“You don’t even know me,” I replied, though I contemplated his offer. I wanted to avoid the high school chat with Lance and Decker until I felt more settled. Our temporary truce might last for the day, but I didn’t know what would happen next. And despite all this, the truth was still bubbling within me like molten lava, threatening to spill over and destroy everything in its path. “Just for the night?” I asked, giving in with a grimace.
“For the next twenty-four hours,” he negotiated, and his hot air feathered down my neck as he spoke. I wasn’t sure why he cared so much or why I felt the need to give in to this complete stranger.
“Fine,” I began with a slow and steady exhale. “She liked pancakes because they were cheap and easy to make. That week, when we ate nothing but pancakes? It wasn’t because she loved breakfast food and syrup. It was because we had fourteen dollars in the bank and she needed a new dress for her date with a local hotshot lawyer. If I never eat another pancake in my life, it’ll be too soon,” I admitted.
Decker leaned closer; I could feel his stubble on my cheek. A shiver traveled up my spine, and I felt my bones grow weak. My reaction to him confused me. “Good girl,” he whispered before snapping back and walking out of the room. I watched Decker’s back as he walked, my mouth gaping open at the complete twist in our dynamic. One second he was pulling at my truth like it was a rotten tooth, the next he was strolling out of my new bedroom as if nothing had happened.
But my mind was still lingering on his whispered praise. “Good girl,” he’d said.
For some fucked up reason, I wanted to hear him say it again.
3
Blakely
The next few days all started the same. I woke up in a plush bed, wondering where the hell I was and why I felt…safe. It always took a few moments to remember that I moved to Memphis. Every morning, I was greeted with the smell of butter, sugar, and syrup. I hated it. I hated that I couldn’t tell him how much I loathed pancakes. I hated that we had such vastly different childhoods that he didn’t share the same experience as I did.
But despite these differences, there were some similarities too. Lance liked to hum while he cooked, just like Mama. He drowned his pancakes in syrup like her too. He also clutched his napkin in his fist as he ate just like her.
It was weird to have a routine of sorts. Ever since Mama died, my life had been a sequence of upheavals. It was nice to wake up and know what to expect.
Lance cooking for me was a thoughtful gesture. I half expected him to give up by day three, but he was persistent. I knew that he was clinging to what little information I shared, and somehow, pancakes had become our metaphorical olive branch as we learned about one another. Even though I hated the flapjacks and everything they represented, I found myself choking them down while giving him little pieces of Mama’s story. There was something about Lance that made me want to make him smile, and despite my better judgment, I was starting to trust that his actions and words were genuine.
He also stayed true to his word on asking for details about Mama. He’d hand me a breakfast plate and sit there expectantly, waiting like an eager child for candy. I liked that there was some trade-off for our living situation. I would have felt awful to stay in his apartment, eat his food, and enjoy his comforting easiness if I didn’t feel like I was giving him anything in return. It was one of those fears I had, worrying I’d end up as selfish and greedy as she was. These little snippets of her life were like a rare form of currency, and I was quickly running out of spending money. I didn’t have a lot of good memories to share, and what little I did have, I had to tweak to fit the narrative Lance craved. He knew my past, had spoken with my social worker, but he wanted to see the good in people—in Mama.
Monday, I told him that Mama liked to go to the local carnival every summer. If I closed my eyes real tight, I could still smell the funnel cakes she’d bring home. He admitted to never actually going to one. Both his adoptive parents were high-profile surgeons and took precautions with Lance’s safety, which surprised me. He seemed so…free-spirited. He proceeded to research all the carnivals around Memphis and made plans for us to go to a couple. His enthusiasm and excitement were infectious. Lance was like a golden retriever, eager to please.
Tuesday, I told him Mama smelled like roses. Naturally, Lance went to the store and bought dozens of them and placed the bouquets around the apartment. Now their stench filled my every inhale. It was like everywhere I went, I was breathing in her memory. It felt like their thorned stems were growing up my throat, making it difficult to breathe. But Lance seemed happy, and for some reason I didn’t question, that was enough for me.
Wednesday, I told him that Mama had a few jobs but wanted to be a makeup artist. Thankfully, he didn’t insist that I go to cosmetology school, though he asked about her other jobs. I didn’t go too much into detail. I didn’t think he’d want to know that a majority of her income came from whatever wealthy, married man she was fucking that month. Mama used to talk down about women that were prostitutes, but she wasn’t any better.
For the rest of the week, that’s how it went. I’d say something about Mama, and he’d do everything in his power to bring her back to life. I didn’t have the heart to tell him that I was struggling to keep her dead in the ground. Every half-truth I spoke made her harder to avoid. It was like she was breathing down my neck.
When she was alive, Mama made everything about her. Every conversation was about who she was dating, what she was wearing, or what yoga pose she’d just mastered. It was like I was her personal sounding board to boost her superiority complex. She didn’t care about what was going on in my life, only that I fulfilled my duty as the supporting actress in her starring role. It was exhausting, and even now, with her gone, I was still in her shadow. Part of me wanted to build a relationship with Lance, but he was so focused on her, he barely knew me. Not that I was going out of my way to correct him. I held my own truths tightly to my chest, too scared to trust anyone to part with them.
This morning, when I walked into the kitchen, I was surprised to find Decker at the stovetop instead of Lance. He’d been mostly absent all week, gearing up for the new school year with meetings and training seminars. I told myself that I was only learning his habits and routine to be a courteous roommate, but that was a bold-faced lie. If he was in the room, my eyes were on him. I just couldn’t figure out why. At least he hadn’t given me any more talks about how I wasn’t welcome.
“Where’s Lance?” I asked before sitting down at the kitchen island and grabbing a crunchy piece of bacon. I moaned once the taste hit my tongue, thankful that I wouldn’t have to choke down anymore pancakes swimming in syrup. Part of me wondered if Decker remembered how much pancakes reminded me of Mama, but I extinguished that thought quickly.
“The hotel’s construction crew hit a snag yesterday, and now the structural integrity is compromised. Lance was called in early this morning to reevaluate the design and asked me to keep you company this morning.” He cracked an egg and poured the yolk into a frying pan as I mulled over his words. Keep me company sounded more like babysitting. Lance took all week off from work, saying he wanted to help me transition here, but something told me he was scared I’d bolt. The fact that he asked Decker to spend the day with me supported that hypothesis. Though I had a feeling that Decker had no problem keeping an eye on me. He probably wanted to make sure I didn’t steal the flat screen in the living room and pawn it off.