Page 19 of Break Your Fall

6

I Am the Storm

Reyna

“What the hell happened in here?”

The blare of my mother’s voice is my morning alarm. I pry my eyes open with a start. My lids feel sticky from when I cried myself to sleep, the pillow still damp under my face.

“Well?”

I feel her hands at my feet and my hands jerk out to yank the covers from her grip before they can slide off my shoulders. Even my just roused from sleep arms are stronger than hers.

“What are you doing?” I spit at her as I sit up, leaning back against the wall and pressing the covers in around my legs. “Why are you even in here?”

“I can’t come in here now?” she spits back with her hands on her hips. Her blonde hair—the same shade as mine—is smooth and draped down her shoulders, and her body—too similar to the shape of mine—is dressed down to her “modest” wardrobe: jeans and a skin-tight tank top.

“What the hell is this?” she asks again, waving a hand around the room. “The storm wasn’t supposed to comeinside.”

“Well, maybe you should stop leaving the door open,” I gibe with a shrug. “And maybe the storm wouldn’t find its way inside.”

“I think this is just the result of a dramatic Hurricane Reyna,” she gibes back. “Storm’s passed, missy. Clean this mess up,” she orders as she makes to leave.

“This ismycorner of the world,” I assert, a defensive protest. “I don’t tell you what to do with yours.”

Mom turns in the doorway, rests a hand against the frame. “Oh, really? You don’t judge my sleepovers? Try to take away every source of happiness I can find?”

I blink, feeling a sting in my nose. “Why am I here, Mom? Your own daughter can’t make you happy?”

“Of course she can. But you’re mydaughter. You can hardly give me what I need.” She circles a finger around the room. “Now pick yourself up. This isn’t like you.”

“No—Is everything okay?” I start, once again stopping her from an escape. “Is there something you need to talk about? Do you need me?Just—What happened to this room?It’smyroom,” I stress again, “and it looks better than yours and doesn’t smell like whore.” I don’t flinch at the word this time.

And neither does she. “It’s on the way there, isn’t it?” she says with a pointed, cold stare, and I fold my arms across my stomach.

She spots something on the floor and bends to retrieve it, popping back up with the stem of the wine glass between her fingers. She sighs and eyes me. “Did you at least drink it? Don’t think I believe that little tale you gave me last time.” She twirls the glass as she attempts another escape, saying with her back turned, “This better be cleaned up by tonight. It’s an important day.”

“What are you talking about?” I blurt out, shifting with discomfort under my covers. I have a tired energy pushing through my limbs.

“Something that will make us both happy,” she says as she faces me again. “You don’t want to ruin that, do you?” She finally makes it past the door to call back with, “And get that umbrella off the porch.”

Umbrella?

Tommy.

My head shifts to the right, fraction by fraction, like I’m afraid to move, afraid to look. My stare stops first at the beanbag chair. His imprint is still visible from where he slept there. My head shifts some more, my stare finally stopping at the outside door where I left him standing after—…before turning out the lights.

My head whips back to the hall door, my eyes darting around for something to focus on other than last night. But the night has been a thief of the morning.

This doesn’t have to change anything.

He’s kidding, right? For me, it changeseverything. How am I supposed to look at Tommy now without seeingeverything? Every look has changed. Every hug has changed. Every touch, every conversation.

Every time he tells me he loves me.

Will he stop saying it now? Should he? Should I stop saying it now?

I don’t want to stop saying it. Because it’s true. I love Tommy.

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