Page 33 of Changing Lanes

I think I have that movie.

Cave dweller. I’m a cave dweller possessed by the ghosts of my family’s present, not past. The feral creatures inside can’t take me out. Their noxious parasites and bacteria won’t harm me. But the love from my family being omitted will fucking annihilate me.

Fully immersed in chopping ingredients for the ceviche, I miss the door to the apartment opening followed by someone stepping up behind me until Marc’s hand sneaks out to steal a red, slimy chunk with seeds stuck to it.

Seriously, how do you get them off?

He pops it into his mouth with an unapologetic smile then turns to his mom.

“You finally found someone to cut the tomatoes.” To me, he explains, saying, “I hate that part.”

She replies in Spanish, then the two continue in the language I always thought was sexy as hell but never learned a lick of. I chose German as my foreign language in high school. German. Ask me how many times I’ve used it in my life and I’ll answer with the only word I actually remember—nein.

I find myself unable to turn away from their conversation, hanging off every detail, every roll of the R’s—that shit’s so impressive—every widening of eyes for emphasis, every laugh passed between mother and son. Esme’s an animated talker while Marc speaks in low tones, getting his point across without needing theatrics. He’s…intense.

When their gazes flick to mine, I resume my lackluster dicing.

Their easy banter makes me think of my mom’s sense of humor. She was always funny but stern in her own quirky way. I guess raising four boys and one headstrong girl you’d need to find comedy where you could. Roll with the punches with a nasty jab of your own is the way I’d describe my mom’s style of parenting. She put up with a lot from us kids, until she couldn’t.

Moisture gathers at the corners of my eyes so I quickly switch out the tomato with an onion.

I get one half sliced when I catch Marc’s hand reaching for something else but from Esme’s pile this time. Before he can pull away though, a wooden spoon smacks down on his knuckles like a frog’s tongue catching the arrogant fly. Marc hisses, rubbing at his knuckles, but the simple act cuts too close to home for me. Way too close. I’ve seen my own mom do that a hundred times.

The playful teasing crashes to a screeching halt when I drop the knife, watching it through blurry eyes as the shiny metal bounces off the cutting board onto the counter and I spin, keeping my head down, mumbling out, “I just remembered I work early tonight.”

Without looking up, I tell Marc’s mom, “It was great meeting you, Esme. Sorry I’m going to miss your food. It looks delicious.” Already out of the kitchen, I say, “Marc, thanks for the invite and, uh, enjoy your night.” Because I’ll probably never attend one of these again.

The word vomit doesn’t do me any favors in the credibility department and the hitch in my voice near the end is obvious, even to my own ears, but I’m halfway to my room before they can question me.

I tug my scrubs on over my wet face, hating that the tears won’t fucking stop. The wind on my ride to work will dry them though. I don’t need to go in early but I might as well. What’s here for me?

Snatching my bag off the bed, I slip out my door and back into the hall. Low voices in the kitchen have me slowing my approach, wiping roughly under my eyes.

“What do you mean she’s leaving? What’d you do?”

“I don’t know. She was fine in here away from your bullshit.” There’s a shuffling sound. “Then she just fucking panicked and said she had to jet. What the fuck was I supposed to do? Paige is free to come and go as she pleases. You want to know about her, ask her your fucking self.”

“Why would I fucking care? You’re the one wedged up her ass.”

A menacing chuckle settles over the apartment, coating everyone inside with discomfort. What are they even saying right now?

Taking a deep breath, I round the corner to find Beckett and Marc, heads together. Neither one notices me while Esme watches them through curious eyes, continuously stirring the sizzling meat in a pan.

I force an airy laugh that sounds fake at best but does the trick to separate the two friends. My eyes stay focused on my desired destination, saying, “Off to work again.”

Work obsession, right?

I quicken my steps, reaching the front door in record time. As I go to close it though, a huge hand catches it easily.

Just let me be done for today.

Just let me be done.

“You’re really going to work?”

Beckett pounds down the stairs, hot on my heels, but I ignore him. He heard what I said in there. I don’t need to repeat myself. Whether he believes me or not is his problem.

I mount my bike, jerking my helmet on as quickly as my shaky fingers can manage before I say something I’ll regret. My emotions are all over the place today and I don’t trust myself to talk to him. I don’t trust myself to be around him. Around any of them.