Page 67 of Holding Out for a Gyro
“I’ll get right on that.”
I went home and opened my laptop. Before I started writing, I reread the letter I’d written to my dad. After that fueled me with renewed fury, I unloaded everything I wanted to say to Mom but never dared.
The anger I’d been hiding from myself poured out. I let myself become the needy child who’d relied on her to help me navigate a scary world, and I was done excusing her as a victim, forgivingher because she’d stayed when he’d left, ignoring her neglect and constant take-take-take. I wrote about the times she failed to stand up for me, for herself. I wrote about how disappointed I was that she’d chosen to cede her control to a man who mistreated her, how she’d been a shitty role model who set me up for a lifetime of relationship failures. I wrote that my life was my own, and I could make my own decisions. I could value myself. And when I wrote it down, I tried to believe it.
It helped. I’d weathered one storm, but then I was left with the realization I’d completely driven away a good man. Bas had spent the whole day proving to me that he was a rock, safety, comfort, all the things I craved. Like an antidote to my poison. And I’d kicked him out because I was the bad guy all along.
Maybe I should be writinghima letter. I’d thought it as a joke, but then it struck me that I owed him an apology for how I’d treated him. How I’d been treating him.
So afraid of being hurt, I’d turned the behavior I’d internalized outward, and poor Bas hadn’t deserved my sudden rejection. But I also couldn’t keep going as I had. I’d flamed out because I’d tried to bury my rough parts—Old Chelsea. But there was no old or new Chelsea. There was just me, and I couldn’t keep showing him only half of myself. It wasn’t fair to trick him into loving someone who didn’t even exist.
He might not even care. For all I knew, he’d shrugged me off like a worn coat. Easygoing Bas would move on, like he always did.
And I didn’t deserve anything more.
I printed out the letter to my mom. Elizabeth asked me whether I wanted her to keep that one, too, bury it, or send it to my mom. I no longer cared either way about either letter. The threat of my parents reading them lost its power, and I just wanted to let go of my anger. I wanted to move on.
So instead, we performed a small ceremony on Elizabeth’sporch involving a couple of bottles of wine, a tiny cauldron, and a Zippo lighter, turning my words into cinder and smoke. It didn’t instantly free me of all my worries and anger, but a weight lifted off my shoulders. The truth finally sank in: my mom was not my responsibility.
It was time to stop running into flaming buildings. I’d only get burned.
Chapter Eighteen
Basil
Challenge: Runa 10kaway
Bereft, I did the only thing any full-grown Greek man would do: I drove home to Mama. I had to walk back to Chelsea’s to get my car, and I stood outside in the road talking myself out of knocking on her door and begging her to let us go back to how things had been before.
What had happened? Everything had been so easy between us, but she claimed it had all been an illusion. Or was that a lie? Either way, I didn’t know what to do with the hurt she’d surgically delivered. Evan would be happy to learn that I was not, in fact, bulletproof.
I was Icarus, and in my arrogance, I’d flown too close to the sun.
When I arrived at my parents’ house, I let myself in through the mud room. I thought I’d surprise my mom, but when I walked into the kitchen, the first thing she said was, “You couldn’t call?”
I gave her a kiss on the cheek. “Hi, Ma.”
She held her doughy hands away from my face. “What? And you couldn’t come on Thanksgiving? Everybody was here yesterday. Why are you coming today?”
“You’re not happy to see me?”
She gave me another kiss on the cheek. “Of course I’m happy.” She eyed me. “You don’t look well. Have you eaten? Are you hungry?”
“I ate, Ma. I’m not hungry.”
“I’ll make you something.” She opened the fridge and set a variety of dishes on the counter.
“I’m not hungry. Sit down. I just wanted to talk.”
She stopped cutting meat off the cold lamb, dropping the knife with a clatter. She swung around. “What’s wrong?”
“Nothing.” I pulled the knife from behind her and started slicing potatoes.
She slapped the back of my hand. “You want potatoes? I’ll heat some up.” She grabbed a skillet and set it on the stove.
I sighed and reached for the oil. She waved me away. “Sit. Talk.” She poured olive oil into the pan and turned on the heat.
I gave up and sat down. “Thanks, Ma.”
