Page 73 of Stroked Hard
He wants to have a conversation. I’m pretty sure I know how that’s going to go. He’s going to want to dig into my past and get to the root of my “problem.” That’s the last thing I want to do. I don’t want to talk about my dad with Hollis, or with anyone for that matter.
For the past few days I’ve been able to avoid him by parking in another lot and walking through multiple apartment complexes, through the back entryway of my building to get up to my apartment. I’ve also kept to my bedroom, making sure to use headphones when watching Netflix on my computer and keeping my lights dim. Yep, I’m completely hiding out, and to be honest, I’m exhausted. Is this how I really want to live my life?
I haven’t been able to enjoy the beach like I want to, or go running, or even just lounge in my living room because I’ve been too nervous Hollis would come knock on my door.
But what I’ve been most terrified about is giving in, of opening that door and letting him in, only to cry into his arms and let him see all my scars.
“Oh, that’s a beautiful shade of pink, sweetie,” my mom praises, interrupting my thoughts. “It’s a little bright for me but you sure can pull it off.”
Nail polish color to my mom is white with a droplet of color so you can barely see what shade it is. Today, I believe she chose peach, that’s what it looks like at least. Luckily, my mom has wonderful skin color that makes the light shade pop.
“Thanks, Mom.”
Laughing, she holds her stomach and says, “Did you hear that? My stomach has been grumbling this whole time.”
“Mine too.” I smile, trying to ignore the anxiety rolling through me. There is so much going on inside me with Hollis and the giant elephant in the room, the man my mom went to dinner with. Hell, I can’t ask, I know I should, but it terrifies me to see the possibility of my mom getting hurt again. Clearing my throat, I ask, “Where do you want to go after this for lunch? Anywhere you want.”
“I was thinking maybe we could call and get some of that Chinese we had when we moved you in. I’ve been craving it ever since I left your place. It would be nice to eat out on your balcony that overlooks the ocean.”
“Sounds like a plan. We can call in our order once we leave, that way it should be there when we arrive home.”
“Wonderful. And let’s not forget to order egg rolls this time.”
“Noted.” I chuckle.
Once we pay, we carefully walk out to the sidewalk, trying to not mess up our freshly painted nails, although, thankfully our fingernails were done first. I make the call to the Chinese restaurant, being sure to add egg rolls to the order and drive toward my apartment.
“This was just what I needed,” my mom breaks the silence between us on our walk home. “It was a stressful week at work, a lot of puke to clean up. I made sure to wear gloves and a mask because whatever the family has I don’t want to catch while cleaning it up. I also drank some orange juice with an Emergen-C mixed in just to be sure.”
“That sounds terrible.” And gross. I really don’t do puke at all. Regurgitated food mixed with stomach acid, no thank you.
“It was, but I drove up the coast this morning to get to you. It took a little longer but it was refreshing, and I put the top down so the wind was in my hair. Kind of felt like an old-school Hollywood starlet.”
My mom has a 1990 red Mustang convertible that she is in love with. Last year she traded her old broken-down Jeep for a used Mustang in mint condition and couldn’t be happier. It’s the small things that make her happy. And despite the old model, she still thinks it’s “one classy car.”
“Sounds like a good drive. Did you listen to Garth Brooks on your way up?”
“You know I did. I can’t believe he’s back on tour after so many years taking time off. I’ve been saving my money so I can go to a concert. I know it’s not plausible this year but maybe next year he’ll come back in the area. I’m sure he’s not as energetic as when he was younger but it would still be such a treasure to see him perform.”
“I agree. Maybe I can see if there are any cheap tickets on StubHub. Even if we’re in the rafters, we could still go see him.”
“No, no, no,” my mom says, waving at me. “Save your money, sweetheart. You want to keep decorating that apartment of yours.” Looking out to the ocean, she takes a deep breath. “I’m really proud of you. Living so close to the ocean like you always wanted, supporting yourself, but I do wonder if you are happy.”
She glances in my direction, gauging my reaction. Why do parents do this? Try to have meaningful conversations with you when it’s the last thing you want to do. All I wanted was a nice relaxing afternoon spent with my mom, but apparently she has a different idea of what our time together should be spent doing.
“I’m happy, Mom.”
“But are you lonely? Don’t you want a boyfriend?”
Turning into the opening of my apartment complex, I say, “I don’t need a man in my life to feel fulfilled. I’m fine.”
“Fine is not what I want for you. Fine is subpar. I want you over the moon, overjoyed and loving life. You might say you’re good, but I can see in your eyes that you’re not.”
“I’m just tired, Mom.”
Out of everyone to talk to, she is the one I go to the most whenever I have a problem, but this time, she’s the last person I want to talk to. She’ll tell me to stop projecting my dad onto every man I meet and to give someone a chance, to fall in love, to trust. Butthat’sthe last thing I want to do.
I don’t . . .
