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Just when I thought she was done, she added, “And you need to eat. You look…Biafran!”
I snorted. I couldn’t help it. She was just so cute when she was mad.
“Mom,” I started, holding my hands up and trying not to laugh. Looking left and right to make sure my dad wasn’t in earshot, I said, “I’ve just been coming home in the middle of the night because I keep falling asleep on Ken’s couch.”
“Well, you need to just stay there if you’re sleepy. It’s not safe to be on the roads with all the drunks and cops out that late.”
“I did. Last night.”
“Well…okay then.”
“Okay.”
“Fine.”
I braced myself for yet another lecture about condoms, but instead, my mom blew out a sigh of relief and plopped down onto the opposite barstool.
“So…” She smiled, propping her freckled chin on her hand, leathery from years spent working with clay and paint. “Ken. He’s the one who was helping you study for your art history class, right? What’s he like?”
I laughed. “He’s…I don’t know. He’s not my type. Like, at all.”
“That’s good.” My mom smiled, exhaustion weighing heavy on her eyelids. “Your type sucks.”
We both cracked up, prompting my father to shout, “Keep it down in there, wenches!” from the living room. Our laughter was probably making it hard for him to fully absorb all the doom and gloom on CNN.
Muffling her giggles with her hand, my mom stood up to retrieve her coffee cup from the counter by the sink.
“You know, you can always just call me if you’re worried,” I said, standing, too.
My mom took a long sip from her mug. “I did.”
Pulling my cell phone out of my purse, I saw that I had not one, but three missed calls. “Oh shit. I must have left my purse downstairs all night. Sorry, Mom.”
She gave me a look I’d seen a thousand times before. It was a look that said, If it were legal, I would slap the shit out of you right now.
Slinking out of the kitchen with an apologetic grimace on my face, I turned and ran up the stairs to my childhood bedroom. My mom had redecorated it while I was living with Hans, pulling down all my posters and painting the whole thing a depressingly generic pastel blue. But worse than the color was the size. You couldn’t fit a Volkswagen in there, yet I had managed to cram all of my belongings plus all of the shit I’d stolen from Hans when we broke up into that tiny, shoebox-esque space. Pots and pans hung from the ceiling like suncatchers. Shower curtains and regular curtains and window blinds peeked out from under my bed. Forks, spoons, and knives shared a drawer with my unmentionables. And the remote control to Hans’s big screen TV sat on my bookshelf like a trophy.
If living with Hans had been hell, then living with my parents was purgatory.
Flopping onto my unmade bed, I lit a cigarette, leaned back against the headboard, and listened to my voicemails.
Saturday, February 15, 11:50 p.m.: “Beebeeee, it’s your mother. I’m just wondering when you’ll be home. Call me back. Love you.”
Sunday, February 16, 2:06 a.m.: “Yeah, I’ll leave a fuckin’ message.”
Knight’s clear, deep voice burst out of the phone like a sucker punch. I let out a smoky cough and sat up, my heart already racing from those six little words.
“My message is that you’re a scared little bitch who won’t answer the fuckin’—” The white noise of shouting and cursing and clanking beer bottles blurred together in the background. “I was leaving, cocksucker.” Knight’s voice sounded distant, as if he was talking to someone else. “Put your hand on me, motherfucker. I dare you. Put your motherfucking hand on me and see what happens.” Then, with a scuffle and grunt and a loud crunch, the line went dead.
I sat there in stunned silence, trying to convince my nervous system that I was safe when the next voicemail began to play.
Sunday, February 16, 7:42 a.m.: “BB, it’s your mother again. You need to come home right now. You’ve been out all night, and you never called me back. I’m worried sick about you. Okay? Okay, bye.”
I slowly lowered the phone to my lap, blinking at nothing as I tried to process the warring emotions inside me. My adoration for my mother gave way to my fear of Knight, which gave way to my outrage toward Knight, which circled back to remorse for the way I’d treated my mother, when a new, unexpected feeling bubbled to the surface—giddy, girlie excitement.
Punching nine numbers that I knew by heart, I held my breath and bounced in place as I waited for my BFF to pick up.
“Sup, B?”
