Funny Feelings (25)

“Well, My, we’re here. And I’m so—”

“Don’t apologize. I’m sorry I’m being a dick.” He scrubs a palm down his jaw and the sound of it makes my own skin feel like it’s being scratched in the process, tingling. “I just… don’t like knowing I’m being watched, is all.”

“I know. I’m—” he glares at me and I hold up my palms in surrender, “I know.” I gesture to the arm attached to the hand shoved in his pocket. “May I?” He nods in response, and I loop my arm through his.

“You have anything you need to shop for or anything? May as well knock out some to-do’s if we can?” I ask, cheerfully. “Low on your supply of aspercreme or war memorabilia?”

“War memorabilia?”

“I dunno. Old guy things? I know I’m reaching here.”

But the comedy gods are smiling on me today, despite my sad joke, and with perfect timing, we pass a store for orthotics. I make to drag him in before he hip checks me.

“Need to get a shingles shot?” I try next.

“Ha,” he says, but his smile twitches up. “No, but speaking of that, I got another calendar alert for your birth control shot appointment tomorrow. If you could please put those on your personal calendar that would be ideal. Explaining to Hazel what a series of knife, eggplant, and babyface emojis meant together was not a conversation I was totally prepared for yet.”

I wince, “Sorry. I swear I thought I did this time.” His reply is a rueful smirk.

“Does my hair look stupid, by the way?” I ask, eager to keep him distracted.

He scrunches his nose with a shrug as he looks over my braids. “Why would it look stupid?”

“I don’t know. Kara looked cute with hers. Edgy, even. But I think with this face and this long hair that I might just be toeing the sister-wife line.” This makes him laugh immediately, a full, rich sound that makes me want to dig in more. “Or at least makes me look like I have two first names, for sure.” I grin, and he reaches across his chest to tug on one.

“I think you’re one of my top three wives, at least,” he teases.

I’m near giddy that he’s playing along. “Oh, come on now. I put out the most. I’m your favorite.”

“But you also stir up the most trouble.”

“I do,” I lament. “I do stir up the most trouble.”

“We should get you an umbrella while we’re here,” he pivots, and my face falls into a frown. “What? You’re always saying you need to get one whenever you borrow mine.”

He sees something in my expression and cocks his head suspiciously. “Why are you weirdly evasive about an umbrella?”

I sigh. “It’s dumb.”

“You’re many things, Jones. Dumb isn’t one of them.”

We keep walking at a leisurely pace. The day is gray and cool. The kind where you know the sun is just behind the clouds, even if it never peeks through, shadows shifting and moving on the ground continuously.

“My mom always liked to remind me of this story of when I was an early teen, and going through a terrible phase. I was awful to her, Meyer, and she was amazing at handling that kind of thing. She never punished me for my outbursts or emotions even though she probably would’ve been justified in it…

“Apparently it’d been a special week of me slamming doors, crying, screeching at the drop of a hat.” I blow out a sigh. “My dad was getting remarried at the time, and even though we weren’t close I’m sure that was manifesting in negative ways, and yes, I’m sure hormones were involved as well.

“Anyway, I guess on this certain morning I was shrieking from the moment I opened my eyes. And I do remember bits of this. I remember feeling like there was a monster living under my skin, like I was going to rip at the seams, you know? And she just kept acting like everything was fine and normal, calm in the wake of my storm, and it kept making me angrier and angrier at her. At the world, at everything, I guess.

"I should add, we were living in Seattle at the time, and in Seattle it’s really only tourists who use umbrellas. It’s just, like, a thing. But I always wanted to stand out— I know, crazy, right? So, of course, I always used an umbrella. My mom had given me one for my birthday a few weeks prior to all this, with all these flowers on the underside and tassels. It was bright and moody and I just thought it was the most beautiful thing I owned. But then, on this particular morning, when my Mom wouldn’t buy in to my wretchedness; I looked outside and saw that it was raining. And it was the excuse I needed to just have an absolute fucking meltdown.

“I remember looking over at my Mom and noticing how tired she was, but she just shook her head and quietly chuckled at me, told me I was going to miss my bus.”

I think of her face, now, and the tears instantly spill over. How she struggled not to laugh at me, how I made her flinch, shoulders jumping, when I continued my screeching.

Meyer replaces the hand in his pocket with mine—to keep me secured or contained, I suppose—and wipes my face with his sleeve. When he’s satisfied, he pulls my hand back out, laces our fingers together, and patiently waits for me to continue.

“I, um… I went to leave, and I was so angry I wanted to break something. I remember thinking that. But I didn’t actually intend to do it, you know?