For You

Chapter TWENTY-TWO

Someone was talking to me.

He repeated himself, saying something about darts.

The man seated at the bar was not Damion. I drifted back to reality, and I knew it was real because everything was so heavy. My head was heavy, and I was so tired. And cold.

“There's no space for darts,” he said.

The man with the dark hair stared at me with his dark eyes. His mouth didn't have a cruel edge now that he was talking.

I wasn't back at that trailer. I was free of that old life and all the hate, in my new life now.

The man looked at me like I was a real idiot.

“Um. No, sir, we don't have darts,” I said.

“What's your name, little darlin'?”

I held up my left hand, flashing the gold band his way. I hadn't worn the ring when I was out with Sawyer, but I didn't forget to wear it to work.

“My name's Mrs. Braun,” I said.

He chuckled. “Well, sheeee-it.” He rapped his knuckles on the bar. “Ain't life a big steamin' bowl of too-bad. I hope he treats you right.”

My phone buzzed with another message from Sawyer. When I looked at my phone, it kept getting blurry from the tears that threatened to fall out of my eyes. I couldn't understand why I felt so overwhelmed.

For the rest of my shift, I was constantly falling behind and missing things, but Lana was an incredible partner. She seemed to know exactly what I needed, which was space and time to breathe.

She suggested I go take a break outside and bum a smoke.

I nodded and went out. The first puff made me cough, and burned more than I remembered. By the end of the cigarette, I had that nausea cigarettes always gave me. I used to love that feeling, because it was at least something, and kept the hunger pangs at bay. Tonight, it made me glad I'd quit smoking.

But I did feel better.

I went back in, just as we were getting busy. Busy was perfect, because it fattened up our tips and made the time fly by.



Back at the apartment after my shift ended, I found my grandmother snoring on the couch. Bell sat next to her, transfixed by the TV. It was past nine, and Bell should have been in bed hours ago, but they did look awfully cute.

In her relaxed state, my grandmother seemed smaller, not much bigger than Bell. Her white-streaked dark hair fell back from her temples in soft curls, and with her head tipped up against the back of the sofa, the lines of her face disappeared. She reminded me of my mother, only I knew she was just napping, not passed out from one of her gin and lemonade parties.

I whispered to Bell, “Has she been asleep for long?”

Without getting up or moving, my grandmother muttered, “Just resting my eyes.”

“So, you weren't having a little nap there?”

“Tea,” she said, her eyes fluttering open. She wiggled the tip of her nose and sniffed, sounding congested. The skin around her nostrils and upper lip was red and chafed from her cold, and as she sat up, the creases returned around her mouth.

“You sure you don't want to get home and to bed?”

“Brew us a cup of tea and tell me about your day. Everyone who has a day at work should have someone to tell about it.”

I couldn't argue with that, so I put on the kettle, and we made some tea. She'd tidied all the dishes after dinner, and the kitchen looked cleaner than it had been in days.

Bell insisted on having some tea as well, though hers was mostly milk and sugar, served in her tiny cup.

I made her change into her pajamas, and we set her up on the couch with all her blankets. I didn't want to start a bad habit, but I had a feeling she'd be asleep as soon as her head hit the pillow.

She fought sleep valiantly, her eyes wide open and staring at the tiny television set. We didn't have a cable package, but there were four or five local channels, and Bell enjoyed watching each for five minutes and then changing channels.

My grandmother and I sat at the table, and I was struck by how normal everything felt in that moment. We were just family, discussing our day, like people do.

The conversation shifted away from how things were at her son's bar, to areas I was less comfortable talking about.

Quietly, she asked, “Do you think she believes you?”

We both turned to look at Bell. The kid had a remarkable ability for knowing when she was being spoken about, but this time the television provided cover.

My grandmother restated her question. “Does she remember your mother?”

“She calls her Pretend Mother, and she asks about her sometimes.”

“What if she comes back? Someone knocked on the door at the house the other day, when I wasn't expecting anyone.”

My pulse surged in my throat, my skin tingling. “Oh my god.”

She waved her hand. “No, no, it was just someone wanting to clean the carpets.”

We both took a deep breath at the same time.

Bell had been so young when we ran away. The first time I told her I was her mother, she was more interested in the dogs at the park than in what I was saying. I kept repeating it to her, though, because I trusted that repetition would make it true.

Bell agreed, finally, that I was her mother. When asked by strangers how old she was, she would say, “I'm five, and Aubrey is my mommy.”

Strangers thought it was adorable she called me by my first name. I finally got her to call me Mom around people, but only about half the time.

One day, I would tell her everything about our past, but that day was years away. Would she hate me? My grandmother thought I did the right thing, and only chided me about not coming to them sooner. Of course I would have, if I hadn't been lied to my whole life, and knew they wanted us. My grandmother and I were united by our anger for the woman between us.

We sat there drinking our tea, not having to say what we were feeling for the other to know.

“I forgive her,” my grandmother said, everything about her softening in that moment, from her salt-and-pepper hair to the lines around her mouth.

I tilted my head from side to side, my back suddenly sore. She wanted me to say I forgave my mother. Looking into her gray-blue eyes, I found a wealth of love, but I didn't feel as generous.

I reached out and placed my hand on hers. “She doesn't deserve it.” The words sounded more cruel out loud than they had in my head.

“You're young, and you hang on to your pain. When you get old like me, and your body doesn't work like it used to, you decide you have enough pain, and you let those old wounds go. You don't want to become a sinking boat, throwing stuff over the side just so you can stay afloat.”

“She took my childhood. I had to take care of her, you know? When it was just the two of us, I'd have to beg her to buy groceries. I can't remember a time I felt safe and content.”

Those gray-blue eyes didn't stray from my face. “Do you feel safe and content now?” She turned over her hand beneath mine, squeezed my fingers, and offered a smile.

“I'm scared. I'm scared all the time, and I don't know how to be normal.”

“Open you eyes and look around. Do what other people do. It's not so hard.”

I looked down at my tea in the stained cup. Do what other people do. I really appreciated the fact she hadn't tried to argue with me, to insist there was no such thing as normal. Of course there's such a thing, or we wouldn't have a word for it.

Plenty of people know damn well they're normal; it's only the most messed-up people who insist there's no such thing. They figure if they can't be normal, nobody can.



I woke up Sunday morning with a song in my heart—a song I hummed as I brushed my teeth and got Bell ready for her big day with Taylor's family. This made Bell suspicious, and she kept asking why I wasn't going to the zoo.

Her hair had thickened recently, and when I swept the golden waves back into a braid, even the wispy bits from the front locked into the plait.

“When did you get so big?” I searched through her closet for something dark enough to wear around the animals. I'd learned how to get stains out of her clothes by scrubbing the fibers with a nail brush, but it weakened the fabric, so it was better to send her outside in darker colors.

“You're the big one,” she said. “Mommy. Mommy-Aubrey. Mombrey.” She squealed with laughter.

“Is that my new name?”

“Yup.” She pointed to her pale pink dress, the prettiest thing she had. “This one, Mombrey.”

“How about jeans, Princess Belly Button? There's a giraffe at the zoo, and I hear they eat girls in pink dresses.”

“But I want to wear my pretty dress. I'm going to see the other Mommy.”

I froze, my back to her as I stared at her little clothes, all organized on hangers.

My throat tight, I asked, “What other Mommy?”

She laughed and climbed up onto the bed to look out the window, ignoring me.

I pulled some jeans from the closet and took a seat on the edge of the bed. “Bell, I asked you a question. What other Mommy?”

She turned and looked at me with eyes more mature and worldly than the day before.

“Taylor's,” she said.

The other Mommy was Taylor's mother.

I started breathing normally again, aware of my muscles gradually loosening. My eyes stung, and the song that had been in my heart was long gone. I couldn't cry in front of her, though, so I pulled my fear back into myself and held it in a fist.

We finished getting her ready, finding a compromise in the form of purple leggings under a long shirt, with a belt over top so it looked like a mini-dress.

I sent her off with a minimum of fuss, and then faced another wardrobe dilemma.

Sawyer hadn't sent me another text message since the one late the night before, inviting me to come over to his house in the morning. He was probably still sleeping, and I smiled to myself at the thought of waking him up and seeing him groggy, with morning bedhead.

What outfit would he be most excited to see me in?

Not my tired, old jeans that have been washed a zillion times. The weather was sunny, so I put on a jersey-knit dress, leggings, and a belt. I looked at myself in the full-length mirror that had come with the apartment, attached to the back of my bedroom door. Oh, f*ck. I looked exactly like Bell, like a second-grader. I pulled off the leggings and tried to see my bare legs through Sawyer's eyes. Would he like to see a little skin? Didn't all guys?

As I turned from side to side, admiring my freshly-shaved legs, I pulled up the hem of the dress and imagined Sawyer putting his hot hands on my legs. Yanking down my panties. Taking me. Making me his, forever or for now, I didn't care. I just wanted to wrap myself around him.

I couldn't wait another minute, so I grabbed my purse and ran out the door.



When I got to his house, I stopped to stare for a moment. The dilapidated old building looked downright cheerful in the bright summer sunshine, even with weeds sprouting up from the eaves.

The porch was empty, save for the tattered sofa and coffee tins full of murky water and cigarette butts. I knocked on the front door, but judging by the bass thrumming on the other side, nobody heard me. I twisted the handle and found it unlocked.

As I stepped over the threshold, I called out, “Hello?”

Over the stereo, a girl's voice met mine with an echoing, “Hello?”