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I didn’t know I’d started changing, trying to fit in until one day when I looked in the mirror and couldn’t recognize the woman staring back at me. Oh, and Keating practically knocking me over the head asking me where the hell I’ve been. I struggled to remember the last comic-con or cosplay convention I attended or even the last happy hour where I was genuinely happy.
When the last one I remembered was during my days with Jazzy, I decided it was time to come home. I resigned and packed my bags the next day. Escondido Bay and its residents may not be sophisticated, can be downright intrusive as small towns are, but they never made me feel like I had to live in someone else’s skin to get through the day.
My exit sign comes sooner than I expect, cutting my reflection time down to five more minutes. I drive through the town center, practicing my breathing and doing my best to empty my mind of all distractions. I turn off the air conditioner and roll down my windows to wave and say hello to Mrs. Martin who is out for her mid-morning walk with her six German shepherds. While exchanging pleasantries, a box truck from Pam and Sons passes us by. Jackson, one of Pam’s sons, is behind the wheel, but he doesn’t stop. I excuse his unusual behavior as him being in a rush. Maybe he’s got a date with his girlfriend, Angela.
By the time I turn into my development, I’ve greeted Mr. Ansel, the organic grocer, the dance instructor twins, Lindsey and Amelia Buthe, and what feels like half the town. Funny enough, all that talking refreshes me.
I pull up to my house, unable to park my car in the garage. Blocking my entrance are a red Dodge Challenger Hellcat, a fuchsia Harley Davidson Tri Glide, and a luxurious black F-150 King Ranch I haven’t seen in Escondido Bay before today. As soon as I step out of my car and free Jackpot, Glamma Onyx and G-mama Laila rush out my front door. My cat darts inside the house behind them, but they don’t notice as they’ve been whispering furiously to each other since they crossed the threshold.
From this distance, I can’t tell if they are having their usual bickering contest or if they’ve found common ground and are getting their stories straight. I have no illusions. If they’re colluding, I’m at the center and I almost always lose.
Although baddies in their own right, the two women couldn’t be any different. Glamma Onyx wears skin-tight jeans that hold and emphasize her abundant curves, a revealing shirt that exposes her lace push-up bra and half of her breasts almost to her areola, and a lethal pair of stiletto boots that most young women, including myself, would break a leg while wearing. G-mama Laila on the other hand, is all leather, lace, chains, and tattoos. Somehow, she makes the hard aesthetic sexy at her age. Coupled with silver dreads fresh from the hairdresser and makeup to envy any professional, there isn’t a woman in town, Hollywood, or fashion magazines that outshines her.
“Baby girl, I hope you didn’t rush home because of my little text.” Glamma Onyx opens her arms to hug me.
From habit, I accept her welcome. I may be grown and can run my life, but there are some things in life that have no substitutes. And a hug from Glamma and G-mama tops the list. They may be fashionista fabulous every day of the week, but their hugs are fresh-baked cinnamon rolls oozing sweet icing. Glamma squeezes me close, and almost everything melts away in her welcoming embrace.
“What else did you expect?” G-mama interrupts the few precious seconds of mental peace I achieved to remind me why we are standing in front of my house. “You listed her bungalow without telling her, booked a tenant for a year—”
“A year?” I ask, staring in disbelief at Glamma who feigns innocence by studying her nails.
“—and already moved him in,” G-mama finishes as if she hadn’t heard me. She takes advantage of my empty arms and pulls me in for a hug.
If not for the recent shock to my system with her revelations, I could determine if a war is about to break out, but I’m still stuck on the hits I’ve just taken. Not even her signature hug distracts me from my worries.
“He’s here? Right now? In my house?”
“Not your house, the bungalow.” Onyx hooks her arm around my elbow and guides me into the house.
“Which she owns, thanks to my son’s will,” G-mama points out.
It’s a sore spot for Glamma. I’ve never understood their incessant need to outdo each other when it comes to my parents. Neither my mom nor dad can preen at the competitive compliments anymore.
My mother left me the money to pursue my dreams in her will. I never had a favorite parent, each had their strengths, so why would I have a favorite grandmother? They, obviously prefer to disagree about everything. According to my parents, they’ve been one-upping each other since before I was in the womb. They haven’t stopped and I don’t know if there is a power on this earth that can make them.
“I don’t understand. When did all this start?” I let Glamma maneuver me around the boxes I have yet to unpack in my living room.
“Last month when you moved back. One thing about the old bat, she didn’t give the place to the first yahoo who applied. This guy seems decent enough.” G-mama settles into a free chair and rests her feet on top of one of the many boxes in the room.
“You’ve met him? Together? And he’s decided to stay? How did your constant fighting not scare him off?”
“Stop being hyperbolic. Not seeing eye to eye on almost every issue isn’t fighting. Laila and I have healthy debates.”
“Debates that turn into fighting,” I insist. “How many times have I had to pick you up from Sheriff Preston’s office? You’re lucky you two are literally woven into the fabric of this town. Otherwise, he’d have all of Escondido Bay at his doorstep protesting your wrongful imprisonment when he would have been one hundred percent justified in bringing up charges,” I remind them.
G-mama points her finger at me. “Don’t you go over there being disloyal. Besides, we’ve learned our lesson. Ever since the disaster in the fall of 2011, we’ve been model citizens.”
“Absolutely,” Glamma agrees. “No fight was worth pushing you away and forcing you to seek refuge at the ends of the earth—”
I lean my head against the headrest and cover my eyes, allowing my fatigue to show. 2011 was the year I graduated high school and moved out of state to pursue my dreams of becoming an animator. “Rhode Island is not the end of the earth. You don’t even have to cross an ocean to get there.”
“—Surrounded by the wilderness, separated by bridges on the verge of collapsing and burying me in a watery grave when I have more men to sedu—I mean more living to do.“
“OMG, Glamma! Providence is the capital city of Rhode Island, not some remote island without wi-fi.”
“Local heathens, the lot of them. And without an ounce of culture to their names,” Laila adds.
“G-mama, riding motorcycles and collecting tattoos at your age isn’t the only culture that exists.”
