Page 126 of Mayhem and Minnie

“It means exactly what you think it means.” I wink at her.

I start the car anew and steer it back onto the highway.

Minnie opens her mouth to speak but then closes it. A myriad of emotions plays across her face, but the most conspicuous one is confusion.

She doesn’t know what to make of my confession.

The rest of the journey, she mulls over my words as she stares out the window. She fiddles with her fingers continuously, biting on her nails.

I pretend I don’t watch her, but I do.

To my surprise, the fact that she’s eating her nails doesn’t faze me. Why, I put my mouth on top of her blood-stained one. Cow blood. And I still haven’t retched.

Why, I haven’t even reached for my mouthwash.

That in itself is a miracle.

Maybe I don’t need therapy. Maybe all along, I just needed a Minnie.

Correction. Not a Minnie. This Minnie. Because there’s only one of her.

Only one in the entire world.

And she happened to fall into my lap.

I’ve never considered myself much of a lucky person. I mean, sure, I recognize the privilege I have in being born into a rich family, but aside from that, I don’t think I’ve ever been happy in my life.

If I were to think back on my childhood, I can’t remember a time when I didn’t live in fear—for myself or for my family. Perhaps that’s the reason why I don’t remember laughing or smiling like this before.

But since Minnie came into my life…

It’s almost as if I’m no longer the old Marlowe.

I’m just…her Marlowe.

We reach the restaurant and as we get out of the car, the manager greets us.

“Keep your head down,” I advise Minnie.

She does as told, a surprise in itself.

“Welcome, Mr. Spencer-Astor. Please follow me.”

“Thank you,” I say and incline my head.

To ensure our privacy, my mother has booked a private room. On the way there, we pass by a few people, but Minnie remains glued to my side, shielding her face from everyone.

The manager tells us we’ve arrived at the destination before taking his leave.

“Wait,” Minnie suddenly says. “What if your mother doesn’t like me? I want her to like me.”

“I don’t think you have to worry about that,” I mutter drily just as the door to the private room opens to reveal my mother.

“Marlowe!” she cries out and all but jumps on me, hugging me to her chest.

I tense, but I allow her this moment.

Physical touch is important for her. It’s always been her love language. And though I may not be the biggest fan of skinship, I don’t have the heart to tear her from me. Usually, I allow her this once a year, on her birthday. It’s the one thing she desires that money cannot buy. This year, though, it seems she’ll be getting two hugs.

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