Page 26 of Don't Tell Me How It Ends
But even as I think it, I know I’m full of shit.
Ro looks hurt. I hurt him.
I have to say something. I have to explain—
“Car’ll be out front,” he says, handing me the receipt that concludes our transaction. “Have a great day.”
I pause for a beat. Silent and still. I’m waiting for him to say my name, I realize.Have a great day, Kaia.
I want to see the shape of it on his lips. To hear the challenge in it before I go. For some reason it’s important to me that he says it.
But when the customer behind me moves to the counter to take my spot, Ro’s smile sparkles for them, and I know I’ve been dismissed. He’s not going to say it.
“Thanks, Ro,” I whisper.
And as I turn toward the exit, I tell myself the heat at my back is embarrassment—not Ro’s eyes burning holes right through me.
—
It’s entirely possible that the air freshener dangling from the rearview mirror is a standard thing Pops’ includes for all its customers, but there’s also a chance Ro put it in here for me. Before I showed up to prove that I really am the absolute worst. Either way, I’ve been watching it oscillate so intensely that by the time I get home, I’m practically hypnotized.
Mom’s back in her recliner. Her eyes are glued to her phone, and what sounds like another social media self-help reel. But she watches self-appointed Insta gurus the same way I consume fitspo. Chronically, while living in direct contradiction of the thirty-second clickbait loop.
Only, where I question the effectiveness of standing core work while approving offensively high service fees on Thai delivery, Mom inhales virtual therapy sound bites while going the opposite ofno contact.I guarantee that in between sage-advice snippets, she’s switching over to her burner account. Secretly stalking the mistresses and ghosts of relationships past.
I can’t care about any of that right now though. I’ve got to gauge how much she already knows.
“Hey,” I say, feigning calm. It’s so put on that I might as well be whistling with my hands buried in my pockets. “Zo beat me back?”
“She’s running a few more errands,” Mom says, not giving anything away. “More stuff for the baby.”
That buys me at least a couple hours before I have to answer for—
“Zola said she met the man who helped you out yesterday.”
Welp.
Mom doesn’t offer anything more. She’s making me work for it.
She swivels to face me so I sit, building a protective buffer of decorative couch pillows between us. “What else did she say?”
“She said if she wasn’t already knocked up…” Mom trails off but lets her eyebrows rise and fall to finish her thought.
“Mom, with the eyebrows. Please.”
She’s still laughing when she says, “So, what do you say? Should I tell the boss to add the tow truck guy to our lineup?”
Hearingthosewords echoed back makes me want to suffocate myself in these cushions. But, because I’m me, I don’t hide from my shame—I turn it inside out till it’s something I can get my hands around. Anger.
“Is it even possible to have a conversation in this house that doesn’t center around men? What is it with you guys? It’s fucking sad.”
“Okay, first of all, I don’t care how grown you think you are. Watch your mouth.” Mom holds her finger out so straight and sharp it cuts me down to size. “I’ll give you a pass this time, because you’ve obviously lost your mind, and right now that seems like the more pressing issue. But Kaia Rose, I am not the one. This ismyhouse.”
“Yes, ma’am,” I say, feeling like a child, but also loving this glimpse of who Mom used to be in thebeforetimes.
And she’s right—no matter how grown I am out in the world, in this house, I’m her child. Which is why I transition soseamlessly from full-blown tantrum to being laid out on the couch with my feet in Mom’s lap, listing out my failings from the past twelve hours. In chronological order.
“Kai, it sounds like what you said to this guy is really bothering you. Orallthe things you said to him.”
