Page 83 of Lovingly Restored

“You should pack your things, too.”

“Me?”

She looks around the room, “Yes, you. The boy who just said unspeakably foul things inmyliving room.”

“Mummo, you can’t be serious.”

“Can’t I? Don’t infantilize me.”

My cheeks burn from the weight of her glare. She means it. The blue eyes that usually remind me of my own are icy. Is that the same cold glare I gave Ashlyn?

“Okay.”

What else can I say? I walk down the hall, dragging my feet. If I go slowly enough, Mummo will surely reconsider. As I pack my things, though, my grandmother remains silent. Minutes later, with the same heavy duffels on my shoulder that I brought into this house only months ago, I stand shamefaced in front of the woman who raised me.

“The shop, Mummo…can I still work out of it?”

I chew on my lip. She doesn’t have to say yes to me.

“That was Pappa’s. He’d want that.”

“Thank you.” I stare at my feet.

Stooping under the weight of my bags and Mummo’s disappointment, I walk to my truck. The only place I ever considered home, at my back. This morning the three of us were happy. Now, I’d stubbornly tried to handle everything myself and screwed it all up. So much of what we just said to each was bullshit. Her calling me a crush. Me calling her an easy access hook-up. I cringe, shaking my head to clear it as I drive through the quiet neighbourhood. With a deep sigh I dial my dad’s number and get ready to hear ‘I told you so’.

I glare at the lumpiest sofa in the history of sofas, the one I’ve been getting shitty sleeps on for the last two weeks. Crashing on Chris’s couch is a new low. One I deserve. If I’m not at work, or on the torturous couch, I’m at the gym, depleting myself in some semblance of self-induced torture. Unfortunately, it’s doing fuck all to heal my soul or my heart or whatever the source of pain and discomfort that resides in the region behind my ribs. Chris comes in his front door from a run, raincoat hood pulled tight around his head, drip drying all over my open duffel bag.

“Quit leaking all over my stuff, man.”

He shakes the rainwater off like a dog.

“Should have come with me.” He pours himself a glass of water.

“Nah, I did legs last night.”

He raises his eyebrows. “Again? I’d ask who hurt you but that’s obvious.”

“Pretty sure I did most of the hurting. All she did was walk out the door.” I rub my knuckles against my chest, trying to assuage the ache.

“Yeah, but that stings, too.”

It’s not lost on me that I might have compared Ashlyn’s running out the door with my mom leaving me as a kid. I don’t have to remember the details of that day for it to affect me.

“It did. But I went out of my way to be shitty. And I really disappointed my grandma.”

Fuck.

He gestures to my phone on his coffee table. “Did you call her yet?”

“I texted an apology.” I cross my arms.

“Think she’s been on a date yet?”

“Christopher…” I warn.

At least he said date. Had he chosen another four-letter verb, I’d drown him in one of the many muddy puddles right outside the door. I can’t sleep on the damn couch much longer. I’m wearing out my welcome. Affording another condo is an option, but that means accepting the truth and the defeat that goes with it. If I live out of a bag long enough, things will magically right themselves. I’ll wake up one morning, stretch the stiffness out of my back, and return to the life I thought I deserved.

That’s not delusional at all.

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