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Hannah: Mom that bad?
Michael: She hasn’t left me alone. I don’t think I’ve had a moment off in the last week.
Hannah: I hate to be that guy, but I told you so.
Hannah: Mom makes a dictator seem tolerable.
Michael: Ha Ha. Very funny.
Michael: But really, when are you coming home?
My stomach drops. Is it wrong of me to enjoy the solitude LA has offered me? The break from my overbearing mother and her team constantly worried about what I say or wear?
I ate ice cream last night. Fucking ice cream for the first time in years because no one was around to stop me. Should I have? I don’t know. It came from a less than desirable cornerstore on the way to my house, so God only knows what someone could have done with it, but dammit, I ate the whole container because no one was around to chastise me with their cruel words disguised as polite reminders for me to watch my weight.
I’ve been the same size since high school. I’ve eaten the fish and the bland chicken put on my plate for years, because God forbid Hannah eat something that has a little more flavor than soggy cardboard. I’ve worn the same, subtle makeup since Mom moved us to this Godforsaken state and I’ve never eventhoughtabout wearing anything too revealing.
I’ve been the poster child for political finishing school and have nothing to show for it but a face that many mistake as the woman involved in a sex trafficking ring and a mother in office who’s jammed economics and polls down my throat for four years.
If I was smart, I’d just move. To Greenland, or somewhere the sun doesn’t try to cook you alive for walking down the sidewalk. Somewhere no one would know my name or my face and all the atrocities its mirror is rumored to have partaken in.
Michael: I miss you.
Sighing as the guilt washes over me, I type out an apology. Erase it. Type out anI know. Erase that, too.
What do I say? I don’t miss you as much as you miss me? That’s a great thing to say to your childhood best friend.
Hannah: I’ll be home soon.
Michael: Good. Save me from your mother.
Hannah: Again, I hate to be that guy, but I told you so.
Michael: Her schedule is stricter than a queen’s.
I chuckle. Ever since Mom hired Michael early this year to be her assistant, she’s been running him ragged.
Hannah: Hell hath no fury like a woman in an Armani pantsuit.
I’m still laughing at my text when the door to the garage opens and I nearly launch my phone into the abyss in fright.
Mason will totally fire me if he sees me texting.
Only, the face at the door is not the scowling one of my employer.
The man chuckles, a dimple giving way on his cheek. “Don’t worry,” he says quietly, shutting the door behind him like he’s not supposed to be here. “I won’t rat you out.”
He’s young. Probably around my age. He’s cute, though he’s about a head shorter than Mason and his prickly hair reminds me of Michael and how much I really do miss him. That’s what we used to call a buzzcut when we were younger and Michael’s mom kept shaving his head.
Glad we’re out of that phase.
“Sorry,” I blush, sliding my phone back under the top of the counter. I tidy the stack of papers in front of me, realize my mistake and quickly fuck them up again because I remember Mason likes his trash organizedhisway. “Just checking to make sure there were no emergencies back home.”
He waves it off and holds out his hand, wincing when he sees his fingers are stained with dirt and grease from working in the shop.
I roll my eyes, taking it anyway and shaking his hand. I mean, has heseenthe office I’m “working” in?
“Ian,” he greets, dropping my hand and using the same one to lift his shirt to wipe the sweat off his forehead.
