Page 63 of Catching Feeling

I’m up and gone, sprinting out of the living room into the hallway with him heavy on my heels.

15

viv

More Than Flowers

It feels weird to be spending the weekend back home, and I think it’s because the apartment no longer feels like my home.

Reese’s house feels like home now.

And that terrifies me down to my bones.

It was only supposed to be a means to an end, a solution to a problem I never expected to have. But I feel so comfortable there. I feel at ease, like myself again. That scares me. It makes me feel like maybe the walls I’ve built up so carefully to keep him out are beginning to crumble as if they’re made of something so incredibly brittle.

I’ve been at my mom’s since Friday, after Reese insisted on dropping me off because he didn’t trust my car to go so far without being looked at by a mechanic. Of course, I told him that he was insane and didn’t need to drive me over two hours each way, but he claimed he was going to be out this way.

Highly doubtful, but at least this time, he didn’t try to throw money at fixing my car and looked genuinely worried, so I let him drive me.

And now, after two days, I’m itching for the solace of my own space and the familiarity of my home at his house.

The nagging voice in the back of my head asks, Or is it Reese I’m missing?

I tamp down the thought and force myself back to the present because I’m not even going to try and unpack that right now.

“Mom, I think there’s legitimately something growing in here,” I mutter, raising my shirt to cover my nose like it will somehow lessen the stench radiating from inside the fridge.

I glance over at her sitting at the bar, picking at a piece of laminate that’s started to peel from the countertop. She looks even smaller than the last time I saw her, which was just a couple of weeks ago, and it makes my stomach feel heavy with worry.

I feel like I live in a constant state of anxiety and stress lately. Except for those few stolen moments with Reese.

“I don’t even smell it,” she says, and my eyebrow arches in surprise.

“God, it’s rank.” I slam the door shut and walk over to the cabinet where we keep cleaning supplies and start searching for a pair of gloves. Maybe some goggles?

I’m going to need five showers after this. After rifling through bottles for a minute, I finally find a pair of latex gloves shoved to the very back.

Thank god.

“I was thinking, maybe we could go for a walk this afternoon?” I say, turning back to face Mom, now armed with the proper gear to take on cleaning out the fridge.

Her shoulder dips. “Maybe later? I’m not really feeling like getting out right now.”

My lips fall into a frown, but I nod. I have to get her out of this house, get her out in the fresh air and some sunshine on her face.

“Okay, later, then. Before I leave.”

Emotion flickers on her face, and the gnawing feeling in my gut returns, an almost permanent feeling at this point.

I hate leaving her, but I don’t know that staying would even help at this point. And every time I offer, she almost seems more upset, insisting that I go back to school. I want to broach the subject of her seeing a therapist again or getting some professional help, but every time I do, she completely shuts down.

We’re not taking steps forward at this point, only steps backward.

I quickly power through getting the fridge cleaned out, throwing out old, moldy food, and disinfecting it from top to bottom. The entire time, I rattle off to Mom about school and how classes are coming. She asks an occasional question but mostly stays quiet and lets me do the talking.

“Let me go throw this out. I’ll be right back, okay?” I hold the trash bag in front of me, away from my face, still not believing that she’s been living in here with that smell for lord only knows how long.

Most of my weekend was spent cleaning and washing the piles of laundry from the past two weeks. It doesn’t seem like much but I feel like this is the only way I can help. I know that if I’m doing it, then she’ll have fresh clothes and towels and a clean space.

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