“Dad did.”
“Yeah, of course. But do you really think she would let you move into an apartment on your own without her explicit approval of the place before you signed the lease? She hasn’t even asked to see pictures.”
“She just thinks I’m more fragile than you are.”
Mimi snorts. “Or maybe she just loves you more.”
“That’s not true.”
“Okay, this feels like telling you Santa Claus isn’t real all over again, but you know that’s a thing, right? Parents can’t love all their kids equally. It’s just not realistic.”
“And I’m the one who’s cranky?”
But her words make me uneasy because a part of me believes she might be right. I don’t know if my mother loves me more, but she pays more attention to me. She always has, and I’ve always tried not to notice.
The front door opens, and a few moments later my aunt walks into the kitchen, stretching an arm across the front of her body. She’s wearing a loose tank top, a sports bra, and running shorts, her skin damp with sweat. She waves as she heads to the cabinet to grab a glass.
“I’m talking to Mimi,” I say, and she smiles and has me hand the phone to her.
They chat easily and, not for the first time, I wish Mimi were coming home this summer. It will be strange without her, even with Carlene here to fill her space. I expected her to be a little homesick, to say how much she would miss being away from Chicago the whole year for the first time. But she looks happy to be away and on her own. I wonder if I will be, too, when it’s my turn to go.
I say goodbye to Mimi a few minutes later. I wanted to talk to her about Booker, about how I am seeing him tonight. How I’m so nervous that I wonder if he will sense it as soon as I’m with him. But I’d have to start from the beginning because she doesn’t know anything about him. And I don’t know if I can trust Carlene yet.
My aunt downed her first glass of water, and she stands at the sink taking her time with the second one.
“Your sister is so grown-up now,” she says. “I love the hair.”
“It looks good on her.”
“She has a boyfriend?”
“No.” I take a bite of my toast, even though it’s too cold to be good at this point. “She’s not seeing anyone right now, but she dates girls.”
Carlene raises her eyebrows. “Exclusively?”
“Yeah. She’s gay.”
“Funny that your mother never mentioned it when I asked about her,” she says in a way that means she doesn’t think it’s funny at all.
“She’s… still getting used to it.” That’s the nicest way to say that my mother accepts that Mimi likes girls, but she’s still visibly uncomfortable discussing it, as if she will accidentally say something offensive.
“Well, I hate to say that it might not get any better. Your mother is still getting used to me,” Carlene says.
I look at her. “You mean…?”
“I like women, too,” my aunt says. “I’ve liked some men, but mostly women. I always have, and Kitty flipped out when I told her I’d kissed a girl for the first time. I was sixteen and she was fourteen, and she thought my life was over. That nobody would ever accept me.”
“She was wrong, right?” I say.
Carlene sets the glass on the counter. “Well, yes. You accept me, don’t you?”
“Of course. I just… I guess I worry about Mimi, too, sometimes. I hear the things people say when they think no one cares, and they can be really shitty.”
“I didn’t say it’s been easy, but my life was far from over. Still is.”
I pop the last bite of hard-boiled egg into my mouth and chew, watching Carlene stretch in front of the sink. “Do you like running?”
“No,” she says simply. “And the smoking doesn’t help. But I try to go for a run every day.”
“Why do you do it if you don’t like it?”
“Because I’ve been doing it ever since I got clean and I figure it can’t hurt my cause,” she says, shrugging.
“Oh.” I look down at my plate. We haven’t discussed her rehab or sobriety, though she must know that I know after the way she and my mother danced around it the other night.
Carlene drains her glass of water. “I’m going to wash off this city dirt. You need the bathroom before I jump in the shower?”
“No, take your time,” I say, not quite meeting her eye.
She pauses in the doorway. “You know, I’m not proud of some of the things I’ve done, but I’m not ashamed of trying to stay sober,” she says in a clear, kind voice. “It’s okay to talk about it.”
I don’t know how to say that I’m not ashamed but that we don’t openly discuss a lot of things around here. I think being uncomfortable makes my mother feel out of control.
My aunt lingers in the doorway, only heading down the hall after I look at her and nod.
BOOKER’S ARMS ARE WRAPPED AROUND MY WAIST, HIS CHIN HOOKED OVER my shoulder.
I’m sitting on his lap at the kitchen table and he’s holding cards in front of us for the drinking game that’s in session. I am the most sober person in the room, by far. I’ve had a couple of sips from Booker’s cup throughout the night—my first taste of alcohol. It was pretty anticlimactic and it tasted just as bad as I thought it would. Booker was two drinks in by the time Laz and I showed up an hour ago, but he doesn’t seem any different than when he’s sober.
Booker plays a card, and I guess it’s a good one because everyone else groans and takes a drink from their bottle or can or cup.
This is my first party with alcohol and where at least one parent isn’t around. I expected to feel more out of place, but it’s surprisingly natural. Booker pulled me into an empty corner as soon as I arrived and kissed me. He hasn’t left my side for more than a couple of minutes, and I always thought that sounded so suffocating, someone not giving you space. But it makes all the difference in the world when you want to be near them, too.
“You smell good,” he whispers in my ear.
His warm breath and soft words send a long shiver down my back, and I shift on his lap. I want to turn around and kiss him, but as comfortable as I feel, I’m not so sure I’m okay with public displays of affection. Even when he pulled me aside earlier, I kept opening my eyes to make sure no one was looking. Mitchell would never have dreamed of being affectionate with other people around—we barely did anything when we were alone. I’m still trying to get used to being with someone new and I don’t want anyone to watch me. What if I’m doing everything wrong? What if I’ve always been doing everything wrong and that’s why Mitchell dumped me?
“Fuck,” says the guy with curly blond hair sitting to our right. “My cards are shit. I’m out.”
He starts a chain reaction; one by one, people set down their cards and pick up their drinks. Half the table disperses.
“Let’s go somewhere,” Booker says.
“Where?” I ask, still not turning all the way around to look at him head-on.
He shrugs. “Somewhere without all these people.”