The Real(9)

“Just be careful. You never really know someone unless they want you to,” she said absently. “See you tomorrow.”

She’d unknowingly struck a nerve.

My hidden fear.

That no man could be trusted.

That every man might hurt me.

I managed to muster a “goodnight” as I grabbed the rattling phone in my pocket and saw the incoming text.

Rhonda: What are your plans for June of next year?

Soon after, she sent a wedding bell emoji. I looked heavenward and shook my head. My guardian angel must have taken the year off or decided I was equally pathetic and resigned. Probably after I passed on coffee with Cameron.

I stared down at the text. Rhonda knew I’d seen the message. If I didn’t respond I’d look jealous, guilty or both.

Me: Congratulations! June is all yours! I’m in a meeting. I’ll call you after!

I hit send just before my phone buzzed in my hand with an incoming call. Thankful it wasn’t Rhonda calling me on my bullshit, I sighed and slid to answer.

“Hi, Mom. I can’t talk now.” I watched Kat disappear into the parking garage and started making my way toward the train.

“What a way to greet the woman who grew you in her body for nine months. I have stretch marks, you can give me five minutes.”

I sighed.

“Am I really that bad?” she asked playfully, though I knew I’d hurt her feelings.

“No. I’m sorry. I’m just distracted. This insanely handsome man asked me to join him for coffee on Saturday, and I’m not sure I want to show.”

“Why in the hell not? It’s been long enough. Go have some fun.”

I was being consoled by my mother and could feel the blood of an old maid start to circulate through my veins. “Yeah, well, here’s the truth. I’m sick of this whole shit show. I’m seriously over it. And working all the time. I mean I don’t want to be alone forever, but I’m not sure now is the time, either. I’m at some weird crossroads. They say it happens when you least expect it, right? I’m trying really hard not to expect anything.”

“Speaking of expecting, any idea where your brother is? He promised me dinner this week.”

“He’s such a shit. He ditched me yesterday for lunch.”

“He’s probably out at his fort,” she said, referring to his cabin in the woods. A place I wouldn’t dare visit.

“He’s an idiot.”

“You watch too much crap,” she scorned.

“Mom, Ted Kaczynski lived in the woods. Okay? The Unabomber. People only go to the woods to make moonshine, cook meth, inbreed, plot murder, execute it, and bury the bodies.”

“Or hunt, fish, relax, and enjoy nature.”

“Or in Oliver’s case, hide from the newly-jaded wench of last week.” My brother was a playboy who often created his own drama. Growing up, he was a handful and caused enough trouble for both of us. And so, my mother decided to place all her lofty expectations on me. She loved him unconditionally because she had no choice.

“He’s probably impregnating,” I added.

“I hope so. I’m honestly to the point I don’t care as long as he gets a baby momma, so I get a baby.”

“Mom!” I admonished with a laugh. “You don’t really want him to reproduce, do you? I mean, the ego on that punk.”

“You two are taking forever,” she scolded. “I thought you and—”

“Did you call for any other reason?” I interrupted. She was going to go on about my ex, Xavier, like she always did. We broke up years ago. And I think her heart broke more than mine had. I didn’t have the patience to relive that conversation.

“Yes,” she piped happily. “Come over, I’m making you lasagna.”

“No. Mom, I know you’re trying to cheer me up, but I just want to chill at home.”

“Okay, baby, but the invitation is always open.” I could hear the disappointment in her tone. I was being a shit to my own mother.

I pulled out my card and tapped it for entrance before I headed toward the train. “Am I mean?”

“Mean?” She laughed. “No, honey, you have a heart of gold and a mouth like no other. You are no bullshit and refuse to give false compliments. A lot of people love the bullshit, but they especially love the false compliments.”

“So, I’m bitter?”

“A little, but who isn’t? That comes with living, and you aren’t fresh-faced anymore. You’re no spring chicken.”

“Gee, thanks,” I said as I walked the long corridor glancing around to see I was alone.

“I just mean that you’re no dummy. We raised you to be picky, Abigail. We didn’t want you settling. And aside from that idiot you almost handed yourself to last year—what was his name?”

“Exactly, let’s not,” I said as my spine pricked in awareness. All she knew was that I was dating Luke. And the scary part was she wouldn’t have remembered his name. But Bree would have.

“Enjoy the lull, baby girl. I promise it will pick up, and when it does, it might not set you back down. Listen to your elders.”

“I listen to you. I always listen to you,” I said proudly. My mother was a Pulitzer Prize-winning photojournalist and humanitarian. Her pictures had earned numerous awards across the globe and had changed countless lives. She was healthy at sixty-three, was still married to the love of her life—my father—and still fulfilling every dream she could fit into her enormous life. And though it was full, she refused to stop stuffing it with more of whatever her heart desired. I had one hell of an example set for me.