Page 32 of You've Got Hate Mail
She doesn’t point out that the whole household had cinnamon rolls for breakfast yesterday. And she wouldn’t. Mabelor Olivia might, but not Ginny. Not Samantha either. No idea what Dori or Elizabeth would say. I don’t know them as well as the others, and they likely won’t stay long-term.
“I just want to help out with something I know I can do without screwing it up,” Cricket says.
“No one here expects you to do anything out of obligation.”
“Oh, wait, I’m not stepping on toes if I make breakfast, am I? Is that something Samantha and Olivia like to do? Or they do it because it’s their chore? Or yesterday was a treat?”
“You’re not stepping on anyone’s toes.”
“Do you think everyone would want muffins?”
“Anyone who’s not feeling like a muffin can make themselves something else. The bigger point is, if it’ll make you feel better to make breakfast, if that’ll helpyou, then absolutely make breakfast.”
“I think it’ll help me.”
My eye twitches, which sends a dull pain straight into my brain.
It won’t help her.
It’ll just help her feel not guilty.
I can hear it in her voice.
I can practically smell it too.
Hey, kettle, this is pot calling, an annoying voice that sounds like Mabel whispers in my head.
Guilt and I are best friends. I feel guilty for asking for help. Guilty for not. Guilty for raising Lav in ways Ava might not have liked. Guilty for not feeling worse that I don’t have that pressure on me.
“Are you sure it’ll help you?” Ginny asks Cricket gently.
“Oh, yes. Absolutely. I like to stay busy. But also, staying busy is why I’m here. Not that I can’t have a job. Even if I’m pretty sure I don’t have a job anymore. Or possibly a place to live. Back home, I mean. My roommate texted yesterday that she’s gettinga new roommate to replace me when our lease expires next month, and it’s not like I know how I’d pay my rent for another year anyway, so I can’t exactly argue, and— Yes. I want to make muffins. Muffins make everything better.”
“Oh, honey, they really did a number on you,” Ginny murmurs.
I pet my cat and sip my coffee and refrain from agreeing as vehemently externally as I am internally.
“They did a number on all of us,” Cricket replies. “I’m hardly special that way.”
“Did anyone at all reach out to tell you they had your back?”
“You did.”
There’s a long, heavy pause.
I can imagine Ginny’s blinking slowly at Cricket, waiting for her to sayand my friend so-and-so from college, and my other friend so-and-so from my office,and my friend so-and-so from my book club, but instead, the long, heavy pause gets longer and heavier.
My heart thumps loudly enough that Fluffy stops purring and peers at me like the rhythm of my pulse has now personally offended her.
“Anyone else?” Ginny asks, softer.
“There were some coworkers who told me they were glad it wasn’t them,” she says quietly with a forced laugh. “And some of the ladies I have Friday wine with were super kind. And a few of my parents’ neighbors asked how they were handling it?—”
“The neighbors askedyouhow yourparentswere handling what happened to you?”
“Yes, but it’s a tight neighborhood, so of course they did?—”
“This didn’t happen to your parents.” Ginny’s triggered by shitty parents. Her mom making her do that show—all that Ginny went through during some of the hardest years of heryouth with it—she doesn’t tolerate or sugarcoat it when people’s parents do shitty things. “Were they supportive?”
