“Don’t you have work?”
I nod, then look down at my soaked uniform. I’m going to be late. I feel like I need to stay with my mom, but I can’t call in, since I’m the closer.
“I’m gonna change,” I say. “I’ll be right back.”
She nods and I go to my room and peel off my wet clothes, then grab yesterday’s work clothes out of the laundry basket. Sam is still taking his nap and The Giant is golfing, so the house is silent. When I’m done changing, I head back to her bathroom.
Mom’s wearing a robe now, her hair twisted up in a towel. I remember Beth and me pooling our money together to buy her the thick terry-cloth robe for Mother’s Day a few years ago.
“Sorry about that,” she says, gesturing vaguely toward the shower. She’s looking in the mirror, taking off her eye makeup.
It’s been a long time since my mom and I talked openly about anything, but I decide to press my luck.
“Mom, why don’t you just leave him? He’s, like, the worst. You deserve better. We both do.”
She doesn’t look at me. Her eyes are glued to the mirror.
“It’s not as easy as all that,” she says.
“But—”
“Can I borrow twenty bucks?” she asks. Her eyes find mine in the glass. “I won’t be getting any more money from Roy until the end of the week.”
The Giant gives her an allowance. Like she’s a kid. He controls everything.
“Yeah,” I say. “Sure.”
She will never pay it back. In fact, she will pretend this conversation—and the shower before it—never happened. It wouldn’t be the first time.
“I love him,” she says. “When you’re older, you’ll understand.”
How could I possibly understand? What kind of person would put up with this shit?
“If he hits you, I swear to God, I’m calling the police, Mom.”
I haven’t seen him do it, but I wouldn’t be surprised if he did.
She smiles, sad. “Roy doesn’t hit. He doesn’t need to.”
And I remember something he said a few nights ago: Go, then. But there’s no way in hell you’ll get custody. She will never leave him—not until Sam’s out of school, anyway.
I think about you—about the way you hold me like I’m something precious and rare, the little gifts you’re always sneaking me, the way you sing me to sleep over the phone at night. And I suddenly feel desperately sad for my mother. Maybe she’s never had what we have. Maybe she never will.
I swallow the lump in my throat. “I’ll go get the money.”
I give her two twenties, then walk to work, the cold February wind slicing through my layers, numbing me. I don’t think about how I’m just barely going to make rent this month.
When I get to work, Matt throws me a concerned glance as he puts fresh cookies onto the trays.
“What’s wrong, chica?”
I make it to the back of the store before I burst into tears. He rushes toward me, ignoring the customers that have just walked up. Without a word, he pulls me into a tight hug. I hold on to him, grateful. He smells like sugar and the musky cologne he always wears.
“You want me to stay here and close?” he asks. “Go home if you need to.”
“That’s the last place I want to be,” I mumble into his shoulder.
“You want to talk about it?”
I shake my head. He holds me tighter for a second, then lets go. A soft smile plays on his face.
“You’re even pretty when you cry, you know that?”
A smile sneaks onto my face. “Shut up.”
“Grace?”
I look up and there you are, standing in the doorframe between the kitchen and the shop. Your arms are crossed and you do not look happy.
I turn to Matt. “Can you give us a minute?”
He nods. “Sure. Come out whenever you’re ready.”
You walk in and brush past Matt without a glance while the door swings shut behind you.
“He was all over you” is the first thing you say to me after Matt’s back out front. “What the hell?”
“I was upset,” I say. I’m pissed that you don’t seem to care. I thought it was only The Giant who ignored my tears. “He was just being nice.”
“That didn’t look like nice,” you say. Your eyes are a storm-tossed sea, your lips just a slash in your skin.
I think of my naked mother, the way her face crumpled like tissue paper, and I lose my temper.
“You know what? I don’t care what it looked like. If you haven’t noticed, I’m crying. I’m having a fucking terrible day and you’re being a jealous idiot.”
We stare at each other for a moment and then you cross the kitchen in seconds and wrap your arms around me.
“You’re right,” you say. “I’m sorry.”
I sigh and breathe you in. I haven’t seen you in days and the smell of you is like coming home, in a good way.
“What happened?” you murmur against my hair.
I shake my head. “I don’t want to talk about it.”
“Something at home?”
“Yeah.”
Your fingers run down my spine, like you’re playing guitar, easing the tension out of me.
“On a scale of one to ten,” you say, “how much do you like this job?”
“I guess six. Sometimes seven or eight. Why?”
“I was thinking maybe you could come work at Guitar Center with me.”
I smile, looking up at you. “I don’t know anything about guitars.”
“I’ll teach you.”
“I’d distract you. We’d both be fired.” I pull out of your arms and grab my apron. “Besides, I have seniority here. They work with my schedule when I have shows. I like everyone—”
“I don’t want you working here anymore,” you say softly. “Okay?”
You shove your hands deep in your pockets. Bite your lip. Your eyes are trained on me, waiting.
“Why? Because of Matt?”
You nod. “How would you feel if I worked with Summer?”
“I mean, I wouldn’t like it, but—”
“Grace. You would freak out if she looked at me the way Matt looks at you.”
“Matt doesn’t look at me any way.”
“He does. I told you, he stares at your ass when you lean down to take cookies out of the oven. He touches you all the time.”
“What?”
“Please.” You step forward. “Even if you don’t want to work at Guitar Center, just … work somewhere else. I’d do it for you.”
“But I just got a raise. I get good shifts—”
“Don’t worry about the money,” you say. “I can make up the difference.”
“Gav, I can’t let you do that.”
“You tell me you love me more than anything, but then you won’t leave this shitty job. What am I supposed to think, Grace?”
“Hey.” I move closer, wrap my arms around your waist. “I do love you more than anything.”
“Yeah. Whatever.”
You pull away from me and head to the door.
“Gavin! Come on.”
But you keep walking.
Later, when I’m in bed, I stare at the slats that hold the bunk bed above me. There are still a few stray glow-in-the-dark stars stuck to the wood. I remember putting them up there when we first moved here. They don’t glow anymore. Now they’re just cheap plastic.
There’s a tap at my window. I pull back the covers, slow. I don’t really know if I want to talk to you right now.