Say It Again-Tell Me I'm Not Just A Deal To You

There were more unpleasant manners in which to come home than by walking in on your mother spread-eagled, against the glass back door, being eviscerated by her fiancé. But I could not think of any of them while standing at the door with my hand clenched around the door handle, fighting-and losing-a battle with my gag reflex.

"Yes, Dean! Sì. Down there, up there, dio mio-stop it." Her choking screams, muffled by his hand over her mouth as he fought not to wake the baby lying above, dripped into my head, searing themselves into my core memory.

The first automatic response of screaming, "MY EYES, MY EYES!" à la Phoebe Buffay and running out of the house, town, state, and world with my arms waving frantically in the air. Alas, I could not do so. One, for the fact that my three-year-old child slept upstairs and I was in no mood to abandon her. Two, due to the reason that at the age of twenty-six, I shared a place with my mama, although within the stunning mini mansion my brother had built her.

She owned a greater stake to this dwelling than I.

Third? No kidding, Mama. Kudos to you on living your life to the fullest.

Spitting a small amount in my mouth, I gently closed the door and pitched myself back into my bright red 1999 GMC Sam, giving them a break. I slammed the creaky driver's door. In revenge, it ripped off its hinges, landing onto the muddy ground with an indignant thud.

Closing my eyes, I strangulated the steering wheel, breathing deep.

Everything's all right. Better than right. Great, even. You have a place to live. A stable job. A kid who you love.

My cell phone flirted with the stretch of my front diner pocket, and the uniform comprised the pale pink minidress cropped to moon as a napkin and spotted apron covered in a spectrum of indeterminate stains from tomato sauce to coffee to puke and grease.

What am I saying? It was one of excess and decadence, but somebody had to do it. My eyes focused on the image of my best friend Timothy's face on my screen. It was a photo of her with her head thrown back, laughing wildly, my brother's demonic face pushed into her neck as he kissed her, in the background the Eiffel Tower.

I set this as her contact picture to remind myself of the only stain on her otherwise sunny personality: she was bonking Lucifer's twin, aka my controlling, domineering older brother.

I mean, they were married. And super cute together. Maybe I was just annoyed because everybody around me was in a couple, bubble-wrapped in their own snuggle worlds. My last previous boyfriends had been battery-operated and silicone.

I moved my finger across the screen but didn't speak. I was afraid I would puke if I opened my mouth.

"Klaus," Timothy laughed hysterically on the other end of the line. Pete growled in the background in that grizzly-bear way he always did when he kissed her.

I wasn't green with envy Timothy was happily ever aftering with her. She'd earned it by civilizing my half-civilized brother.

"You won't believe who we just ran into in Cannes!" she shrieked.

Closing eyes again, I chatted myself out of a spontaneous mental breakdown.

Ed Sheeran? Taylor Swift? King Charles? God?

Their lives were filled with celebrity parties and Pinterest-perfect holidays and chow as well photo-perfect to gobble.

It wasn't Timothy's fault I'd just finished a twelve-hour shift on my nowhere job working at Jacka's Diner. It wasn't Timothy's fault I was a single mom. It wasn't Timothy's fault I was still living with my mother. It wasn't her fault my life was the middle section of a boring-as-sin book, the pages stuck together, a never-ending loop of to-do lists and adulting.

"Klaus? You there?"

Timothy growled after several moments of quiet.

Sadly.

I could swear I heard Pete whisper the phrase "stand still and just take it." Good grief, who'd I off in my previous life to score tonight?

Wind screamed and twirled in a nasty circle, sneaking into the car like a pickpocket, crawling into my marrow.

"Pete," Timothy reprimanded, "I'm trying to eat here."

"So am I."

Oh god. Would Child Protective Services step in on a twenty-six-year-old?

"I just walked in on Mama and Dean kissing each other by the backyard door," I babbled.

This is why you're bussering tables and not harboring government secrets, Klaus.

"Holy crap," Timothy-or Dot, given the sprinkling of freckles on her nose and cheeks, proof God had sprinkled her with fairy dust-retorted. "I mean, go Zeta. She's owed some action, but also.sorry for your loss." Timothy snort-laughed. "You know, of appetite, sex drive, etc."

"It gets worse." I forced myself to smile, mostly so she could catch it in my voice. "They're also going to leave a mark, and you know I'm the one who cleans the windows around here."

Jokes aside, my mother had endured a wretched marriage to my father. When he passed away six years ago, I hadn't thought she would jump into love again. I was pleased one of us had. Hell knew I wasn't going anywhere near another man, ever, with a ten-foot pole.

"Ready for a sibling?" Timothy teased. From the uncomfortable silence that lingered, I gathered that Pete had stopped attempting to grope his wife and was finally paying attention to what individuals were saying.

"Thanks. I already barfed in my mouth."

"I'd bet you might be pregnant, but I've known nuns who have more action than you." Timothy laughed. "Didn't she know you were coming?"

"I was going to do a double shift, but the night was slow, so Jacka gave me a head start for the day."

"Where are you now?" Timothy inquired.

"Taking advantage of the heat of Sam." I lay out to wipe off the dust from a thick layer that had accumulated on my dashboard. "But the driver's side just literally came off, so I am not even warm and cozy."

"This isn't exactly your day," said my best friend pitifully. "I'm sending cake." Stop. "And a charger for your Magic Wand, as I figure you always lose yours."

Pete gagged indignantly in the background. Good. I had had to witness and hear him defiling my childhood friend once a month since they became a couple. Least I could do was inflict similar damage back.

Chargers have legs," I objected, fighting down a laugh that was metallic and rusty on my tongue. "That's the only explanation for why they always disappear. So are you in Cannes at the moment?"

Pete and Timothy split their time between New York and London. Pete had two star restaurants there, but they liked to travel.

"Yup. We're going back to London tomorrow morning, probably for a good stretch of time. Pete is opening a new restaurant in Edinburgh. He'd like me and Rosemary close by."

Rosemary was my niece. She'd just turned two and had her mom's huge blue eyes, her dad's wild onyx curls, and the neighboring opera singer's lungs. The girl could scream her way to a catastrophic earthquake.

"Klaus..." Timothy hesitated. "I have an idea."

She and Pete always had ideas. They were all about how to attempt to fix my fucked-up life. Not that I held it against them. My life was the sort of pathetic that shouted rescue.

"No," I groaned, rubbing my eye sockets with the heels of my palms. "All I have left is my pride."

"You sure you still got that?" Pete drawled scornfully.

"Ha-ha. Fuck you."

No thanks, Klaus. And as a side note, your standards have really slipped the last few years. Incest is not cute kink."

"Shuddup, shuddup, shuddup." I mashed my gas pedal, wishing someone dead.

"We're going to need someone to remain in our New York apartment," Timothy steamrolled on, oblivious to our shenanigans. "Why don't you do it? You've always wanted to live in New York."

Yes, but before.

Before I knew I'd never go to college.

Before I got pregnant and had a child at twenty-three.

Before the baby daddy dumped me in public for the crooked town mayor, with whom he'd been carrying on an affair.

"Dude, what are you talking about? I can't afford life in New York." I laughed cruelly.

Suppose there is something to pay for?" Pete cut in, his voice black, gruff, and forever sneering. "We will employ someone regardless. You'll not pay rent, because you'll live with us in our flat. For food, they'll bring that to your front door twice weekly. You only need to clean the fridge and the pantry. Utilities are free too. I'll add in some admin to do and have you on company payroll-

"No." A frightened squeak fought its way past my larynx. "I don't want to be one of your nepo hires." Ambrose "Pete" Mikasa disliked nearly everyone, so when he found someone he didn't quite hate, he would hire them in a heartbeat. That had been the case with how he'd worked with his childhood friend, Flinn, for five years before they went their separate ways. It was why he got along with his business partner, Shane.

Why he employed Mama to work as a "social media influencer" for the bonkers figure of $250K a year, without even having Instagram, TikTok, Facebook, or X accounts.

"I don't know how to say this, Klaus, but your life circumstances mean you can't have this kind of ego," Pete said sardonically. "Take the job."

Timothy gasped, and I heard her slap him. "Pete, what an asshole."

"Promise that I'll be able to say that tonight, later, and that I'll get her a new car to go along with the apartment," Pete whispered.

Yup. I am never getting over this conversation.

"I don't want your apartment in New York," I gritted out. "I couldn't afford childcare, and I'm not working a fake job and living a kept woman's life at twenty-six." I was not a sugar baby. I was making my own way in the world, even though I was doing a bad job at it.

"You're being unreasonable and obstinate," Pete accused.

"You're being rude and arrogant."

Pete snorted. "That can't be news."

"Your love is strangling me," I told him.

"Your attitude is driving us all crazy," he shot back. "Please," Timothy jumped in. "Just...think about it, okay? You can look for work there. Maybe something in marketing?" she suggested cheerfully, and I felt my brother kissing his way down her skin once more, and my stomach rolled with a combination of anger, irritation, and frustration. "We'll figure something out with childcare for Grav. There are plenty of options. You need to get out of there, Klaus," Timothy whispered. "Your mission there is complete. Your mom no longer needs you.

She's engaged, for crying out loud.

It's time to take care of yourself."

Fussier said than done. I had no idea how to do that. I'd never ever taken care of myself alone. I'd always given my life to someone else, either it was Mama or Gravity.

No. I clenched my lower lip, calculating in my mind how much it was going to cost to fix Sam's bloodied door. "Now, if you don't mind, it's over ten minutes. They should have done by now. I need to go retire on my fainting couch."

"If you mean the sofa in the conservatory...don't. Pete and I christened it the last time we slept over."

"Timothy," I bellowed.

"Also, the entire kitchen, guest bedroom, and all showers in the house," Pete said slowly. "Seriously, stay away from the entire fucking house if the idea of humans porking on its surfaces bothers you." I slammed the phone on the counter and screamed into the emptiness for two straight minutes. By the time I got home, Mama and Dean were no longer staging Fifty Shades of Grey Hair in the living room. Thank God for small blessings. The house was dark and quiet, aside from the buzzing of the fridge. I refilled my water glass, did the dishes in the sink, and went upstairs to Gravity's room. It was loved, with pink flowered pastel wallpaper, a toddler bed Dean had made himself and painted purple, her favorite color, and white bookshelves crammed with Grav's beloved books. It was messy, with science kits and LEGO spread out all over the shaggy carpet and her little desk, coloring books and traceable letters on every surface.

I gave everything to Gravity.

I wanted her to realize that she could be whatever she wanted.

I went over to her bedside, my heart constricting my throat. Every shift I worked, every tip I brought home, I always thought of her. She added zest to my boring, uneventful, gray life.

Gravity was the force that kept me down. The hard earth beneath my feet. Scooting down to peer at my beautiful girl, I push a rigid hickory curl behind her ear. Even her ear shells were flawless. A laugh bubbled in the depths of my stomach, twisting up before I swallowed it back. When Gravity was born, she looked like an angry old man. Now, she was beautiful-and the spitting image of her escape artist dad. The same smeared, curled eyelashes framed the most dramatic of eyes: green-yellow irises surrounded by dark blue rims. I followed the tip of my finger around the curve of her dignified, tipped nose, watching as her cherry-red lips curled into a small smile. What was she dreaming about?

What would she be when she grew up?

In my fantasies-the ones I allowed myself to have of late-I dreamed of kicking doors down one by one for her, helping her to reach these heights and goals her heart ever desired.

Could I really provide her with all that here, in the small town of Staindrop, Maine? The same Staindrop that boasted one school, one daycare, no opportunities, and barely more than a handful of people? Even the new mall and sparkling hotel they built a few years ago hadn't made the quaint beach town more habitable than it was.

What if Grav were to become like me, stuck in a situation she wasn't happy in, settling for what was present over what was possible?

Bending down, I left a gentle kiss on her cheek, my breath caught so I wouldn't wake her. Sleep tight, my sweet baby, my heart sang. Mommy loves you. It was ridiculous, but the final straw that finished me off was when I bunched up my panties after twenty minutes to finally pee after eight hours. I was sitting on the toilet staring down at my frumpy beige cotton panties and I thought, "I don't even own panties in any other color than beige." And that I really didn't have lingerie. No fun clothes anymore.

No heels I could wear out.

No friends to go out with.

My crumpled, cheap underwear was a perfect metaphor for my whole life. Pale, unimportant, an afterthought-something dull and miserable and practical. With a pang, I knew I wanted...well, more.undefinedLife wasn't black and white. Either glamorous Cannes fantasy adventures or drab, never-ending diner shifts and household tasks. I didn't have to live the life my luck conspired against me.

The last bad judgment I ever made, it was in the form of a burst condom against the arm of the couch, cheek to the top of a cushion. It had borne me my daughter. While I loved Gravity above life itself and would never go back on the path of that so-called mistake, my life had changed forever because of it. I'd become a craven, terrified of making mistakes.

This, though, was a mistake. This town. This job. This pointless life.

I ought to have had more, and Grav ought to have had more too. I might always go back. But something fresh alive and mutinous and untamed inside me said I wouldn't. That after getting out, I wouldn't glance back. That I'd continue running. I felt like waking from a coma, years and years. Like I was emerging after sitting on the bottom of a puddly pond.

I grabbed my phone from the edge of the sink in a hurry and called Timothy before even flushing.

"Dot?"

"Please let me say yes."

"I'm saying yes."

"Attagirl."

KLAUS

"Shit, shit, fuck, shit." I banged my forehead against the steering wheel, my ponytail disheveled to meet the rest of my life.

In the rear window, I could see Grav's jaw hanging open, her moon-wide eyes wide as the planet itself. She sat strapped into her car seat, enveloping Mr. Mushroom in her chubby penis-faced pink lovies. The little girl was irretrievably stuck to the toy. A toy from Timothy that had been given to me but had ended up becoming my toddler's transitional object.

"Mommy!" she reprimanded on a gasp. "Grandma will be mad when she hears."

"I'll give you Mommy's soda if you won't tell her." I held out a can of Coke as a bribe.

"Okay!"

Our new life in New York had started on a brokedown car that wouldn't even roll to Pete's Fifth Avenue high-rise building and a twenty-car line blaring and yelling at me.

I fought with my keys, trying to get the engine started. I was actually ten feet away from the doors of Pete's parking garage when Sam decided to plotz.

"Wake up, wake up, wake up." I yanked the handbrake up and down and up again. I was furious. This idiot car.

When I bought Sam two years ago, puffed up with pride at having turned down Pete's charity in the form of a nicer secondhand Silverado, it had a hundred thousand miles on it and rusty doors that liked to jiggle in the wind whenever I drove more than forty miles an hour. But it was five hundred dollars below book, and I couldn't resist the bargain. It left me money for Grav's swim lessons and the monthly book club subscription her preschool teacher recommended. I was starting to see the foolishness of my ways.

I tried to turn the ignition again. Zero. Sam was gone like Armie Hammer's career.

Another ear-piercing explosion of honks echoed through my head. Road ragers pounded their fists out their windows, screaming profanities and trying to cut through the other lane.

"Move this piece of crap outta the road, asshole."

"Learn to drive stick, rice turd."

"D'you see that ass on that woman? She could ride my stick any day of the week."

My face burned with embarrassment. Why me? I wished life would give me fewer lessons and more money.

I crept out of the car, my neck twisted as I looked along the row of furious drivers behind me to try to assess who seemed the least psychopathic and could perhaps be bribed to assist me in shoving my car toward the parking gate.

"Mommy, I wanna get out," Gravity whined, her pink Skechers kicking the seat in front of her.

"In a minute, honey."

"I'm boooored."

More honking. More cursing. Fifth Avenue was a four-lane street, gung-ho lined with midrise buildings on the west and Central Park on the east. One lane was reserved for buses, and one was jammed with trucks. That left two lanes, and I was taking up one of them.

I need help with my car to this gate." I gestured with my arms in the general direction of the building. I was sweating and rubbing under my navy-blue sweatshirt and loose mom jeans. My hair was a mess. If I were a crier, I'd be crying.

"Sounds like a you problem." The guy behind me spat phlegm through his window.

Welp, I'm not in Maine anymore, that's for sure.

"Unless you want to pay for it." My driver looked at me gratefully, up and down.

"Sure." I leaned forward, grinning blankly at him. "Do you cover knees to the nuts and sucker punches?"

"Bitch," he growled, closing his window in my face.

"Mommy!" Gravity shrieked louder. "I wanna get out. Out. Out. Out."

"Just a sec, sweetie."

"I want soda!"

Trembling, I pulled out my phone from the back pocket of my jeans. I couldn't call Mama or Pete-I was so desperate to do this alone. Desperate not to be this needy, flailing, train wreck of a woman who couldn't seem to get anything right.

I called the insurance company instead, my whole body breaking out in hives.

This was a blunder. I should never have arrived here. Seriously, what was the point of coming here? I couldn't even look after myself when I stayed with my mother back home; New York City was twenty sizes larger than me.

I was strutting back and forth behind my trunk, awaiting the representative to respond to my call, when Sam's back door burst open. It took a moment to comprehend what was transpiring. Grav had endured enough following the eight-hour road trip, unbuckled herself from the backseat independently, and now she was slipping out, tumbling flat on her ass in the busy street and rolling into the next lane.

"Jesus!" I yelled frantically, dropping my phone on the ground.