Page 12 of Holding On

Maybe he's right. Maybe there's no harm in talking to her, but I still don't want to. I've had it with her, and don't feel I owe her anything just because I'm her daughter.

"Hey." Mike nudges my foot under the table. "What do I always say?"

"Eat your vegetables." I half smile.

He chuckles. "What else?"

"I don't know. You say a lot so it could be anything."

He looks me in the eye. "Be the better person. Don't let other people's shit bring you down. They have their own issues, and if they choose to express themselves in a negative way, then let them. But don't take part in it. Be the better person."

I roll my eyes. "Sometimes your inspirational speeches are really annoying, especially this late at night when my feet are killing me and I smell like chicken and cleaning supplies."

Today I had to clean three houses then go straight to The Chicken Shack. There was no time to go home and shower, like I usually do.

Mike picks up the chicken leg he was eating. "Go to bed. I can eat alone."

"You could." I pick up a chicken wing. "But what fun would that be?"

"You're right." He shoves the plate of chicken toward me. "Have another and tell me one of your work stories."

I love chicken wings so Mike always lets me have them.

"Max had some new songs but I can't remember the lyrics. And he thinks you're too skinny so eat up."

Mike takes another piece of chicken and we sit and talk in our dimly lit kitchen. In our tiny, cheap apartment. With the sound of the faucet dripping because the landlord refuses to fix it.

It's not what I dreamed of when I was a little girl. Living in a run-down apartment. Working two jobs. Barely making ends meet. My brother left without a leg.

And yet this moment, eating fried chicken with Mike in the wee hours of the morning, makes me happy.

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