Page 30 of How to Lose at Love

six

ryann

“You cross my mind on Thursdays. That’s usually when I take out the garbage.”

– Ryann Winters in a text she never sent Diego

“What’s my baby girl doing?”

The sound of my mom’s voice on the other end of the line puts a smile on my face, the way it does every single time, unless I’m in trouble—which almost never happens.

I can hear something in the background that sounds suspiciously like a pan being set on the stove top.

“Did you just have dinner?”

“We did.”

“What was it?”

“Eh, eggs. I know it’s boring, but Dad and I both had late sessions and I didn’t feel like making anything else. We settled on breakfast for dinner.”

Oh. If she’d said they were having pot roast or chicken cordon bleu, I might have been jealous and had FOMO. And let’s not forget about the fact that she and Dad are separated yet still living under the same roof as if I were still a child and they didn’t want to shatter the bubble they created for me.

“What’d you have for dinner, sweetie?”

“I ate at work. Kyle made me a burger and fries.”

“Remind me again—do you have to pay for food while you’re at work?”

“Not if I’m working. Only if I’m dining in with friends or whatever.”

“Huh.” She makes a humming sound. “That’s nice.”

My mother doesn’t entirelylovethe fact that I’m waitressing; she’d rather have me working on campus in the psychology or science department, or applying to be a teacher’s assistant or at least something academic. As supportive as my parents are of everything I do, there is always an undercurrent that I could dobetter, could challenge myself more.

Mom also doesn’t love the fact that I’m majoring in mass communication, but again: supportive. It’s in her DNA to be accepting as long as it’s not illegal.

“How is Diego?” She’s always asking for updates.

“So.” I pause. “I have news.”

“Oh?” I picture Mom’s brows rising at my pre-announcement. “What kind of news?”

“We’re not seeing each other anymore.”

“Really?”

She doesn’t press, simply waits for me to give her the details she knows are coming.

“He broke things off.”

“Why?”

“Okay, so technically, he paid someone to break things off.”

There’s silence on the other end of the line as she decides what to say next.

I spare her the trouble. “He paid a teammate fifty bucks to break up with me and the guy ambushed me outside of work.”

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