“Hi, baby.” She waves before tossing her cigarette on the ground and stepping on it.
Irritation consumes me when she leans down and gives me a kiss on the cheek; her smoky breath makes my skin crawl.
“I thought you said you were quitting.” It’s the only greeting I can force out without jumping down her throat.
“Oh, that’s the only one today. No biggie.”
It’s always only one, when in reality it’s a pack.
“You’re late, Mom. I told you I have a meeting right after this, so I can’t stay long.”
“You can always make time for me. You always do.” She leans over and pats my hand, which I snag away from her.
“No,” I snap. Her face contorts in surprise. It might be the smoke, or the fact that she’s thoughtlessly late, or maybe because I haven’t seen Amelia in over a week since she called saying she couldn’t make it to volunteer. Whatever it is, I lose my shit. “I can’t run on your time anymore. If you can’t show up on fucking time, it’s your problem, not mine.”
“Aaron.” She presses her hand to her chest and leans back in her chair. “It wasn’t my fault I’m late.”
“It’s never your fault. You never take responsibility for anything.”
“Where is this coming from?”
I hate that she’s so clueless. She doesn’t get it. She’s so fucking blind to what it’s like to be a human being that she doesn’t understand how much she’s hurt me over the years.
I run my hand through my hair and pocket my phone. “Forget it, Mom. I have to go.”
“Why are you leaving? We didn’t get to have breakfast.”
Looking at her, I put my sunglasses on and say, “If you showed up on time, we could have had breakfast together, but you were forty-five minutes late, Mom. I’m not waiting around for you anymore.”
“Aaron, please don’t leave.” She starts her reliable fake cry that washes right over me now, having zero effect.
“I’ll talk to you later.”
I turn to leave when she shouts, “Wait.” When I give her one last glance, she asks, “Can you spare me a twenty, so I can at least get something to eat?”
Fucking hell.
Shaking my head, I pull out my wallet and toss a twenty on the table. “Bye, Mom.”
“I love you, baby.” As I walk away, I can hear her smacking a pack of cigarettes on her palm. Some things will never fucking change. She can afford her vice, but not food.
The drive to work has me itching to make a wrong turn so I can head home and take a shower. That smell, that fucking smell.
Smoke.
It’s a smell that floods my memory, reminding me of empty promises, missed opportunities, and embarrassment. How many times did I bury my head under my covers, hoping and praying she would stop?
Stop everything.
The drinking, the drugs, the smoking. I wanted it to all stop.
But it never did. And it probably never will.
I’m thirty years old and still plagued by her choices. Sometimes all I feel is hate . . . hate for the woman who brought me into this world. Hate for the circumstances in my life.
***
I’m ten minutes late. I hate being fucking late.
Anxiety washes over me as I honk my horn, urging the fucker in front of me to move a little faster. Road rage consumes me as my hands grip the steering wheel tightly, threatening to break the damn thing in half from the anger raging through me. It all started with my mom this morning and the rest of the day went downhill. We ordered the wrong tile for one of the master bathrooms we’ve been working on. Racer, acting like a dumbass, jumped on a piece of wood and wound up smacking himself in the head, giving him a concussion and eliminating him from the jobsite for a few days, putting us even further behind. Now I’m fucking late because construction on Southern Tier Expressway is ongoing and to get from my gym to the warehouse, I have no choice but to take it.
Finally the jackass in front of me turns right. I press down on the gas and speed toward the warehouse. Within two minutes I’m cornering on what feels like two wheels into the parking lot and turning my truck off. I didn’t get a chance to take a shower or change out of my gym clothes so I’m coming in hot with only a fresh layer of deodorant coating my underarms.
When I jog through the entrance, everyone is hard at work, putting in the final touches. Next week is Thanksgiving, but more importantly, it’s Amelia’s birthday. Is her boyfriend going to come up and visit? Is she spending the holiday with her dad? I wish I knew.
Things have been strained between us ever since our little pizza party with Amanda, who seems to have killed my chances at moving in on Amelia, or at least made me feel guilty about it. She’s right, Amelia isn’t a cheater.
That doesn’t mean I don’t want her, that I’m not desperate to do everything in my power to make her mine again. It also doesn’t mean I’m backing down from Trey. Not going to fucking happen.
In the brightly lit corner in the back of the warehouse, Amelia is wearing protective goggles, hard at work with a saw in her hand. Relief washes over me. She called in last week and didn’t make it, and part of me wondered if she’s avoiding me. Maybe she was, but I’m glad to see her this week.
Eager to say hi, I’m about to jog over to her when someone grabs my shoulder.
“Didn’t think you would make it today,” Mr. Buster says as he greets me while holding his trusty clipboard at his side.
“Sorry about being late. Traffic was bad, and I had kind of a shitty day today. I lost track of time at the gym.”
Mr. Buster waves me off. “No need to apologize, Aaron. You are my most dedicated volunteer. It’s okay if you’re a little late.”
“It’s never okay to be late,” I mutter. God, I hate this reaction. It’s all because of her. The hairs on my skin prickle, and a light sheen of sweat coats my body. I feel the anger I carry on a daily basis start to boil in the pit of my stomach. To say she’s a hot button for me is an understatement.
“Hey, are you okay?” Mr. Buster turns me to face him. “Your face is a little pale.”
Shake it the fuck off, Walters. Don’t let her invade this safe space you’ve created.
I take a deep breath and nod my head. “Yeah, I’m good. Just a little lightheaded from trying to get here quickly.” I hold up my water bottle. “I’ll down this before I pick up any heavy machinery.”
“Okay.” Mr. Buster eyes me skeptically up and down. “How’s things with Miss Santos?” I can see the knowing gleam in his eyes, the gleam that says, “Have you asked her out yet?”
“We’re just friends.” I pat his shoulder and start to walk away. “Thanks for the kind words though.”
“I don’t know,” Mr. Buster calls out quietly. “I see the way she looks at you when you’re not looking. Those hungry eyes of hers speak volumes for more than just friends.” He raises an eyebrow at me as he quirks his lip to the side. “But just my observation. Get to work, Mr. Walters.”