Page 21 of I Choose You

“He doesn’t like animals.” I deadpan.

“What?” She rears her head from the stick of color to look at me. “He said that?”

I nod, pressing my lips together. His dislike for animals is a ridiculous reason for wanting to bail, but it’s not only that. It’s the way he handled it and treated me afterward. When I think of Wes, tiny red flags shoot out of silly clown guns. It’s the behavior—or lack thereof—that makes me want to flee.

“You don’t think you can make it work?”

“What?” It comes out fast, and I scoff. “So I can think about how much he hates animals, which is how I make a living? I’m more interested in cleaning Rosco’s shits than dealing with a guy like that.” She swipes an extra layer of crimson over her full lips and listens. “I’m going home, Nel. Are you coming or staying?”

She looks at me in the mirror, her lips slightly parted. “Girl, have you seen Trent? Ain’t no way. Ain’t no how.”

“I’m not going back to that table.” I dig into my bag and rummage for my phone. Why the hell did I mindlessly toss it in here earlier? “I’m hitching an Uber and calling it a night. I’m worried about leaving you by yourself, plus I know it’s only a matter of time before I get tired.”

Nelly looks at me through the mirror with unspoken concern when I finally find my phone and look up. “I’ll tell Wes you weren’t feeling well.” She shrugs nonchalantly. “I’m sure he’ll take a hint and head out. A little alone time with Trent is exactly what I need.”

I sigh and watch two women enter the restroom. I crowd in at the sink to let them pass toward the stalls. “Are you sure?” I pause for a beat. I might not like Wes, but I care about Nelly. “If you need me to stay, I will.”

“When have you known me to be unsure of myself?” she questions, lip-smacking one last coat of red on her lips before wiping away the excess lipstick.

“Call if you need anything. I’ll hightail it back in a jiff if you need me.”

She shoves the lipstick in her purse and zips it. “Text me, so I know you got home safe.”

I wrap my arms around her and squeeze. “Thank you, Nel.”

She tilts her head against mine. “Don’t worry. We’ll try again soon. Trial and error.” A second passes, and she pulls away. “Love you always, babe.”

We go our separate ways when we exit the ladies’ room. The cooler air outside The Canary hits me differently than before. So much so that I tug my sweater out of my bag and weave my arms through it. I sink into the warmth it gives as I wait for my Uber. I glide into the backseat when it arrives and dread all the reminders of Mason I’ll see as soon as I walk through the door.

9

Mackenzie

If there’s one flaw I can tack next to my mother’s name, it’s that she’s a packrat. Her apartment is packed to the brim with every little thing she’s grown attached to over the years. From knickknacks and succulents to gifts the Sacks brothers and I have given her for the holidays. There’s not a spot left for something new, though if I were to bring her something, I’m sure she’d find a place for it. It’s one of her strengths; finding a place for things that belong. And to her, everything belongs.

It’s one of my favorite things about her, aside from her honesty and ability to calm me so effortlessly. Then again, that’s how it should be.

“Mom?” I make myself at home in the cramped foyer of her apartment. Aside from the small area, the floors are carpeted, and each ceiling wears that popcorn paint that’s aggravating as hell to scrape off. It’s a two-bedroom with a view of the Cedarash River that runs through multiple of the surrounding counties. It’s not huge, but it’s spacious enough. She’s made a valiant effort to make it home since I moved for college.

It’s nowhere near similar to where I grew up, but it’s perfect for her and allows cats. Plus, I don’t know what I would do if she were an extra three hours from me.

Clattering echoes down the hallway, and I do my best to kick off my boots quickly and trail down the hallway toward the sound to see what the hell is going on.

“In here, honey!”

I make it to the doorway of her spare bedroom as Henny, her American shorthair, brushes against my leg. “What the heck are you doing?”

She doesn’t bother looking over her shoulder as she struggles to get a box from the very top of a stack of them. The color of her hair matches mine and is clipped back with one of those claw clips. I’d offer a hand, but she’s taller than I am. “I decided it was time to get rid of some of this crap.”

I blink rapidly. “What? Who are you and where is my mother? You know, Della Jones. Where is she? Her daughter is looking for her,” I crack wisely. I reach down to grab Henny after he rubs against me again and I snuggle into him. He meows, and it’s almost like he’s backing me up. It makes me grin as my mother finally gets a solid grip on the box and pulls it down.

“Oh, hush. Henny and I don’t need you being wise, now, do we, Hen-Hen?”

He meows again and nuzzles his head into the crook of my neck.

“I’m just surprised, is all,” I tell her. “You keep everything.”

She walks toward me, her soft almond-colored eyes assessing me as she stops to peck a kiss on my cheek before she squeezes by and heads for the living room. Every now and then, I’m reminded of the Irish attributes my father gave me when she looks at me. Like the hazel green of my eyes and the freckles that splatter my face, but I always come back to the areas where I’m similar to my mom. Like our love for animals and the way my waist is as curvy as hers. Today is no different.

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