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I get up and brush off the black tee I’ve chosen for tonight. Mr. Skitters hasn’t been around, but there’s fur on it somehow.
We lock up the cottage and get in my squad. Marci hesitates less this time and gets in with more ease. The drive over is leisurely, and I roll down the windows to let in fresh air.
“Can I ask you something?”
“Depends on what it is,” she says.
“What happened to your mom? You never talk about it.”
Marci swallows and looks away.
“Fuck, forget it. Shouldn’t have asked.”
“It’s fine,” she says. “There are only a couple of people who know the real story. My mom left when we were little.”
I nod. That rumor’s gone around town plenty.
“But she left after she had Billy, a year after. She had… She had bad postpartum depression, that evolved into chronic depression, and she couldn’t do it. With Billy or with me. My Dad tried to get her help, but eventually, it was too much for her to take. She believed that she was bringing us down, that we would be better off without her, and she left.”
“I’m sorry, Marci,” I say.
“It’s in the past, and honestly, I don’t blame her. She felt like she couldn’t do a good job, and I remember how tough things were before she left. My parents were fighting a lot, and she barely spent time with me or even with Billy. She used to disappear for hours at a time. I was about ten when she left. And it hurt like hell, but I remember feeling weirdly… relieved. Like finally, we could be at peace. Of course, I felt super guilty about that, but my Dad was always there to listen. Always. He was the best.”
“I’m happy you had him,” I say. “That he could be there for you in ways that your mother couldn’t.”
“Yeah. It’s weird to open up about this.”
“Thanks for telling me about it.”
“Yeah. I trust you not to spread that information around. You might stick to the letter of the law and care what people think, and you annoy the crap out of me, and act high and mighty?—”
“I hope there’s an end to this sentence that’s positive.”
“But you’re loyal. And you’re committed to this fake thing we’ve got going on.”
“There it is,” I say.
“Besides, this is kind of my comfort zone. Weirdly enough.”
“What do you mean?”
“Apart from my dad and the girls,” I say, “my relationships have been transactional.”
“Uh…”
“Not like that, Taylor,” she snaps. “I’m saying that people always want something from me. My relationships are conditional. Exactly like this one.”
That pisses me off. I don’t want to think about why it pisses me off, but it does.
We fall into an easy silence for the rest of the drive over. I place my hand on her thigh because I can’t resist doing it. I want to feel her skin underneath my palm, and those shorts she’s always wearing drive me wild. If Marci wore a skirt, I might lose it completely.
She smiles and looks out the window.
“Still haven’t gotten your fill, huh, Taylor?”
“I’m starving for you, Angel,” I say.
We pull up outside Ganny’s house with its shiplap walls and memories and head inside together. My father smiles at us from the living room. He’s an older version of Cash, with gray hair and eyes that used to be kind but have hardened since Mom died.
