terms with my first ever heartbreak. She’d said it so casually, too, as if having an affair was just some minor detail that everyone needed to forget about and move past. Like it was something she would do on a day-to-day basis.
If I weren’t running late, I would storm into my bedroom and take a peek at the man’s ring finger, but I really have to go.
“Bye, Mom. Please, for the love of…anyone other than yourself, put my key on the counter when you leave. I can’t have you just showing up unannounced, and random men in my bed,” I tell her, wheeling my suitcase behind me when I hear her mutter something under her breath that sounds exactly like, “This is the thanks I get for raising you.” She crosses her arms over her chest, watching me walk out the door.
“Don’t be here when I get back,” I shout as the door slams, echoing in the hallway of the apartment building.
My phone vibrates in my purse and I fish it out, seeing Tahnees’ face and name light up my screen.
“I’m on my way,” I quickly tell her by way of a greeting, and hang up on her before she can say a single word.