Total pages in book: 81
Estimated words: 76710 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 384(@200wpm)___ 307(@250wpm)___ 256(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 76710 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 384(@200wpm)___ 307(@250wpm)___ 256(@300wpm)
“What are you doing here?” Lo asks, looking up from the barstool, the chewed tip of her pen tapping against her chin.
“Got some time to kill,” I explain, patting my backpack. “Mind if I steal a booth?”
“Knock yourself out.” She laughs.
“Thanks.”
I find the booth in the most secluded part of the bar, set my stuff up, and open Photoshop. But for some reason, I can’t seem to focus on the project at hand—which happens to be a mock flyer for a non-existent band.
I stare at the screen of my phone, considering calling my mom and coming clean about my living situation, but I can’t bring myself to pull the trigger. I’m not ready for the lecture and the guilt trip that is sure to come along with her help. My mom is one of those people who expects you to worship at her feet for the simplest of favors. She once gave me a ride to a concert in downtown LA, and I swear, I still hear about how she got stuck in traffic, and that it was what she got for trying to do something nice for someone.
Never again.
No, I won’t call her and beg for help, but calling just to check in won’t hurt. Lying to her about my living situation has been easier than I expected. We’ve only spoken a handful of times since I’ve been here. Out of sight, out of mind, I guess. Before I can talk myself out of it, I scroll through my call log and click on her number. I play with the sugar packets on the table as her phone rings. And rings. And rings. Just when it’s about to go to voicemail, she picks up.
“Hi, honey,” Mom sing-songs. Even though we don’t have the best relationship, her voice still feels like home. I can picture her sitting in a hammock, smoking weed, and meditating outdoors. My stomach twists in an unexpected way, and suddenly, I want to go home. I want LA sunshine and the beach and my home. Except, home isn’t there anymore.
“Hi, Mom.”
“Everything okay?”
“Yeah, I’m just getting some homework done. Classes and work are kicking my ass.”
“That’s great, sweetie,” Mom says in a distracted tone, and I know she’s already checked out of the conversation.
“Yeah. Hey, I was thinking. What if I came and visited you guys? Spring Break is coming up soon.” You guys meaning Mom and her new boyfriend. My mom uses men as a life raft. I didn’t think this one would last more than a few weeks, but here we are, nine months later and they’re shacked up together.
“I’m sure you’re busy living your life, Allison. I know I’d be living it up if I had a house on the water when I was your age.”
“I want to,” I insist. Losing a parent at a young age has a way of making you hyperaware of your loved ones’ mortality. Even though we don’t always get along, she’s all I have left.
My mom hesitates, telling me all I need to know. “Listen, we don’t have the house quite readyyet, and you know airfare to Hawaii is expensive, especially on such short notice…” She lists off her excuses. “Maybe once we’re settled, we can figure something out. If it’s meant to be, it’ll be.”
Ah, her favorite response. I huff out a humorless laugh. Being rejected by the person who brought you into this world feels like the worst kind of betrayal. “Sorry I called.”
“Allison, don’t be—”
I hit end and toss my phone to the table. How I share DNA with that woman, I’ll never know. She’s flighty and love-obsessed. I’m grounded and wouldn’t recognize love if it hit me in the face. She loves pretty dresses and makeup. I love my Docs and vintage band tees. But she’s my mom. My dad would have moved mountains for me. He promised me the moon, shared his love of music with me, and the only thing he loved more than performing was me. Mom, on the other hand… She loves me, but I don’t think she loves being my mom. When I was younger, she insisted on having me stay with her for the majority of the time. I thought, hey, she must love me if she’s fighting for me, but now I know it was because the thought of being alone is utterly fucking unbearable to her.
I put my headphones on, turning the volume all the way up as I focus on my screen. I refuse to dwell on my mother, who is in Hawaii living her best life. Meanwhile, I’m over here technically homeless. I’m not bitter at all. I’m not sure how much time has passed when a hand waves in front of my face. I startle, looking up to see Lo.
I take my headphones off, tucking an unruly strand of hair behind my ears.