“And if that had been me in that bed and my husband with Celine?”
I swallow hard. “Then I’d be done with her.”
“Exactly.”
“I’m sorry to hear she’s having a tough time, but . . .”
“But . . .” repeats Briar.
“Exactly,” I say as I nestle deeper into my old bed. The only real sign of my personality in this room is the old My Chemical Romance poster on the back of the door. I’m kind of surprised it’s still there. Because otherwise, this house has always been very much my mother’s domain. A pale pink feature wall and a white bedspread with small embroidered pink roses. It’s a room fit for a princess. I hate pink. Mom let me redecorate when I was ten or eleven or so. Right before I hit the tween years and got myself a personality that wasn’t I Love Ponies. Any attempt to update the color scheme in the past almost twenty years has been stonewalled. And as accommodating and above-and-beyond-the-call-of-duty helpful my mom has been, I need to get out of here. I need to figure out who I am now. Away from Ryan and away from the color pink. Away from the baggage of my childhood or people who think they know who I am and how I should be.
Which is what I tell Briar. “As much as I’d love to come visit you, I can’t move far away yet because of all the medical appointments. But I do need my own space.”
“So get your ass into gear and start looking.”
“Yes.” I smile. “I believe I will.”
“You’re really not going to let me take you, are you?” asks Mom, sitting on the edge of the sofa with her legs neatly crossed at the ankles. It’s her queen pose. Very regal and self-assured. I wish I had her poise. I think I used to. But now, most of the time I feel like I’m stumbling from one disaster to the next. Leif would probably tell me to embrace the journey, or something like that. And today I am taking a step in the forward direction, which is great. Two weeks’ worth of legal appointments and apartment hunting have led to this moment. To a chance of some independence from both Ryan and my parents. I am an adult, dammit. I can do this.
“I feel like I need to do this by myself,” I answer.
“I still think it’s too soon.”
“I disagree. It’ll be fine.”
“If you say so.”
And I mean it. It’ll be fine because I have a plan. Everything I do takes a bit more effort and organization these days. A bit more time to get ready and get sorted. However, I’m up to the challenge. Hell yes I am.
My cell chimes with a text.
Leif: Talk to me.
Me: Greetings. How are you?
Leif: Talk to me as if I’m someone you actually know and like.
Me: That was me being nice. This is a trap. Whatever I say you’re going to give me trouble.
Leif: Of course I am. You went silent on me again for two damn weeks.
“Is everything alright?” asks Mom.
“Ah, yes. Just a friend.” I frown even harder, because what the hell do I say to him? He kind of has a point. I have a bad habit of going into hiding when things go wrong. And because I’m me and this is my life, things tend to go wrong often.
Leif: Open the door.
Me: What?
Which is when someone knocks at the door and huh. How about that? Mom smothers a brief smile, and what is going on here? The woman is neither surprised that we have a guest nor making a move to answer said door. I sense a setup. A bizarre one.
When I open it, Leif is standing there all ridiculously hot and happy with himself. Is it any wonder I did the wrong thing and kissed him? I’m not used to being around beautiful sunshine-y people. Wild men with long hair and ink who keep smiling at me and giving me chances when I mess up. They’re an adventure all their own. I don’t know how to act. I don’t know how to be just his friend. Invasive naked thoughts keep taking over. I feel like a complete asshole for objectifying him all of the time, when I know good and well that there’s so much more to him than how he looks. But here we are. Shame on me.
He waltzes right past me and says, “Hey, Denise. Nice to see you again.”
“Leif.” Mom gives him a polite nod and smile. “Welcome to our home.”
He nods and looks around. The beige color scheme does not impress, according to his expression. Same goes for the collection of golfing trophies on the mantel. Which is where Dad is, at golf. I don’t know why he doesn’t just move to the course.
Leif is the last person who should be judging Mom’s suburban castle. Any bet his condo is still rocking the blank-white-wall look.
Mom fetches her purse from the side table. “I have a thing at the church.”
“So you didn’t want to take me after all,” I say.
Her smile is brief. “I knew you wouldn’t let me. That’s why I asked Leif.”
“You and Leif talk?” I ask, tone somewhat incredulous.
“Sure,” he says, leaning against the living room doorway. “Denise and I are old pals.”
“Less use of the word old, thank you,” reprimands my mother.
“Sorry.” He crosses his arms. “We’re house shopping, huh?”
“Looking at apartments to rent.”
A nod. “Don’t worry, I borrowed Clem’s SUV. You won’t have to try to hop on the back of my bike in your pretty dress.”
It’s a simple green maxi dress with a cream cardigan and matching sandals. I’d like to think it says responsible adult who pays her own bills and won’t trash your property, but it probably just says I couldn’t be bothered with pants. Such is life. He’s wearing an old The Clash tee, black jeans, and sneakers. His hair is tied back into a man bun that my fingers itch to tousle. There it is again. The bad and wrong thoughts. All of this makes me wonder when I started feeling so distinctly unattached. So single. It’s weird.
When I woke up from the coma, Ryan’s was the first face I wanted to see. I know that much. But when the truth of what he’d been up to came out, followed by all of his excuses, which were then superseded by his attempts to gaslight me, things changed. Dramatically. Guess my love for him was conditional after all. Conditional upon him not treating me like shit. Though inconvenient thoughts of my new male friend does not mean that I’m ready to start dating or actually attempt a relationship with someone. The whole idea just freaks me out. I need time to grieve the end of the relationship. A chance to pull myself together and figure out where all of this leaves me.
So first up, I shall go seeking domestic independence in the form of an apartment.
“Best of luck, sweetheart,” says Mom, waiting to lock the front door. She sure is in a rush. Also, she’s wearing a rather dapper black pantsuit with a fancy lace camisole underneath. Curiouser and curiouser.
“You’re going to a church thing?” I ask.
She nods.
“I’ll see you later then.”
“Yes.” And she’s gone. Huh.
Leif and I head toward a black Jeep waiting in the driveway. Like a gentleman, he opens the passenger-side door for me. Someone raised him right.
“How about that gleam in Denise’s eye,” he whispers as I climb into the vehicle. “Your mom is totally going for a hookup with your dad at some fancy hotel in town.”